Hugh Howey - Second Shift - Order

Mission clutched his stomach. His hands came away sticky and wet.

Lying on his back, he saw the Crow slump over in her chair, a chair that no longer moved. Again, the gun roared. Needlessly. Her body twitched as it was struck. Frankie flew into Rodny, and the two men went tumbling. Boots stormed into the room, summoned by the noise.

Allie was there, crying. She kept her hands on Mission’s stomach, pressing so hard, and looked back at the Crow. She wailed for them both.

Mission tasted blood in his mouth. It reminded him of the time Rodny had punched him as a kid, only playing. They’d only ever been playing. Costumes and pretending to be their fathers.

There were boots everywhere. Shiny and black boots on some, scuffed with wear on others. Those who had fought before and those just learning.

Frankie screamed. Boots shuffled. And then Rodny appeared above Mission, his eyes wide with worry. He told him to hang in there. Mission wanted to say he’d try, but the pain in his belly was too great. He couldn’t speak. They told him to stay awake, but all he’d ever wanted was to sleep. To not be. To not be a burden to anyone.

“Damn you!” Allie screamed, and it was at him, at Mission, not at Rodny. She blubbered that she loved him, and Mission tried to say he knew. He wanted to tell her that she was right all along. He imagined for a moment the kids they would have, the plot of soil if they combined their holdings, the long uninterrupted rows of corn like lives that stretched out for generations. Generations of people staying close to home, there for each other, doing what they knew best, enjoying being a burden to one another.

He wanted to say all these things and more. Much more. But as Allie bent close and he struggled to form the words, all that came out, a whisper amid the din of boots and shouts, was that today was his birthday.

Everyone wants to know where Jules is, who will play her in the film, what’s going on with the kids in Silo 17, and I have to admit: I’m as eager as anyone to revisit her. So thank you for suffering these SHIFT books, which are dear to me in a way that few will appreciate. The post apocalyptic genre has a tendency to gloss over the cause of the end-times and to remove those responsible from the equation. Perhaps there’s good reason for this. Perhaps the why and how aren’t as exciting as the what’s next?

I, however, am eager to see those who think they have good reason for causing so much suffering answer to the ones they’ve inflicted it upon. Long gone are the days when mortals were able to shake their fists at Mount Olympus and expect an answer from cruel gods. Jules, perhaps, will be given that chance.

THIRD SHIFT will wrap this trilogy with a look at Jimmy’s time during the fall of Silo 17 and his gradual transformation into the man we come to know as Solo. I’m excited to tell that story. And I look forward to wrapping the overall series up by bringing Donald’s world into contact with Juliette’s. This third and final act will be entitled DUST, and I’m leaning toward releasing it in small parts, similar to WOOL. I’m undecided. But hey, not knowing is half the fun.

A final note for how awesome you have made my life this past year. It’s been a magical ride. There’s no way you’ve gotten as much out of these stories as I’ve gotten out of our interactions, your emails, your comments, and reviews. I can’t thank you enough for making me happier and damned luckier than I have any right to be. I get up and work hard at this every day because of how rewarding you all make it.

Okay, now for those of you Marvel fans who know to stay after the credits…

Mission changed out of his work coveralls while Allie readied dinner. He washed his hands, scrubbing the dirt from beneath his fingernails, and watched the mud slide down the drain. The ring on his finger was getting more and more difficult to remove, his knuckles sore and stiff from the hoeing of a planting season.

He soaped his hands and finally managed to work the ring off. Remembering the time he’d lost it down the drain, he set it aside carefully. Allie whistled in the kitchen while she tended the stove. When she cracked the oven, he smelled the pork roast inside. He’d have to say something. They couldn’t go buying roasts on no occasion.

His coveralls went into the wash. There were candles on the table when he got back to the kitchen. Lit candles. They were for emergencies, for the times when the fools below switched generators and worked on the busted main. Allie knew this. But before he could say anything about the roast or the candles, or tell her that the bean crop wouldn’t be what he’d hoped come harvest, he saw the way she was beaming at him. There was only one thing to be that happy about—but it was impossible.

“No,” he said. He couldn’t allow himself to believe it.

Allie nodded. There were tears in her eyes. By the time he got to her, they were coursing down her cheeks.

“But our ticket is up,” he whispered, holding her against him. She smelled like sweet peppers and sage. He could feel her trembling.

Allie sobbed. Her voice broke from being overfull of joy. “Doc says it happened last month. It was in our window, Mish. We’re gonna have a baby.”

A surge of relief filled Mission to the brim. Relief, not excitement. Relief that everything was legal, on the up-and-up. He wasn’t sure why this is what he felt. He kissed his wife’s cheek, salt to go with the pepper and sage. “I love you,” he whispered.

“The roast.” She pulled away and hurried to the stove. “I was gonna tell you after dinner.”

Mission laughed. “You were gonna tell me now or have to explain the candles.”

He poured two glasses of water, hands trembling, and set them out while she fixed the plates. The smell of cooked meat made his mouth water. He could anticipate the way the roast would taste like it was already in his mouth. A taste of the future, of what was to come. Like by the table, how he could already see two children, two more mouths to feed. He’d have to find a way to put in another row of corn. Or take that part time delivery job he’d been thinking about, just on weekends.

“Don’t let it get cold,” Allie said, setting the plates.

They sat and held hands. Mission cursed himself for not putting his ring back on.

“Bless this food and those who fed its roots,” Allie said.

“Amen,” said Mission. His wife squeezed his hands before letting go and grabbing her utensils.

“You know,” she said, cutting into the roast, “if it’s a girl, we’ll have to name her Allison. Every woman in my family as far back as we can remember has been an Allison.”

Mission wondered how far back her family could remember. Be unusual, if they could. The first piece of meat hit his tongue, an explosion of flavors. He chewed and thought on the name. “Allison it is,” he said. And he thought that eventually they would call her Allie, too. “But if it’s a boy, can we go with Cam?”

“Sure.” Allie lifted her glass. “That’s wasn’t your grandfather’s name, was it?”