Ann Christy: Silo 49: Going Dark

Graham did his best to behave completely normally but it was only through sheer force of will that he was able to even approach such a state. That and spending time hidden in his compartment playing solitaire whenever possible were what helped him make any believable pretense at all. It was a surprise to him how hard it was to simply act like he would on any other day. That the situation was unprecedented was true, but his job was, at its core, simply one long act and he’d done fine through any number of serious situations.

There were few actual skills required for the job he held, which was arguably the most important one in the silo. Of those skills, acting like everything was normal ranked at the top of the list, pretending like everything was in control followed closely behind and occasionally doing things one might otherwise find absolutely reprehensible rounded out the top three.

According to his uncle, the careful cultivation of an exterior personality that combined being an asshole with a desire to do nothing except work was a bonus, but not absolutely required as a fourth skill for the job. Uncle Newt had been a jolly fellow with a genuinely caring core and quick sense of humor at home. The first time Graham had seen his uncle at work, trailing behind him as he was evaluated, all unknowing, for the job he held now, he had been amazed at how different the man behaved. He wasn’t mean exactly, just not at all nice. And people had seemed to fear him.

Graham had embarrassed himself mightily on that first day when he started crying in his uncle’s office as he listened to him yelling at someone outside the door. Back in the office, Uncle Newt had knelt down in front of the chair Graham was ensconced in with his feet barely touching the floor, and turned back into the lovable man Graham had always known. He had been right when he told Graham that he had to be that way for reasons a little boy wouldn’t understand. He’d been equally right when he told him that someday he would understand if all went well.

Alas, Graham wasn’t cut out for asshole-dom of any sort. He was firm when needed, nice when permitted, but always a good person. Even his wife had been nice, bringing platters of baked goods or treats of some sort and passing them out, office to office, as she asked after families.

In his decades as Head they had experienced only four cleanings, the last one actually done under duress from Silo One because it had been too long since the previous cleaning. Even then, he had picked someone who was close to death and had no close family, carefully parsing each record for the right person. She was as alone as anyone could be in the silo where everyone was tied by blood and proximity to one extent or another.

He had sat by the woman’s bedside, telling her of the unease in the silo and the dirty sensors and his fears. He told her the secret to peace in the silo; the cleanings. She had volunteered then and Graham felt dirtier than the sensors she would soon clear of their debris. It was the kind of filth that lived inside the soul and could never be washed away.

She said the words and went to the cell. When Graham had made sure there was a pouch filled with an overdose of poppy extract installed in her helmet so she would feel no pain, she had actually winked at him. Before they put on her helmet and her face disappeared from view forever, she had placed a hand withered by illness and age on the arm of the IT worker to stay him a moment. She turned to the little round window through which Graham watched and mouthed the words, ‘Thank You’. Graham hadn’t been able to stop the tears from flowing then and said the same back to her, earning him a confused and vaguely suspicious look from the Sheriff standing nearby.

What she saw outside was the best his people had ever done. It had been a true work of art. She had been a teacher, his teacher once upon a time when he was very small. He’d asked her what her favorite thing was from the children’s books after she agreed to say the words and earn herself a death sentence.

She had thought about it, her eyes soft with memories, and told him it was the birds. She thought it might be wonderful to be able to fly and not have to use the stairs all the time. He’d asked her if she could keep a secret and she had nodded, eyes widening at the secret smile on his face. He had leaned low and whispered so softly in her ear that it might have been wind, but she had heard him and her own smile was heartbreaking in its belief and hope. He had whispered that she would have birds.

So he had the programmers add birds, lots and lots of happy birds. He had put in birds that flew high, flew low and even added a colorful variety of them circling the sensors, luring her there with their colors and chirps. They ensured she would follow the cleaning procedure and stay close to the sensors. She had.

But she had been the last one to clean and Graham wouldn’t hear anything more on the subject when Silo One brought it up. They weren’t insistent, even though the sensors that showed the population their view of the blasted lands outside were caked with dust. Nothing in this silo even hinted at an uprising so why bother. With his population dropping like it was, such a thing would be as stupid as it was unnecessary. Almost no one even went up to Level 1 that didn’t actually have to go there. Even the sheriff and his deputy had moved their main offices to Level 5.

As he shuffled cards for yet another game of solitaire, the cards soft and worn with use, he thought he really should get out and try to get some work done. It was just hard to bring himself to open the door and walk out of his compartment again. Inside, he felt like all his insides were having a party and dancing about inside his chest without a care for the one that held them safely inside.

More than once he felt a lurch in his chest so strong that his breath caught and he feared the stress of holding his secrets would kill him. Still, he did his best to reserve his shakes and hand-wringing for when he was sure he was alone and in a place unlikely to be observed, like the shower or here, playing cards all alone.

Graham slapped the deck of cards down on the table. Enough of this moping around, he decided. With a fresh kerchief pulled from the clean laundry pile—or what he thought was the clean pile—he stepped out into the hallway. A little socializing, a little face time with workers and a little movement would be good for him and make the time till Silo One forgot about him go faster. As he walked down the hallway toward the landing, he felt good, almost to the point of smiling.

Before he reached the landing door, he met up with a neighbor from a couple of doors down. Maribelle gave him one of her charming smiles and stopped to discuss housekeeping on their level. Drugged or not, Maribelle was a whirlwind of organization and seemed to be the constant driving force behind maintaining their level in some semblance of order. She marshalled her kids around the level, picking up debris on a regular basis and made the rest of them feel guilty in the doing. It always made people help. She was good.

“Oh, Graham, you’re just the man I wanted to see. Got a minute?” she asked, plucking an invisible bit of lint from her immaculate pink coveralls as she pulled up next to him.

“Sure,” he responded, trying to smile.

She saw the pained look and asked, “You okay?”

“Always, Maribelle. Always,” he answered. “I’ve just been busy. You know how it is.”

She nodded, a look of commiseration on her face. Graham knew that she understood all too well. They were all busy.

“Well,” she said, her tone returning to a business-like one. “We need to get a more regular schedule for cleaning up this level than we have. It’s getting disgusting and staying that way longer between clean-up days. Don’t you think?”