Hugh Howey - Shift

‘In Boston,’ Helen said.

He nodded. ‘Right. Well, he wants us to be on this alert team—’

‘You and Mick.’

He turned to his wife. ‘No — us.’

‘ Us? ’ Helen placed a hand on her chest. ‘What do you mean, us? You and me?’

‘Now listen—’

‘You’re volunteering me for one of his—’

‘Sweetheart, I had no idea what this was all about.’ He set his glass on the coffee table and grabbed the book. ‘He gave me this to read.’

Helen frowned. ‘What is that?’

‘It’s like an instruction manual for the — well, for the after . I think.’

Helen got up from the recliner and stepped between him and the coffee table. She nudged Karma out of the way, the dog grunting at being disturbed. Sitting down beside him, she put a hand on his back, her eyes shiny with worry.

‘Donny, were you drinking on the plane?’

‘No.’ He pulled away. ‘Just please listen to me. It doesn’t matter who has them, it only matters when . Don’t you see? This is the ultimate threat. A world-ender. I’ve been reading about the possibilities on this website—’

‘A website,’ she said, voice flat with scepticism.

‘Yeah. Listen. Remember those treatments the Senator takes? These nanos are like synthetic life. Imagine if someone turned them into a virus that didn’t care about its host, that didn’t need us in order to spread. They could be out there already.’ He tapped his chest, glanced around the room suspiciously, took a deep breath. ‘They could be in every one of us right now, little timer circuits waiting for the right moment—’

‘Sweetheart—’

‘Very bad people are working on this, trying to make this happen.’ He reached for his glass. ‘We can’t sit back and let them strike first. So we’re gonna do it.’ There were ripples in the liquor. His hand was shaking. ‘God, baby, I’m pretty sure we’re gonna do it before they can.’

‘You’re scaring me, honey.’

‘Good.’ Another burning sip. He held the glass with both hands to keep it steady. ‘We should be scared.’

‘Do you want me to call Dr Martin?’

‘Who?’ He tried to make room between them, bumped up against the armrest. ‘My sister’s doctor? The shrink ?’

She nodded gravely.

‘Listen to what I’m telling you,’ he said, holding up a finger. ‘These tiny machines are real .’ His mind was racing. He was going to babble and convince her of nothing but his paranoia. ‘Look,’ he said. ‘We use them in medicine, right?’

Helen nodded. She was giving him a chance, a slim one. But he could tell she really wanted to go call someone. Her mother, a doctor, his mother.

‘It’s like when we discovered radiation, okay? The first thing we thought was that this would be a cure, a medical discovery. X-rays, but then people were taking drops of radium like an elixir—’

‘They poisoned themselves,’ Helen said. ‘Thinking they were doing something good.’ She seemed to relax a little. ‘Is this what you’re worried about? That the nanos are going to mutate and turn on us? Are you still freaked out from being inside that machine?’

‘No, nothing like that. I’m talking about how we looked for medicinal uses first, then ended up building the bomb. This is the same thing .’ He paused, hoping she would get it. ‘I’m starting to think we’re building them too. Tiny machines, just like the ones in the nanobaths that stitch up people’s skin and joints. Only these would tear people apart.’

Helen didn’t react. Didn’t say a word. Donald realised he sounded crazy, that every bit of this was already online and in podcasts that radiated out from lonely basements on lonely airwaves. The Senator had been right. Mix truth and lies and you couldn’t tell them apart. The book on his coffee table and a zombie survival guide would be treated the same way.

‘I’m telling you they’re real,’ he said, unable to stop himself. ‘They’ll be able to reproduce. They’ll be invisible. There won’t be any warning when they’re set loose, just dust in the breeze, okay? Reproducing and reproducing, this invisible war will wage itself all around us while we’re turned to mush.’

Helen remained silent. He realised she was waiting for him to finish, and then she would call her mom and ask what to do. She would call Dr Martin and get his advice.

Donald started to complain, could feel the anger welling up, and knew that anything he said would confirm her fears rather than convince her of his own.

‘Is there anything else?’ she whispered. She was looking for permission to leave and make her phone calls, to talk to someone rational.

Donald felt numb. Helpless and alone.

‘The National Convention is going to be held in Atlanta.’ He wiped underneath his eyes, tried to make it look like weariness, like the strain of travel. ‘The DNC hasn’t announced it yet, but I heard from Mick before I got on the flight.’ He turned to Helen. ‘The Senator wants us both there, is already planning something big.’

‘Of course, baby.’ She rested her hand on his thigh and looked at him as if he were her patient.

‘And I’m going to ask that I spend more time down here, maybe do some of my work from home on weekends, keep a closer eye on the project.’

‘That’d be great.’ She rested her other hand on his arm.

‘I want us to be good to each other,’ he said. ‘For whatever time we have left—’

‘Shh, baby, it’s okay.’ She wrapped her arm around his back and shushed him again, trying to soothe him. ‘I love you,’ she said.

He wiped at his eyes again.

‘We’ll get through this,’ she told him.

Donald bobbed his head. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘I know we will.’

The dog grunted and nuzzled her head into Helen’s lap, could sense something was wrong. Donald scratched the pup’s neck. He looked up at his wife, tears in his eyes. ‘I know we’ll get through this,’ he said, trying to calm himself. ‘But what about everyone else ?’

TROY NEEDED TO see a doctor. Ulcers had formed in both sides of his mouth, down between his gums and the insides of his cheeks. He could feel them like little wads of tender cotton embedded in his flesh. In the morning, he kept the pill tucked down on the left side. At supper, on the right. On either side, it would burn and dry out his mouth with the bitter bite of the medicine, but he would endure it.

He rarely employed napkins during meals, a bad habit he had formed long ago. They went into his lap to be polite and then onto his plate when he was finished. Now he had a different routine. One quick small bite of something, wipe his mouth, spit out the burning blue capsule, take a huge gulp of water, swish it around.

The hard part was not checking to see if anyone was watching while he spat it out. He sat with his back to the wall screen, imagining eyes drilling through the side of his head, but he kept his gaze in front of him and chewed his food.

He remembered to use his napkin occasionally, to wipe with both hands, always with both hands, pinching across his mouth, staying consistent. He smiled at the man across from him and made sure the pill didn’t fall out. The man’s gaze drifted over Troy’s shoulder as he stared at the view of the outside world on the screen.

Troy didn’t turn to look. There was still the same draw to the top of the silo, the same compulsion to be as high as possible, to escape the suffocating depths, but he no longer felt any desire to see outside. Something had changed.

He spotted Hal at the next table over — recognised his bald and splotchy scalp. The old man was sitting with his back to Troy. Troy waited for him to turn and catch his eye, but Hal never looked around.