Hugh Howey - Wool Omnibus Edition (Wool 1-5)

“This isn't about Holston is it?”

“ Who ? Oh, the old Sheriff? No, no. Why?”

Bernard waved his hand to dismiss the thought.

“The file is under Wilkins,” Lukas said, watching Bernard closely. “George Wilkins.”

Bernard's face hardened. His mustache dropped down over his lips like a lowered curtain.

Lukas cleared his throat. What he’d seen on Bernard’s face was nearly enough. “George died a few years ago down in Mech—” he started to say.

“I know how he died.” Bernard dipped his chin. “Why would you want to see that file?”

“Just curious. I have a friend who—”

“What's this friend's name?” Bernard’s small hands slid off his belly and were tucked into his coveralls. He moved away from the filing cabinet and took a step closer.

“What?”

“This friend, was he involved with George in any way? How close of a friend was he?”

“No. Not that I know of. Look, if it's a big deal, don’t worry about—” Lukas wanted to simply ask, to ask why he’d done it. But Bernard seemed intent on telling him with no prompting at all.

“It's a very big deal,” Bernard said. “George Wilkins was a dangerous man. A man of ideas . The kind we catch in whispers, the kind who poisons the people around him—”

“What? What do you mean?”

“Section thirteen of the Order. Study it. All insurrections would start right there if we let them, start with men like him.”

Bernard’s chin had lowered to his chest, his eyes peering over the rims of his glasses, the truth coming freely without all the deceit Lukas had planned.

Lukas never needed that folder; he had found the travel logs that coincided with George’s death, the dozens of wires asking Holston to wrap things up. But now he saw he never even needed to ask for the folder at all. There was no shame in Bernard. George Wilkins hadn't died; he'd been murdered. And Bernard was willing to tell him why.

“What did he do?” Lukas asked quietly.

“I’ll tell you what he did. He was a mechanic, a greaser. We started hearing chatter from the porters about these plans circulating, ideas for expanding the mine, doing a lateral dig. As you know, lateral digs are forbidden—”

“Yeah, obviously.” Lukas had a mental image of miners from silo 18 pushing through and meeting miners from silo 19. It would be awkward, to say the least.

“A long chat with the old head of Mechanical put an end to that nonsense, and then George Wilkins came up with the idea of expanding downward . He and some others drew up schematics for a level one-fifty. And then a level one-sixty.”

“ Twelve more levels?”

“To begin with. That was the talk, anyway. Just whispers and sketches. But some of these whispers landed in a porter's ear, and then ours perked up.”

“So you killed him?”

“Someone did, yes. It doesn't matter who.” Bernard adjusted his glasses with one hand. The other stayed in the belly of his coveralls. “You'll have to do these things one day, son. You know that, don’t you?”

“Yeah, but—”

“No buts.” Bernard shook his head slowly. “Some men are like a virus. Unless you want to see a plague break out, you inoculate the silo against them. You remove them.”

Lukas remained silent.

“We've removed fourteen threats this year, Lukas. Do you have any idea what the average life expectancy would be if we weren't proactive about these things?”

“But the cleanings—”

“Useful for dealing with the people who want out . Who dream of a better world. This uprising we’re having right now is full of people like that, but it’s just one sort of sickness we deal with. The cleaning is one sort of cure. I'm not sure if someone with a different illness would even clean if we sent them out there. They have to want to see what we show them for it to work.”

This reminded Lukas of what he'd learned of the helmets, the visors. He had assumed this was the only kind of sickness there was. He was beginning to wish he'd read more of the Order and less of the Legacy.

“You’ve heard this latest outbreak on the radio. All of this could have been prevented if we’d caught the sickness earlier. Tell me that wouldn’t have been better.”

Lukas looked down at his boots. The trashcan lay nearby, on its side. It looked sad like that. No longer useful for holding things.

“Ideas are contagious, Lukas. This is basic Order material. You know this stuff.”

He nodded. He thought of Juliette, wondered why she hadn’t called in forever. She was one of these viruses Bernard was talking about, her words creeping in his mind and infecting him with outlandish dreams. He felt his entire body flush with heat as he realized he’d caught some of it too. He wanted to touch his breast pocket, feel the lumps of her personal effects there, the watch, the ring, the ID. He had taken them to remember her in death, but they had become even more precious knowing that she was still alive.

“This uprising hasn’t been nearly as bad as the last one,” Bernard told him. “And even after that one, things were eventually smoothed over, the damage welded back together, the people made to forget. The same thing will happen here. Are we clear?”

“Yessir.”

“Excellent. Now, was that all you wished to know from this folder?”

Lukas nodded.

“Good. It sounds like you need to be reading something else, anyway.” His mustache twitched with half a smile. Bernard turned to go.

“It was you, wasn’t it?”

Bernard stopped, but didn't turn to face him.

“That killed George Wilkins. It was you, right?”

“Does it matter?”

“Yeah. It matters to— To me— It means—”

“Or to your friend ?” Bernard turned to face him. Lukas felt the temperature in the room go up yet another notch.

“Are you having second thoughts, Son? About this job? Was I wrong about you? Because I’ve been wrong before.”

Lukas swallowed. “I just want to know if it’s something I’d ever have to— I mean, since I’m shadowing for—”

Bernard took a few steps toward him. Lukas felt himself back up half a step in response.

“I didn't think I was wrong about you. But I was, wasn't I?” Bernard shook his head. He looked disgusted. “Goddammit,” he spat.

“Nossir. You weren’t. I think I've just been in here too long.” Lukas brushed his hair off his forehead. His scalp was itchy. He needed to use the bathroom. “Maybe I just need some air, you know? Go home for a while? Sleep in my bed. What's it been, a month? How long do I need—?”

“You want out of here?”

Lukas nodded.

Bernard peered down at his boots and seemed to consider this a while. When he looked up, there was sadness in his eyes, in the droop of his mustache, across the wet film of his eyes.

“Is that what you want? To get out of here?”

He adjusted his hands inside his coveralls.

“Yessir.” Lukas nodded.

“Say it.”

“I want out of here.” Lukas glanced at the heavy steel door behind Bernard. “Please. I want you to let me out.”

“Out.”

Lukas bobbed his head, exasperated, sweat tickling his cheek as it followed the line of his jaw. He was suddenly very afraid of this man, this man who all of a sudden reminded him even more of his father.

“Please,” Lukas said. “It’s just… I’m starting to feel cooped up. Please let me out.”

Bernard nodded. His cheeks twitched. He looked as if he were about to cry. Lukas had never seen this expression on the man’s face.

“Sheriff Billings, are you there?”

His small hand emerged from his coveralls and raised the radio to his sad, quivering mustache.