Ann Christy - Silo 49 - Deep Dark

Through the door came the maintainer, dragging a blanket wrapped shape behind him. Greta followed close behind, eyeing the blanket for anything amiss. It must have been Taylor wrapped in the blanket and Marina could see the multiple colors of many blankets. They had wrapped him over and over and she wondered how in the silo they had gotten him still enough to do that. The maintainer had a split lip that was already swelling to impressive size and Greta had two rows of scratch marks on her bare arms.

Inside his blankets, Taylor was thrashing and she could hear the mumbled sounds that were probably screams from his point of view. For a brief second she wondered how he could breathe in there and then she thought of how it felt not to be able to breathe and pursed her lips. Greta must have been thinking the same thing because she told the maintainer, “Harvey. We’ve got to pull that back enough for him to breathe.”

Without delay, Greta threw a leg over the wriggling figure and dropped hard, sitting right on top of him. Both ends of the blanket lifted when she did and a small sound escaped. Harvey took that moment to yank the edges of the blankets down and Marina saw first Taylor’s hair and then his face appear from the mass of pink and green and yellow blankets. His breathing was a parody of her own mere moments before and Marina fought the urge to come down on that head with her wrench.

Harvey must have seen that in her eyes because he said, “He can’t hurt anyone now.” He looked around for the other maintainer, the one he had told to stay put.

Marina waved a hand in front of his face to regain his attention and then pointed to the metal bar in the shadow’s hand and held up the wrench. She handed him the note she had written for the others. He pursed his lips but gave her a curt nod of acceptance.

Greta watched it all from her seat on top of Taylor with utter calm. She looked so different from any other time Marina had seen her that she really wished she could say something instead of stand there and wheeze. Her hair had always been tightly braided and coiled at the back of her head but now it seemed to flow without end. Tight waves from the braids cascaded down her back and puddled on the blanket wrapped form below her. Her coveralls were pulled on halfway and the arms were tied around her waist. In her undershirt, Marina saw that she looked just like everyone else without the patchwork of color to hide behind. And she was pretty.

Taylor began to get agitated again now that he had sufficient air. He was combining yelling, whining, pleads and demands in a most unpleasant way. At the moment, he was claiming that it was all a misunderstanding. He jerked his head in Marina’s direction, the rest of him tightly bound in blankets. He said, “Look. See, she’s fine! It was an accident.”

Greta looked away from him to the angry red marks on Marina’s neck, the finger marks clear against the white skin. Marina couldn’t see it, but she could feel it. The historian could see what Marina couldn’t apparently because when she looked away from Marina, she landed a sharp and loud slap across Taylor’s exposed cheek. He froze and went silent.

The other historians and shadows began to file out, wakened by the commotion or through some other means. As they came out they all looked at the blanket wrapped man and then at the tableau of people and edged around, giving them all a wide berth.

The shadow girl finally handed her metal rod to the big maintainer, him having returned without his hammer, and joined the little cluster of her fellows. Marina saw her gesticulating and speaking and saw the eyes of the listeners widen and narrow and look from person to person as the story unfolded. Marina hated that this would now travel all over.

Greta must have thought the same because she called to the group, “This is not for discussion. To anyone. For any reason. We don’t talk about people when they get sick like this.”

With those few words she had changed the situation from a sudden attempt at murder that would inspire gossip to a man who had suffered a break that needed remediation or some other treatment. In the silo, there were few topics off limits but this was one of them. Her authoritative glare drove the point home and Marina would have sighed in relief if it didn’t hurt so bad just to breathe at all.

Greta turned to Marina and leveled that same glare in her direction. Marina stiffened but didn’t flinch from it. Greta said, “I’ve secured the space. That’s no problem.”

Marina closed her eyes tightly and felt a combination of shame and relief wash over her. When she opened her eyes, Greta was still looking at her. She nodded her acceptance of the information and all that would come after and Greta finally released her from her gaze.

Taylor started in again, clearly not at all happy at this turn of events and Greta raised her hand again. She lifted her eyebrows and the message was clear. Do you want this again? Taylor apparently didn’t and shut his mouth.

The deputy showed up first, panting and sweating from running down from the station. He saw Marina and stopped short, looked at her neck and then turned a mottled red himself. It was someone she knew, of course. He charged over toward Greta, Taylor and Harvey and took in the scene. “Anyone want to tell me what the silo is going on here?” he demanded.

Greta’s eyes flicked once toward Marina and then back to the deputy. She licked her lips and said, “Deputy, we have the situation under a measure of control right now but we need your assistance.”

The deputy snorted and said, “I can see that.”

Greta cleared her throat and said with a dignity Marina didn’t think could be accomplished while sitting on a man wrapped in blankets, “This is a special situation.” She emphasized the special and the deputy straightened. She went on, “We’re going to need the medic representative to the council for this. We need you to make sure everything stays controlled until we get him here. Okay?”

The way she said it, the emphasis on certain words, let everyone know that this was going to be one of those things. Those stories dealt with a person badly in need of remediation whose words and actions weren’t to be thought of, let alone repeated. The deputy cleared his throat and nodded. He stepped away and tuned his radio, speaking quietly and rapidly to whoever was on the other side of the line. He kept his eyes on Taylor and his free hand near his stick.

The medic from Level 70 came while he spoke and both Greta and the deputy pointed directly at her when he arrived. Finally, Marina could put down the wrench.

Marina woke in a different room in the guest wing at the Memoriam. When her eyes opened the first thing she saw was Joseph, awkwardly asleep in the chair next to her bed. She forgot her throat and said, “Joe.” It came out a hoarse and frightening creak. It also renewed the sharp pain that had faded while she slept under the gentle influence of a little poppy extract. It did the trick though and Joseph started awake.

He leaned in close and wrapped the hand she held up in both of his. He smiled and tried not to keep looking at her neck when he said, “Honey. Honey. How are you feeling?”

When she opened her mouth to try to whisper that she was fine, he stopped her with, “No. You’re not supposed to even try to talk. You think you can write?”

She tried to lift her head and sit up but the pain that shot up the sides of her neck was excruciating and she dropped back to the pillow. She motioned for him to help and he lifted her gently and braced her while he piled the pillows behind her. Once she was sitting she felt much better, the pain retreating back once more. She smiled wanly and made the writing motion with her hands.