Hugh Howey - Dust

“Is Eren really dead?”

Thurman nodded. Donald unfolded the cloth and folded it back up again. “I liked him.”

“He was a good man. One of my recruits. Do you know who killed him?”

Donald now saw the cloth for what it was. Bad cop had become good cop. He shook his head. He tried to imagine Charlotte doing these things and couldn’t. But then, he couldn’t picture her flying drones and dropping bombs or doing fifty push-ups. She was an enigma locked away in his childhood, constantly surprising. “I can’t imagine anyone I know killing a man like that. Other than you.”

Thurman didn’t react to this.

“When do I go under?”

“Today. I have another question.”

Donald lifted the water from the tray and took a long pull. The water was cold. It was incredible how good water could taste. He should tell Thurman about Charlotte right then. Or wait until he was going under. What he couldn’t do was leave her there alone. He realized Thurman was waiting on him. “Go ahead,” he said.

“Do you remember Anna leaving the armory while you were up? I realize you were only with her for a brief time.”

“No,” Donald said. And it hadn’t felt like a brief time. It had felt like a lifetime. “Why? What did she do?”

“Do you remember her talking about gas feeds?”

“Gas feeds? No. I don’t even know what that means. Why?”

“We found signs of sabotage. Someone tampered with the feeds between Medical and Population Control.” Thurman waved his hand, dismissing what he was about to say. “Like I said, I think you were right about Anna.” He turned to leave.

“Wait,” Donald said. “I have a question.”

Thurman hesitated, his hand on the door.

“What’s wrong with me?” Donald asked.

Thurman looked down at the red rag in the plastic bag. “Have you ever seen what the land looks like after a battle?” His voice had grown quiet. Subdued. “Your body is a battlefield now. That’s what’s going on inside of you. Armies with billions to a side are waging war with one another. Machines that mean to rip you apart and those that hope to keep you together. And their boots are going to turn your body into shrapnel and mud.”

Thurman coughed into his fist. He started to pull the door open.

“I wasn’t going over the crest that day,” Donald said. “I wasn’t going out there to be seen. I just wanted to die.”

Thurman nodded. “I thought as much later. And I should’ve let you. But they sounded the alarm. I came up and saw my men struggling with suits and you halfway gone. There was a grenade in my foxhole and years of knowing what I’d do if that ever happened. I threw myself on it.”

“You shouldn’t have,” Donald said.

Thurman opened the door. Brevard was standing on the other side, waiting.

“I know,” he said. And then he was gone.

Darcy worked on his hands and knees. He dunked his crimson rag into the bucket of red water and wrung it out until it was pink, then went back to scrubbing the mess inside the lift. The walls were already clean, the samples sent out for analysis. While he worked, he grumbled to himself in a mockery of Brevard’s voice: “Take samples, Darcy. Clean this up, Darcy. Fetch me a coffee, Darcy.” He didn’t understand how fetching coffee and mopping up blood had become part of his job description. What he missed were the uneventful night shifts; he couldn’t wait for things to get back to normal. Amazing what can begin to feel normal. He almost couldn’t smell the copper in the air anymore, and the metallic taste was gone from his tongue. It was like those daily doses in the paper cups, the bland food every day, even the infernal buzzing from the elevator with its doors jammed open. All these things to get used to until they disappeared. Things that faded into dull aches like memories from a former life.

Darcy didn’t remember much of his old life, but he knew he was good at this job. He had a feeling he used to work security a long time ago, back in a world no one talked about, a world trapped in old films and reruns and dreams. He vaguely remembered being trained to take a bullet for someone else. He had one solid and recurring dream of jogging in the morning, the way the air cooled the sweat from his brow and neck, the chirping of birds, running behind some older man in sweatpants and noticing how this man was going bald. Darcy remembered an earpiece that grew slick and wouldn’t stay in place, always falling out of his ear. He remembered watching crowds, the way his heart raced when balloons burst and relic scooters backfired, forever waiting for the chance to take a—

Bullet.

Darcy stopped scrubbing and dabbed his face with his sleeve. He stared at the crack between the floor and the wall of the lift where something bright was lodged, a little stone of metal. He tried to secure it with his fingers, but they wouldn’t fit in the crack. A bullet. He shouldn’t be touching it anyway.

The rag fell with a splash into the bucket. Darcy grabbed the sample kit from the hallway. The elevator continued to buzz and buzz, hating this standing still, wishing it could go places. “Cool your jets,” Darcy whispered. He pulled one of the sample bags from the small box inside the kit. The tweezers weren’t where they were supposed to be. He dug in the bottom of the kit until he found them, cursed the men on other shifts with no respect for their colleagues. It was like living in a dorm, Darcy thought. No, not the right word, the right memory. Like living in a barracks. It was the semblance of order over an underlying mess. Crisp sheets with folded corners over stained mattresses. That’s what this was, people not putting things back where they belonged.

He used the tweezers to grab the bullet and drop it into the plastic bag. It was slightly misshapen but not severely. Hadn’t hit anything solid, but it’d hit something. Rubbing the bag around the bullet and holding it up to the light, he saw how a pink stain appeared on the plastic. There was blood on the bullet. He checked the floor to see if he’d slopped any of the bloody water near where the bullet had been wedged, if the blood had perhaps gotten there due to his carelessness.

It hadn’t. The man they’d found dead had been stabbed in the neck, but a gun had been discovered nearby. Darcy had sampled the blood inside the elevator in a dozen places. A med tech had picked the samples up, and Stevens and the chief had told him that all the samples matched the victim. But now Darcy very likely had a blood sample from the attacker, who was still at large. The man who’d killed Eren. A real clue.

He clutched the sample bag and waited for the express to arrive. He considered for a moment handing this over to Stevens, which would be protocol, but he had found the bullet, knew what it was, had been careful in collecting it. He ought to be the one to see the results.

The express arrived with a cheerful ding. An exhausted-looking man in purple coveralls guided a wheeled bucket out, steered it with the handle of a mop. Instead of calling in his find, Darcy had called down backup. The night custodian. The two men shook hands. Darcy thanked him for staying on shift late, said he owed him a big one. He took the man’s place inside the express.

He only had to go down two levels. It felt crazy, taking the express two levels. What the silo needed was stairs. There were so many times he just needed to go up or down a single level and found himself waiting five minutes for a blasted lift. It made no sense. He sighed and pressed the button for the medical wing. Before the doors shut, he heard a wet slap from the mop next door.

Dr. Whitmore’s office was crowded. Not with workers — it was just Whitmore and his two med techs busying about — but with bodies. Two extra bodies on slabs. One was the woman discovered dead the day before; Darcy remembered her name being Anna. The other was Eren, the former silo head. Whitmore was at his computer, typing up notes while the lab techs worked on the deceased.