Hugh Howey - Dust

Another man spiraled into view with noisy boots. He had a sack bursting with green leaves, the smell of ripe tomatoes and blackberries trailing past. Elise stopped and watched him go. That’s too much to pick all at once , she could hear Hannah saying. Too much. More rules that nobody knew. Elise might have to teach them. She had a book that could teach people how to fish and how to track down animals. And then she remembered that all the fish were gone. And she couldn’t even track down one puppy.

Thinking of fish made Elise hungry. She very much wanted to eat right at that moment, and as much as possible. Before there wasn’t any left. This hunger was a feeling that came sometimes when she saw the twins eating. Even if she wasn’t hungry, she would want some. A lot. Before it was all gone.

She trundled up the steps, her bag with her memory book knocking against her thigh, wishing she’d stayed with the others or that Puppy would just stay put.

“Hey, you.”

A man on the next landing peered over the rails and down at her. He had a black beard, only not as messy as Solo’s. Elise paused a moment, then continued up the stairs. The man and the landing disappeared from view as she twisted beneath them. He was waiting for her as she reached the landing.

“You get separated from the flock?” the man asked.

Elise cocked her head to the side. “I can’t be in a flock,” she said.

The man with the dark beard and bright eyes studied her. He wore brown coveralls. Rickson had a pair like them that he wore sometimes. That boy from the bizarre had coveralls like that.

“And why not?” the man asked.

“I’m not a sheep,” said Elise. “Sheep make flocks, and there aren’t any of them left.”

“What’s a sheep?” the man asked. And then his bright eyes flashed even brighter. “I seen you. You’re one of the kids who lived here, aren’t you?”

Elise nodded.

“You can join our flock. A flock is a congregation of people. The members of a church. Do you go to church?”

Elise shook her head. She rested her hand on her memory book, which had a page on sheep, how to raise them and how to care for them. Her memory book and this man disagreed. She felt a hollow in her stomach as she tried to sort out which of them to trust. She leaned toward her book, which was right about so much else.

“Do you want to come inside?” The man waved an arm at the door. Elise peered past him and into the darkness. “Are you hungry?”

Elise nodded.

“We’re gathering food. We found a church. The others will be down from the farms soon. Do you want to come in, get something to eat or drink? I picked what I could carry. I’ll share it with you.” He placed a hand on her shoulder, and Elise found herself studying his forearm, which was thick with dark hair like Solo’s but not like Rickson’s. Her tummy grumbled, and the farms seemed so far away.

“I need to get Puppy,” she said, her voice small in that vast stairwell, a tiny puff of fog in the cool air.

“We’ll get your puppy,” the man said. “Let’s go inside. I want to hear all about your world. It’s a miracle, you know. Did you know that you are a miracle? You are.”

Elise didn’t know this at all. It weren’t in any of the books she’d made memories from. But she’d missed a lot of pages. Her stomach grumbled. Her stomach talked to her, and so she followed this man with the dark beard into the dark hall. There were voices ahead, a soothing and quiet mix of hums and whispers, and Elise wondered if this was what a flock sounded like.

Charlotte was back to living in a box. A box, but without the cold, without the frosted window, and without the line of bright blue plunged deep into her vein. This box was missing those things and the chance of sweet dreams and the nightmare of waking. It was a plain metal box that dented and sang as she adjusted her weight.

She had made a tidy home of the drone lift, a metal container too low to sit up in, too dark for her to see her hand in front of her face, and too quiet to hear herself think. Twice she had lain there listening to boots on the other side of the door as men hunted for her. She stayed in the lift that night. She waited for them to come back, but they must have many levels to prowl.

She moved every few minutes in a fruitless attempt to make herself comfortable. She went once to use the bathroom when she couldn’t hold it anymore, when she feared she would go in her coveralls. To flush or not to flush? Risk the noise or the evidence in the bowl? She flushed, and imagined pipes rattling in some far-off place, someone able to pinpoint where it was coming from.

At the end of the hall, she made sure they hadn’t discovered the radio. She expected to find it missing, Donald’s notes as well, but all was still there beneath the plastic sheet. Hesitating a moment, Charlotte gathered the folders. They were too valuable to lose. She hurried back to her hole and pushed her things into a corner. Curling up, she pictured boots landing on her brother.

She thought of Iraq. There were dark nights there, lying in her bunk, men coming and going on and off their shifts with whispers and the squeak of springs. Dark nights when she had felt more vulnerable than her drone ever did in the sky. The barracks had felt like an empty parking garage in the dead of night, footsteps in the distance, and her unable to find her car keys. Hiding in that small drone lift felt the same. Like sleeping at night in a darkened garage, in a barracks full of men, wondering what she might wake up to.

She slept little. With a flashlight cradled between her cheek and her shoulder, she went through Donald’s folders, hoping the dry reading might help her nod off. In the silence, words and snippets of conversation from the radio returned to her. Another silo had been destroyed. She had listened to their panicked voices, to reports of outer doors being opened, reports of the gas her brother had said he could unleash on these people. She had heard Juliette’s voice, heard her say that everyone was dead.

She found a small chart in one of the folders, a map of numbered circles with many of them crossed out. People lived in those circles, Charlotte thought. And now another of them was empty. One more X to scratch. Except Charlotte, like her brother, now felt some connection with these people. She had listened to their voices with him on the radio, had listened to Donald as he recounted his efforts to reach out to them, this one silo that was open to what he had to say, that was helping him hack into their computers to understand what was happening. She had asked him once why he didn’t reach out to other silos, and he had said something about those in charge not being safe. They would have turned him in. Somehow, her brother and these people were all rebelling, and now they were gone. This was what happened to those who rebelled. Now it was just Charlotte in darkness and silence.

She flipped through her brother’s notes, and her neck began to cramp from holding the flashlight like that. The temperature in the box rose until she was sweating in her coveralls. She couldn’t sleep. This was nothing like that other box they put her in. And the more she read, the more she understood her brother’s endless pacing, his desire to do something, to put an end to the system in which they were trapped.

Careful with the water and food, taking tiny sips and small bites, she stayed inside for what felt like days but may have been hours. When she needed to go to the bathroom again, she decided to sneak to the end of the hall and try the radio once more. The urge to pee was matched only by the need to know what was going on. There had been survivors. The people of 18 had managed to scamper over the hills and reach another silo. A handful had survived — but how long would they last?