Karma of the Silo: The Collection Read online

I notice a group of mothers and toddlers sitting at tables on the other side of the vast room, making drawings. One little boy with dark eyes escapes and runs toward me.

  In an instant a woman is up and chasing after him.

  “Let me go,” he shouts as his mother scoops him up to carry him back to the table. He wails in her arms.

  Soon I will be holding my own child. I flash back to the memory of my “real” husband and the babies he once promised we would make. How much time has passed since then?

  Ethel—the name makes me weep—claimed that we have been down here for only three months. But how can that be? All of the people in here have lived lives above—are they all so deeply drugged that they do not remember, do not strain against it, do not revolt? How many people jump because of despair? How many are pushed?

  I am sure of nothing.

  18

  The assignment sheet at the laundry puts me at Vat 6 for wash and at Dryer 18. Normally I would see Ethel at the machines on both sides of the room.

  Today there is a stranger to my right, who appears out of the mist with a smile and pushes her rolling bin slowly and carefully.

  “Hi. I’m Ghia,” she says. I’ve never seen her before.

  “Hi Ghia. Karma.” For a moment that makes me want to giggle, but I’m not sure why. This Ghia is younger than I am. She swings the large wash machine door open and starts to shove in the clothing.

  “So you’re taking Ethel’s place?”

  “Ethel. Who is that?”

  “Oh. Somebody who worked here.”

  Ghia shrugs and keeps on working. Julie comes through the steam onto our side of the laundry and checks on the new worker’s progress, then nods.

  I shove my batch of coveralls into the machine and turn my head toward Julie.

  “Are we doing anything for Ethel?” I ask.

  She stares at me. “Doing anything?” she says. “For Ethel?”

  “As a… a memorial? Because she’s gone.”

  Julie shakes her head as she grabs a rolling bin and pushes it back across the room and into the swirling mist. “I can’t believe you even remember that. That was… what? Weeks ago.”

  I stare at her back. Or rather, where her back was before she disappeared. I would cry, but who would it help?

  The mist beads up on my face and supplies me with tears.

  19

  Tears of frustration spilled down her face, and she didn’t care. “How long do we have to wait? I’m in my thirties, I can’t wait forever. Well, I could wait, I know people are having kids now in their fifties. But I don’t want to wait forever!”

  Helen sat up in bed, knowing that her nakedness would be both a temptation and a reproach to her husband. It felt like she was playing dirty, but she didn’t care. She finally didn’t care.

  “Here’s the deal, buddy. You work up in Washington. I live in Savannah. You barely get down here.”

  “Helen –”

  She cut him off with a quick “Shush. Just listen. I married you because I loved you. Because I wanted to be with you! Whether you wanted to be an architect or a member of Congress or a window washer… I wanted to live my life with you. And have babies. A family!”

  There was a whimper outside the door to the bedroom, and she knew Karma was swishing her tail and wondering what mom and dad were fighting about.

  Mutely, her husband pointed toward the door. He held his hands up like paws and made his “Karma face,” grinning at Helen.

  “And don’t make me laugh!” she said, laughing. “I know we have Karma, and I love her, but she is a dog. I want a family. When we were married, you said it would be a couple of years. And then when I asked again you were running for Congress, and you’ve hardly slowed down since. But now… well, your stupid project, that has kept you away from me practically full time for more than two more years… it’s over! So… now. Now is the time!”

  “Helen.” He reached for her with his warm hands. “Okay. You’re right. Okay.” He leaned in to kiss her. She could feel his hands coming up to cup her breasts.

  She pulled back. “What? You’re kidding me. You’re giving in that easily?”

  “Well, it is hard to resist a naked woman asking if she can have her way with me. And you’re right. We can’t wait forever.” He placed his palms against her face. “You’ve been very patient. The project is nearly over. The big unveiling will happen at the convention, so… sure, why not?”

  He kissed her on the eyes. “Beautiful Helen, who launched a thousand ships. Helen of Troy, whom I love so much.” His mouth came down to cover hers. “I was going to suggest it anyway.”

  She hit him gently on the shoulder. “You brat. I can’t believe you made me get all mad at you. I rehearsed that for days, thinking of ways to persuade you.”

  He smiled. “Well you did.” His face became serious. “So are you ready for take off? All checked out with the doctor?”

  “All checked out.” She ran a finger down the middle of his chest and stopped just under his navel. “And luckily, we have some time before the convention to really get into this… new project.” Helen grinned. “Now that you have time for me in your schedule.”

  He pulled her down beside him and brought his length alongside her body. “I’m just glad you can fit me in.”

  She arched her brow and gave him a sly smile. “With pleasure.”

  20

  I ask Rick to walk me up to the cafeteria to see the wallscreen. It’s getting harder for me to lift my bulk around the spirals. The doctor says I’m nearly due.

  We climb slowly upward, people passing us in both directions, smiling at the pregnant lady and her tall, handsome husband. Everyone seems pleased that new life is coming to the silo. There are children here, but not many. I can see clearly that they need new babies. Perhaps someday I will understand more about how this place works. Or is supposed to work.

  At this moment in time, I am concentrating on carrying this baby to safety. Thinking is getting easier, and that’s good. That gives me a swifter brain to figure out how best to protect my child. Sometimes I remember what came before, and sometimes I don’t. And sometimes I feel horrified that I am bringing new life into this tomb.

  But what choice do I have?

  I turn toward Rick, kicking myself for my cloudy memory. He never got back to me about Jeff from IT, and I forgot to ask him.

  We stop so I can catch my breath. We are nearly there. I can see the doors to the cafeteria just ahead at the top of the stairway.

  “Honey, did you find that relative of Ethel that I asked you about? Somebody named Jeff, who works with IT.” I try to keep the anxiety out of my voice.

  “Oh. Yeah. I forgot to tell you.”

  He smiles at me, and there is once again something tentative about the smile. Almost an apology.

  “Yes?”

  We start heading upward again, just a few more steps to the top, the diamond-shaped treads on the stairs keeping them safe and slip-proof. Everything gleams. I see now that this place is practically brand new.

  I am afraid of what Rick will tell me.

  The huge wallscreen stretches out before us, across the cafeteria, showing a storm of clouds in browns and grays. The destroyed city stands beyond the hill, towers crumbling.

  Atlanta.

  “I’m sorry sweetheart.” Rick turns to me and takes my arm gently. “I asked about that guy you mentioned from IT. They told me there’s nobody named Jeff at all.”

  My vision contracts and I feel myself falling.

  21

  Dr. Whittaker’s face is in front of me. I am in the medical room. She looks worried.

  “You’re a little early to deliver, but it should be all right. We’re going to give you something for the pain.” She takes a syringe and I see that the back of my hand is already prepared for the medicine, a needle and tube attached with tape.

  I look over at Rick, who is smiling a false smile of encouragement.

  Who is this man? He remembers, and s
he remembers. Only I am fighting the fog.

  I have no options, as I sink back into the mist. I send waves of love to my future child and hope that he—or she—will be safe through this journey. There are terrible possibilities, but for now I will sleep.

  22

  My name is Helen.

  23

  And now I see it, in full color. The Convention. All the tents and people. Livestock, bands, crowds. Each state in its own little valley.

  I am waiting for… my husband. I am waiting for him in Tennessee. At the Tennessee delegation. I keep texting him, keep looking around, shading my eyes. His friend… Mick… is standing beside me, trying to reassure me that my husband will be here any minute.

  It was raining lightly, but it’s stopped now. The mud is being churned up as people walk to and fro, and the little golf carts they use to get around make ruts in the grassy mess.

  Where could he be?

  A young lady is singing the National Anthem in the purest, loveliest voice. I have never heard it sung so beautifully, but I can’t stop to listen. I start to walk up the hill beside us, thinking that perhaps my husband is in the wrong place.

  As I get closer to the top, I can see other mounds. There are fifty different states. He said he would be in Tennessee. But why not Georgia? He should be with the delegation from Georgia. That would make more sense.

  I think it’s just over the rise. The song has ended and planes fly by in formation, screaming overhead, wings nearly touching. Suddenly there is a bright flash from the direction of the tall buildings of Atlanta. How bizarre. It can’t be lightning, because the flash doesn’t end. And then there comes another flash. And another.

  Klaxons sound, so loud that they seem to be echoing in my head. They come from every tent.

  Chaos erupts as people down in the valleys begin to see the flashes, which have turned into… mushroom clouds. I know what they mean. I’ve seen them in videos. My grandmother told me about an old war in which huge bombs decimated cities. But these can’t be…

  Someone grabs me. It’s Mick. He pulls me down, and as he does, I think I see a silhouette I recognize, a man scrambling up the other side of a hill and looking with desperation in the wrong direction.

  24

  The contractions astonish me with their intensity. I try to breathe through them, but my body is not my own. It has become like a great grinding machine with unused parts that have locked into gear, and nothing I can do will stop them. Closing my eyes, I remind myself that women have survived this—mostly—for millennia, and I will probably survive it too.

  Dr. Whittaker comes in to check me and says everything is coming along nicely. Rick holds my hand and I am grateful.

  I want my baby to be all right.

  Though we live deep in a hole in the ground under tons of soil, and the world above has died, I want my baby to live. It is the only thing that matters.

  25

  “Push,” Dr. Whittaker urges. “Almost here.”

  I squeeze my eyes closed and bear down until I think I will tear myself apart. There is a gush of liquid and a sudden release…

  “Yes!” Rick is beside me holding my hand and tears are sliding down his face.

  Dr. Whittaker holds up the weakly yowling baby so that I can see.

  “It’s a girl. Congratulations.” She wraps the infant in a soft cloth and passes it to me. I cannot believe that I have created this child.

  26

  At last, they left me alone to rest with my daughter, and I fell into exhausted slumber. I don’t know how long we slept. The lights are dim, but she is awake now. She opens her eyes to look right at me, and I see my own eyes in them.

  I unwrap her covering to look at her whole precious, perfect self.

  And then I see.

  On her tiny feet, she has an extra, miniature toe.

  The door opens and Dr. Whittaker pushes in. Quickly, I wrap my daughter up and wonder if anyone else has noticed. Surely the doctor saw it when she examined the baby. Will Rick know—will he recognize her father’s genetic legacy? And if he does… what will he do?

  I must hide any evidence that I remember who she really belongs to.

  “So she’s awake, is she? Pretty active little critter, eh?” Dr. Whittaker sits on a small stool and gently places her stethoscope on the baby’s chest to listen. She smiles. “She’s a beautiful girl. And quite healthy. Good for you.” She stands up. “You ought to try to nurse her now.” She places the baby on my chest. “Have you and your husband decided on a name?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Well, I’ll send word that you and baby are awake, and he can come keep your company.”

  The door swings open and a nurse comes in with a pitcher and a cup, placing them on the tiny table beside us.

  “Thank you, Bella,” the doctor says, and gets up to leave. She opens the door. “Now, drink up, mom!” She winks and lets the door swing closed behind her.

  “Is this water?” I look at the pitcher and try to keep my voice from betraying me.

  “Of course.”

  “But the doctor says I’m not supposed to have… regular water.”

  “Oh, don’t worry about that any more. It’s fine for you now.”

  “Thanks, then.” I smile.

  “Let me know if you need anything,” she says. “And congratulations. She’s a beautiful baby.” The nurse pulls the door closed behind her.

  I know Rick will be here in a moment, now that he knows we’re awake. I put the baby down on the bed and carefully raise myself. Taking the pitcher, I pour the water away into the sink beside my bed and leave just a little bit for the cup.

  I remember Ethel and her vegetable concoctions—stinky but effective. I’ll have to figure out how to get myself—both of us—enough liquid.

  A fierce determination arises in me. I will keep us alive, and my daughter will learn about the outside world—about the time before. The blue sky, and the day of music and chaos and clouds. The baby will learn about her real father. And I will do whatever it takes to preserve the truth.

  I look down at my child, who has my eyes and her father’s funny little genetic signature. She looks back at me, baby fists waving, as though she knows and approves. I smile and lift her into my arms, nuzzling her impossibly velvet cheek.

  A new life. A new chance.

  Keeping my voice low, I speak to her.

  My name is Helen. You will be Athena.

  Here is a secret you must remember. The sky used to be blue.

  You will tell the story—the truth—to your daughter and to your daughter’s daughter and on down the line for as long as it takes.

  Together, we will remember the world.

  CLEANING UP

  Karma # 2

  Who controls the past controls the future. Who controls the present controls the past.

  George Orwell, 1984

  1

  Underground we live our lives

  Underground we lie

  Underground we breathe our last, and

  Underground we die

  2

  Andy didn’t breathe his last underground. Andy was outside.

  He took his last gasp of toxic air while fumbling at the clasp that locked his helmet to the suit. I watched him fall to the ground, my own throat clenching in terror. His body was wracked with spasms, and his hands, encased in thick gloves, pawed at the glass over his eyes.

  3

  We don’t talk about the time before. There’s a lot we don’t talk about. We especially don’t talk about the Cleanings.

  Andy was the first to be sent out for Cleaning, but we didn’t call it that then.

  4

  The hardest part is pretending not to remember.

  I used to think that Rick was fooled, but lately I’m not so sure. Some days it seems as though all of us are engaged in one big performance. He puts on an act for me, I put on an act for him, and we both put on an act for Athena.

  Athena holds my hand as we climb the st
airs, round and round the great spiral in the center of the Silo. It is a big trip for her little legs. We are taking a family journey up to the wallscreen to see the outside. The mass of people making its way around the turns is slow, but patient trudging is just the right pace for a five-year-old. The air is warm and stuffy, and smells of many bodies in a close space. My coveralls are damp at the small of my back.

  We are three levels away from the top, and already I can feel Athena’s weariness with the climb. As she often tells me, she is not a baby any more, and doesn’t need naps—but I suspect that she’ll fall asleep in Daddy’s arms on the way back.

  “Mommy, why are there so many people?” she asks, her large dark eyes taking in the churning legs in front of her as we gradually rise up through the earth. I can feel the thrum of the stairs ringing with hundreds of other feet. Rick and I have Athena positioned safely between us, buffeting her small self from any stray elbow or off-balance climber.

  “They’re all going up to the top of the Silo, honey, just like we are. To see the sun.”

  “The sun?” She looks up at me, and for just a moment my heart squeezes with pain to know that my child will live out her life in this cylindrical tomb.

  “Yes, Athena,” Rick says. “You remember—we told you that the sky is going to be extra pretty today when the sun comes up.”

  “Like in the picture books you show us at school, Mommy?” Again, the trust and innocence in her eyes make my own mist up. How can I tell my baby that she will never see a sky with the colors in the picture books?

  I dare not look at Rick. It is moments like this that are most treacherous.

  “Not quite like that, sweetheart. But it will be nicer. Cleaner.”