Hugh Howey: First Shift: Legacy

“Easy,” they said when he tried to drink too fast. Tubes and IVs were carefully removed by expert hands, pressure applied, gauze taped to frigid skin. There was a paper gown. He remembered this.

“What year?” he asked, his voice a dry rasp.

“It’s early,” the doctor said, a different doctor. Troy blinked against the harsh lights, didn’t recognize either man tending to him. The sea of coffins around him remained a hazy blur.

“Take your time,” the assistant said, tilting the cup.

Troy managed a few sips. He felt worse than last time. It had been longer. The cold was deep within his bones. He remembered that his name wasn’t Troy. He was supposed to be dead. Part of him regretted being disturbed. Another part hoped he had slept through the worst of it.

“Sir, we’re sorry to wake you, but we need your help.”

“Your report—”

Both men were talking at once.

“Another silo is having problems, sir. Silo 18—”

Pills were produced. Troy waved them away. He no longer wished to take them.

The doctor hesitated, the two capsules of clear blue sky resting in his palm. He turned to consult with someone else, a third man. Troy tried to blink the world into focus. Something was said. Fingers curled around the pills, filling him with relief.

They helped him up, had a wheelchair waiting. A man stood behind it, his hair as stark white as his coveralls, his square jaw and iron frame familiar. Troy recognized him. This was the man who woke the freezing.

Another sip of water as he leaned against the pod, knees trembling from the weak and cold.

“What about Silo 18?” Troy whispered the question as the cup was lowered.

The doctor frowned and said nothing. The man behind the wheelchair studied him intently.

“I know you,” Troy said.

The man in white nodded. The wheelchair was waiting for Troy. His sleep had been longer, his legs more like a newborn’s than a foal’s. Troy felt his stomach twist as dormant parts of him stirred.

“You’re the Thaw Man,” he said, even though this didn’t sound quite right.

The paper gown was warm. It rustled like the leaves of winter as his arms were guided through the sleeves. The men working on him were nervous. They chattered back and forth, one of them saying a silo was falling, the other that they needed his help. Troy cared only about the man in white. They helped him toward the wheelchair.

“Is it over?” he asked. He watched the colorless man, his vision clearing, his voice growing stronger. He dearly hoped that he had slept through it all.

The Thaw Man shook his head sadly. Troy was lowered into the chair.

“I’m afraid, son,” a familiar voice said, “that it’s only begun.”