Hugh Howey - Dust

Stevens nodded and turned toward the door. But there was a slap of hurrying boots out in the hall before he could leave. Michael, one of the medical assistants who had helped remove the body from the pod, flew around the corner in a lather and out of air. Resting his hands on his knees, he took several deep breaths, his eyes on his boss.

“I said be quick,” Dr. Whitmore said. “I didn’t mean for you to race.”

“Yessir—” Michael took a series of deep breaths. “Sirs, we’ve got a problem.” The medical assistant looked to the men from Security and grimaced.

“What is it?” Brevard asked.

“It was a woman,” Michael said, nodding. “Sure enough. But the readout on her pod was flashing, so I ran a quick check.” He scanned their faces, his eyes wild, and Brevard knew. He knew, but someone else beat him to it.

“She’s dead,” Darcy said.

The assistant nodded vigorously, his hands on his knees. “Anna,” he muttered. “The name on the pod was Anna.”

The man in the OR with no name tested his restraints, his old and sinewy arms bulging. Dr. Whitmore begged the gentleman to hold still. Captain Brevard stood on the other side of the gurney. He could smell the odor of a man newly awakened, a man left for dead. Wild eyes sought him out among those gathered. The man who had been shot seemed to recognize Brevard as the one in charge.

“Unloose me,” the old man said.

“Not until we know what happened,” Brevard told him. “Not until you’re better.”

The leather cuffs around the old man’s wrists squeaked as he tested them. “I’ll be better when I’m off this damn table.”

“You’ve been shot,” Dr. Whitmore said. He rested a hand on his patient’s shoulder to calm him.

The old man lowered his head to his pillow, his eyes travelling from doctor to security officer and back again. “I know,” he said.

“Do you remember who did it?” Brevard asked.

The man nodded. “His name’s Donald.” His jaw clenched and unclenched.

“Not Troy?” Brevard asked.

“That’s what I meant. Same guy.” Brevard watched the old man’s hands squeeze into twin fists and then relax. “Look, I’m one of the Heads of this silo. I demand to be released. Check my records—”

“We’ll get this sorted out—” Brevard started to say.

The restraints creaked. “Check the damn records,” the old man said again.

“They’ve been tampered with,” Brevard told him. “Can you tell us your name?”

The man lay still for a moment, muscles relaxing. He stared up at the ceiling. “Which one?” he asked. “My name is Paul. Most people call me by my last name, Thurman. I used to go by Senator—”

“Shepherd,” Captain Brevard said. “Paul Thurman is the name of the man they call Shepherd.”

The old man narrowed his eyes. “No, I don’t think so,” he said. “I’ve been called a number of things in my time, but never that.”

The earth growled. Beyond the walls of the silo, the earth grumbled and the noise steadily grew.

It had begun as a distant thrum a few days ago, had sounded like a hydroponics pump kicking on at the end of a long run of pipe, a vibration that could be felt between the pads of one’s feet and the slick metal floor. And then yesterday it had morphed into a steady quake that travelled up Jimmy’s knees and bones and into his clenched teeth. Above him, drops of water shivered from pipes, a light drizzle splashing into puddles that had not yet fully dried from the vanishing floods.

Elise squealed and patted the top of her head as she was struck with a drop. She glanced up with a gapped smile and watched for more of the bombardment.

“That’s an awful racket,” Rickson said. He played his flashlight across the far wall of the old generator room where the noise seemed to originate.

Hannah clapped her hands together and told the twins to get away from the wall. Miles — at least Jimmy thought it was Miles; he could hardly tell the twins apart — had his ear pressed to the concrete, his eyes closed, his mouth agape in concentration. His brother Marcus tugged him back toward the others, face lit up with excitement.

“Get behind me,” Jimmy said. His feet tingled from the vibrations. He could feel the noise in his chest as some unseen machine chewed through solid rock.

“How much longer?” Elise asked.

Jimmy tousled her hair and enjoyed the embrace of her worried arms around his waist. “Soon,” he told her. The truth was, he didn’t know. They’d spent the past two weeks keeping the pump running and Mechanical dry. That morning, they had woken up to find the noise of the digging intolerable. The racket had gotten worse throughout the day, and still the blank wall stood solid before them, still the light rain from wet and shivering pipes continued. The twins splashed in puddles, growing impatient. The baby, inexplicably, slept peacefully in Hannah’s arms. They’d been there for hours, listening to the grumbles grow, waiting for something to happen.

The end of the long wait was presaged by mechanical sounds interspersed amid the racket of crushing rock. A squeal of metal joints, the clang of fearsome teeth, the size and breadth of the din becoming confusing as it came from everywhere all at once, from the floor and ceiling and the walls on all sides. Puddles were thrown into chaos. Water flew up from the ground as well as falling from above. Jimmy nearly lost his footing.

“Step back,” he yelled over the clamor. He shuffled away from the wall with Elise attached to his hip, the others obeying, wide-eyed and arms out for balance.

A section of concrete fell away, a flat sheet the size of a man. It sloughed off and fell straight down, crumbling into rubble as it hit. Dust filled the air — it seemed to emanate from within the wall itself, concrete releasing powder like a great exhalation.

Jimmy took a few more steps back, and the kids followed, worry replacing excitement. It no longer sounded like an approaching machine — it sounded like hundreds of them. They were everywhere. They were in their chests.

The din reached a furious peak, more concrete falling away, metal screaming as if beaten, great clangs and shots of sparks, and then the great digger broke through, a crack and then a gash appearing in a circular arc like a shadow racing across the wall.

The size of the cut put the noise into perspective. Cutting teeth burst through from the ceiling, spun down beneath the floor, then rose back up on the other side. Iron rods jutted out where they’d been severed. There was the smell of burning metal and chalk. The digger was coming through the wall of level one-forty-two and chewing up a good bit of the concrete above and below. It was boring a hole bigger than a silo level was tall.

The twins whooped and hollered. Elise squeezed Jimmy’s ribs so hard he had to work to breathe. The baby stirred in Hannah’s arms, but its cries could barely be heard over the tumult. Another great spin from the teeth, another lap from ceiling to floor, and they broke through more fully and revealed themselves to be more like wheels, dozens of discs spinning within a larger disc. A boulder fell from the ceiling and tumbled across the floor toward the larger of the two generators. Jimmy expected the silo itself to come raining down around them.

A light bulb overhead shattered from the vibrations, a glitter of glass amid the drizzle of trapped flood water. “Back!” Jimmy yelled. They were clear across the wide generator room from the digger, but everywhere felt too close. The ground shook, making it difficult to stand. Jimmy felt suddenly afraid. This thing would keep coming, would bore straight through the silo and carry on; it was out of control—