Hugh Howey - Third Shift - Pact

Leaving the heat of the lights, he entered a dark place. He liked it back here. It reminded him of the room beneath the servers, a private and safe place where one could hide and not be disturbed. And there, scattered among other abandoned and forgotten tools, a shovel. A thing he needed right when he needed it. This was the other way of finding things. It was when the silo was in a gifting mood. It wasn’t a mood the silo got in often.

Solo knelt and placed his burden by the edge of the three-railing fence. The body in the bag had gone into that stiff phase. Soon, it would soften. After that …

Solo didn’t want to think after that. He was an expert in some things he’d rather not know.

He collected the shovel and scampered over the top rail, too dark to hunt for the gate. The shovel growled and crunched through the dirt. He lifted each scoop into the air. Soft sighs and little piles slid out. Some things, you found just when you needed them, and Solo thought of the years that had passed so swiftly with his friend. He already missed the way Shadow rubbed on his shin while he worked, always in the way but clever enough not to be stepped on, coming in a flash whenever Solo broke out in a whistle, there at just the right time. A thing, found, before he even knew he needed it.

Donald’s boots echoed in the lower level shift storage, where thousands of pods lay packed together like gleaming stones. He stooped to check another nameplate. He had lost count of his position down the aisle and was worried he’d have to start over again. Bringing a rag to his mouth, he coughed. He wiped his lip and carried on. Something heavy and cold weighed down one pocket and pressed against his thigh. Something heavy and cold lay within his chest.

He finally found the pod marked “Troy,” a jarring discovery, a self-discovery. Donald rubbed the glass and peered inside. There was a man in there, older than he seemed. Older than Donald remembered him. A blue cast overwhelmed pale flesh. White hair and white brows possessed an azure tint.

Donald studied the man, hesitated, reconsidered. He had come there with no wheelchair, no medical kit. Just a cold heaviness. A slice of truth and a desire to know more. Sometimes a thing needed opening before closure was found.

He bent by the control pad and repeated the procedure that had freed his sister, that had killed another. He thought of Charlotte up in the barracks as he entered his code. She couldn’t know what he was doing down there. She couldn’t know. Thurman had been like a second father to them both.

The dial was turned to the right. Numbers blinked, then ticked up a degree. Donald stood and paced. He circled that pod with a name on it, the name of a man they’d turned him into, this sarcophagus that now held his creator. The cold in Donald’s heart spread into his limbs while Thurman warmed. Donald coughed into a rag stained pink. He tucked it back into his pocket and drew out the length of cord.

A report from Victor’s files came to him as he stood there, roles reversed, thawing the Thaw Man. Victor had written of old experiments where guards and prisoners switched places, and the abused soon became the abuser. Donald found the idea detestable, that people could change so swiftly. Unbelievable. But he had seen good men and women arrive on the Hill with noble intentions, had seen them change. He had been given a dose of power on this shift and could feel its allure. His discovery was that evil men were made from evil systems, and that any man had the potential to be perverted. Which was why some systems needed to end.

A brief forever passed before temperatures rose and the lid was triggered. It opened with a sigh. Donald reached in and lifted it the rest of the way. He half expected a hand to shoot out and snatch his wrist. He half expected someone to clutch him by the neck, a fist to pummel him senseless. But there was just a man lying inside, still and steaming. Just a man pathetic and naked, a tube running into his arm, another between his legs. Muscles sagged. Pale flesh gathered in folds of wrinkles. Hair clung in wisps. Donald took Thurman’s hands and placed them together on his chest. He looped the cord around his wrists, threaded it between Thurman’s hands and around the loops of cord, then cinched a knot to draw the loops tight. Donald stood back and watched wrinkled lids for any sign of life. A sea of wet cobblestones stretched out in all directions, waiting patiently.

Thurman’s lips moved. They parted and seemed to take a first, experimental gasp. It was like watching the dead become reanimated, and Donald appreciated for the first time the miracle of these machines. He coughed into his fist as Thurman stirred. The old man’s eyes fluttered open, melted frost tracking from their corners, lending him a degree of false humanity. Wrinkled hands came up to wipe away the crust, and Donald knew what that felt like, lids that wouldn’t fully part, that felt as though they’d grown together. A grunt spilled out as Thurman struggled with the cord. He came to more fully and saw that all was not right.

“Be still,” Donald told him. He placed a hand on the old man’s forehead, could feel the chill still in his flesh. “Easy.”

“Anna—” Thurman whispered. He licked his lips, and Donald realized he hadn’t even brought water, hadn’t brought the bitter drink. There was no doubting what he was there to do.

“Can you hear me?” he asked.

Thurman’s eyelids fluttered open again; his pupils dilated. He seemed to focus on Donald’s face, eyes flicking back and forth in stunted recognition.

“Son—?” His voice was hoarse.

“Lie still,” Donald told him, even as Thurman turned to the side and coughed into his bound hands. He peered confusedly at the cord knotted around his wrists. Donald turned and checked the door in the distance. “I need you to listen to me.”

“What’s going on here?” Thurman gripped the edge of the pod and tried to pull himself upright. Donald fished into his pocket for the pistol. Thurman gaped at the black steel as the barrel was leveled on him. His awareness thawed in an instant. He remained perfectly still, only his eyes moving as he met Donald’s gaze. “What year is it?” he asked.

“Another two hundred years before you kill us all,” Donald said. The barrel trembled with hate. He wrapped his other hand around the grip and took half a step back. Thurman was weak and bound, but Donald took no chances. The old man was like a coiled snake on a cold morning. He couldn’t help but think of what he would be capable of as the day warmed.

Thurman licked his lips and studied Donald. Curls of steam rose from the old man’s shoulders. “Anna told you,” he finally said.

Donald felt a sadistic urge to tell him that Anna was dead. He felt a prideful twinge and wanted to insist that he’d figured it out for himself. He simply nodded, instead.

“You have to know this is the only way,” Thurman whispered.

“There are a thousand ways,” Donald said. He moved the gun to his other hand and dried his sweaty palm on his coveralls.

Thurman glanced at the gun, then searched the room beyond Donald for help. After a pause, he settled back against the pod. Steam rose from within the unit, but Donald could see him begin to shiver against the cold. He felt bad for not bringing a blanket. He held a gun, and felt bad for not bringing a blanket.

“I used to think you were trying to live forever,” Donald said.

Thurman laughed. He inspected the knotted cord once more, looked at the needle and tube hanging from his arm. “Just long enough.”

“Long enough for what? To whittle humanity down to nothing? To let one of these silos go free and kill the rest?”