Hugh Howey - Dust

She flushed and listened to the surge of reclaimed water gurgle through overhead pipes. Taking a chance, she went to the drone control room. She left the hall light off and uncovered the radio. There was nothing but static on 18. The same on 17. She turned through a dozen of the other channels until she heard voices and was sure the thing was working. Back to 17, she waited. She could wait forever, she knew. She could wait until they came and found her. The clock on the wall showed that it was just past three, the middle of the night, which she thought was a good thing. They might not be looking for her right then. But then nobody might be listening, either. She squeezed the mic anyway.

“Hello,” she said. “Can anyone hear me?”

She nearly identified herself, where she was calling from, but then wondered if the people in her silo were listening in as well, monitoring all the stations. And what if they were? They wouldn’t know where she was transmitting from. Unless they could trace her through the repeaters. Maybe they could. But wasn’t this one of the silos crossed off their list? They shouldn’t be listening at all. Charlotte moved her tools out of the way and looked for the piece of paper Donny had brought her, the ranking of the silos. It listed at the bottom all of the silos that’d been destroyed—

“Who is this?”

A man’s voice spilled from the radio. Charlotte grabbed the mic, wondering if this was someone in her silo transmitting on that frequency.

“I’m… Who is this?” she asked, unsure how to answer.

“You down in Mechanical? You know what time it is? It’s the middle of the night.”

Down in Mechanical. That was the layout of their silos, not hers. Charlotte assumed this was one of the survivors. She also assumed others might be listening in and decided to play it safe.

“Yes, I’m in Mechanical,” she said. “What’s going on over— I mean, up there?”

“I’m trying to sleep is what, but Court told us to keep this thing on in case she called. We’ve been wrestling with the water lines. People are staking claims in the farms, marking out plots. Who is this?”

Charlotte cleared her throat. “I’m looking for… I was hoping to reach your mayor. Juliette.”

“She ain’t here. I thought she was down with you. Try in the morning if it ain’t an emergency. And tell Court we could use a few more bodies up here. A decent farmer if we’ve got one. And a porter.”

“Uh… okay.” Charlotte glanced at the clock again, seeing how long she’d have to wait. “Thanks,” she said. “I’ll try back.”

There was no response, and Charlotte wondered why she felt the urge to reach out in the first place. There was nothing she could do for these people. Did she think there was something they could do for her? She studied the radio she’d built, the extra screws and wire scattered around the base, the collection of tools. It was a risk being out and about, but it felt less terrifying than being alone in the drone lift. The risk of discovery was far outweighed by the chance of contact. She would try again in a few hours. Until then, she would try to get some sleep. She covered the radio and considered her old cot in the barracks down the hall, but it was the windowless metal box that claimed her.

Donald’s breakfast arrived with company. They had left him alone the previous day and made him skip a meal. He figured it was some sort of interrogation technique. Same with the boots stomping noisily past in the middle of the night, keeping him up. Anything to throw off his clock, perturb him, make him feel crazy. Or maybe that was day and this was the middle of the night and he hadn’t skipped a meal at all. Hard to tell. He had lost track of time. There was a clean circle on the wall and a protruding screw where a clock had once stood.

Two men in security coveralls arrived with Thurman and breakfast. Donald had slept in his coveralls. He pulled his feet up on his cot while the three men packed into his small room. The two security officers regarded him suspiciously. Thurman handed him his tray, which held a plate of eggs, a biscuit, water, and juice. Donald was in incredible pain, but he was also starving. He searched for silverware and saw none, started eating the eggs with his fingers. Hot food made his ribs feel better.

“Check the ceiling panels,” one of the security officers said. Donald recognized him. Brevard. He had been chief for almost as long as Donald had been up on shift. Donald could tell Brevard was not his friend.

The other man was younger. Donald didn’t recognize him. He was usually up late to avoid being seen, knew the night guard better than these guys. The younger officer scampered on top of the dresser welded to the wall and lifted a ceiling panel. He pulled a flashlight from his hip and shined the light in all directions. Donald had a good idea of what the man was seeing. He had already checked.

“It’s blocked,” the young officer said.

“You sure?”

“It wasn’t him,” Thurman said. He had never taken his eyes off of Donald. Thurman waved at the room. “There was blood everywhere. He’d be covered in it.”

“Unless he washed up somewhere and changed clothes.”

Thurman frowned at the idea. He stood a few paces from Donald, who no longer felt hungry. “Who was it?” Thurman asked.

“Who was what?”

“Don’t play dumb. One of my men was attacked, and someone dressed as a reactor tech logged through security right here on this level the same night. They came down this hall, looking for you is my guess. Went to comms, where I know you’ve been spending your time. There’s no way you’ve been pulling this off on your own. You took someone in, maybe someone from your last shift. Who?”

Donald broke off a piece of biscuit and put it in his mouth to give his lips something to do. Charlotte. What was she doing? Ranging the silo in search of him? Going to comms? She was out of her mind if it was her.

“He knows something,” Brevard said.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Donald said. He took a sip of water and noticed his hand was shaking. “Who was attacked? Are they okay?” He thought of the possibility that it was his sister’s blood they had found. What had he done, waking her up? Again, he thought of coming clean and telling them where she was hiding, just so she wouldn’t be alone.

“It was Eren,” Thurman said. “He got off the late shift, ran for the lift, and was found thirty floors down in a pool of blood.”

“Eren’s hurt?”

“Eren’s dead,” Brevard said. “A screwdriver to his neck. One of the lifts is covered in his blood. I want to know where the man who did this—”

Thurman held up a hand, and Brevard fell silent. “Give us a minute,” Thurman said.

The young officer standing on the dresser adjusted the ceiling panel until it fell back into place. He jumped down and wiped his hands on his thighs, leaving the dresser covered in lint and snowflakes of styrofoam. The two security men waited outside. Donald recognized one of the office workers passing by before the door shut, nearly called out, wondered what the hell everyone must have thought when they found out he wasn’t who he had said he was.

Thurman reached into his breast pocket and procured a folded square of cloth, a fresh rag. He handed this to Donald, who accepted it gratefully. Strange what accounted for a gift. He waited for the need to cough, but it was a rare moment of respite. Thurman held out a plastic bag and kept it open for him. Donald realized what it was for and dug out his other rag, dropped the bloody mess into the bag.

“For analysis, right?”

Thurman shook his head. “There’s nothing here we don’t already know. Just a… gesture. I tried to kill you, you know. It was weak of me to try, and it was because I was weak that I didn’t succeed. It turns out you were right about Anna.”