Shift - Omnibus Edition (25 page)

‘You’ll help us?’ Anna asked. She rested her hand on his back, and her comforting touch brought back the memory of his wife, of the moments she would soothe and care for him. He startled as if bitten, some part of him thinking for a moment that he was still married, that she was alive out there, maybe frozen and waiting for him to wake her.

‘I need …’ He jumped up and glanced around the room. His eyes fell to the computer on the desk. ‘I need to look some things up.’

Anna rose beside him. ‘Of course. I can fill you in with what we know so far. Victor left a series of notes. He wrote all over your report. I can show you. And maybe you can convince Dad that he was on to something, that this silo is worth saving—’

‘Yes,’ Donald said. He would do it. But only so he could stay awake. And he wondered for a moment if that was Anna’s intention as well. To keep him around, near to her. An hour earlier, all he had wanted was to go back to sleep, to escape the world he had helped create. But now he wanted answers. He would look into Silo Eighteen, but he would find Helen as well. Find out what had happened to her, where she was. He thought of Mick, and Tennessee flashed in his mind. He turned to the wall schematic with all the silos and tried to remember which state went with which number.

‘What can we access from here?’ he asked. His skin flushed with heat as he thought of the answers at his disposal.

Anna turned toward the door. There were footsteps out there in the darkness.

‘Dad. He’s the only one with access to this level any more.’

‘Any more?’ He turned back to Anna.

‘Yeah. Where do you think Victor got the gun?’ She lowered her voice. ‘I was in here when he came down and cracked open one of the crates. I never heard him. Look, my father blames himself for what happened to Victor, and he still doesn’t believe this has anything to do with you or your report. But I knew Vic. He wasn’t crazy. If there’s anything you can do, please. For me.’

She squeezed his hand. Donald looked down, didn’t realize she’d been holding it. The folded report was in her other hand. The footsteps approached. Donald nodded his assent.

‘Thank you,’ she said. She dropped his hand, grabbed his empty cup from the cot, and nested hers with it. She tucked the cups and the bottle into one of the chairs and slid it under the table. Thurman arrived at the door and rapped the jamb with his knuckles.

‘Come in,’ Anna said, brushing loose hair off her face.

Thurman studied the two of them for a moment. ‘Erskine is planning a small ceremony,’ he said. ‘Just us. Those of us who know.’

Anna nodded. ‘Of course.’

Thurman narrowed his eyes and glanced from his daughter to Donald. Anna seemed to take it as a question.

‘Donny thinks he can help,’ she said. ‘We both think it’s best for him to work down here with me. At least until we make some progress.’

Donald turned to her in shock. Thurman said nothing.

‘We’ll need another computer,’ she added. ‘If you bring one down, I can set it up.’

That, Donald liked the sound of.

‘And another cot, of course,’ Anna added with a smile.

Silo 18

33

Mission slunk away after the scuffle with the farmers, and the rest of the porters scattered. He stole a few hours of sleep at the upper way station on level ten, his nose numb and lips throbbing from a blow he’d taken. Tossing and turning, too restless to stay put, he rose in the dim-time and realized it was too early yet to go to the Nest; the Crow would still be asleep. And so he headed to the cafeteria for a sunrise and a decent breakfast, the coroner’s bonus burning in his pockets the way his knuckles burned from their scrapes.

He nursed his aches with a welcomed hot meal, eating with those coming off a midnight shift, and watched the clouds boil and come to life across the hills. The towering husks in the distance – the Crow called them skyscrapers – were the first to catch the rising sun. It was a sign that the world would wake one more day. His birthday, Mission realized. He left his dishes on the table, a chit for whoever cleaned after him, and tried not to think of cleaning at all. Instead, he rushed down the eight flights of stairs before the silo fully woke. He headed toward the Nest, feeling not a day older at all.

Familiar words greeted him at the landing on level nine. There, above the door, rather than a level number it read:

The Crow’s Nest

The words were painted in bright and blocky letters. They followed the outlines from years and generations prior, color piled on color and letters crooked from more than one young hand’s involvement. The children of the silo came and went and left their marks with bristles, but the Old Crow remained.

Her nest comprised the nursery, day school and classrooms that served the up top. She had been perched there for longer than any alive could remember. Some said she was as old as the silo itself, but Mission knew that was just a legend. Nobody knew how old the silo was.

He entered the Nest to find the hallways empty and quiet, the hour early still. There was a soft screech from one classroom as desks were put back into order. Mission caught a glimpse of two teachers conferring in another classroom, their faces scrunched up with worry, probably wondering what to do with a younger version of himself. The scent of strong tea mixed with the odor of paste and chalk. There were rows of metal lockers in dire need of paint and stippled with dents from tiny fists; they transported Mission back to another age. It felt like just yesterday that he had terrorized that hall. He and all his friends whom he didn’t see any more – or at least not as often as he’d like.

The Crow’s room was at the far end and adjoined the only apartment on the entire level. The apartment had been built especially for her, converted from a classroom, or so they said. And while she only taught the youngest children any more, the entire school was hers. This was her nest.

Mission remembered coming to her at various stages of his life. Early on, for comfort, feeling so very far from the farms. Later, for wisdom, when he was finally old enough to admit he had none. And more than once he had come for both, like the day he had learned the truth of his birth and his mother’s death – that she had been sent to clean because of him. Mission remembered that day well. It was the only time he’d ever seen the Old Crow cry.

He knocked on her classroom door before entering and found her at the blackboard that’d been lowered so she could write on it from her chair. Mrs. Crowe stopped erasing yesterday’s lessons, turned and beamed at him.

‘My boy,’ she croaked. She waved with the eraser to beckon him closer. A chalky haze filled the air. ‘My boy, my boy.’

‘Hello, Mrs. Crowe.’ Mission passed between the handful of desks to get to her. The power line for her electric chair drooped from the center of the ceiling to a pole that rose up from the chair’s back. Mission ducked beneath it as he got closer and bent to give the Crow a hug. His hands wrapped around her, and he breathed in her smell – one of childhood and innocence. The yellow gown she wore, spotted with flowers, was her outfit for Wednesdays, as good as any calendar. It had faded since Mission’s time, as all things had.

‘I do believe you’ve grown,’ she said, smiling up at him. Her voice was barely a whisper, and he recalled how it kept even the young ones quiet so they could hear what was being said. She brought her hand up and touched her own cheek. ‘What happened to your face?’

Mission laughed and shrugged off his porter’s pack. ‘Just an accident,’ he said, lying to her like old times. He placed his pack at the foot of one of the tiny desks, could imagine squeezing into the thing and staying for the day’s lesson.

‘How’ve you been?’ he asked. He studied her face, the deep wrinkles and dark skin like a farmer’s but from age rather than grow lights. Her eyes were rheumy, but there was life still behind them. They reminded Mission of the wallscreens on a bright day but in dire need of a cleaning.

‘Not so good,’ Mrs. Crowe said. She twisted the lever on her armrest, and the chair built for her decades ago by some long-gone former student whirred around to face him better. Pulling back her sleeve, she showed Mission a gauze bandage taped to her thin and splotchy arm. ‘Those doctors came and took my blood away.’ Her hand shook as she indicated the evidence. ‘Took half of it, by my reckoning.’

Mission laughed. ‘I’m pretty sure they didn’t take half your blood, Mrs. Crowe. The doctors are just looking out for you.’

She twisted up her face, an explosion of wrinkles. She didn’t seem so sure. ‘I don’t trust them,’ she said.

Mission smiled. ‘You don’t trust anyone. And hey, maybe they’re just trying to figure out why you can’t die like everyone else does. Maybe they’ll come up with a way for everyone to live as long as you someday.’

Mrs. Crowe rubbed the bandage on her withering arm. ‘Or they’re figuring out how to
kill
me,’ she said.

‘Oh, don’t be so sinister.’ Mission reached forward and pulled her sleeve down to keep her from messing with the bandage. ‘Why would you think such a thing?’

She frowned and declined to answer. Her eyes fell to his near-empty pack. ‘Day off?’ she asked.

Mission turned and followed her gaze. ‘Hmm? Oh, no. I dropped something off last night. I’ll pick up another delivery in a little bit, take it wherever they tell me to.’

‘Oh, to be so young and free again.’ Mrs. Crowe spun her chair around and steered it behind her desk. Mission ducked beneath the pivoting wire out of habit; the pole at the back of the chair was made with younger heads in mind. She picked up a container of the vile vegetable pulp she preferred over water and took a sip. ‘Allie stopped by last week.’ She set the greenish-black fluid down. ‘She was asking about you. Wanted to know if you were still single.’

‘Oh?’ Mission could feel his temperature shoot up. Mrs. Crowe had caught them kissing once, back before he knew what kissing was for. She had left them with a warning and a knowing smile. ‘Everyone’s so spread out,’ Mission said, changing the subject, hoping she might take the hint.

‘As it should be.’ The Crow opened a drawer on her desk and rummaged around, came out with an envelope. Mission could see a half-dozen names scratched out across the thing. It had been used a handful of times. ‘You’re heading down from here? Maybe you could drop off something for Rodny?’

She held out the letter. Mission took it, saw his best friend’s name written on the outside, all the other names crossed out.

‘I can leave it for him, sure. But the last two times I stopped by there, they said he was unavailable.’

Mrs. Crowe nodded as if this was to be expected. ‘Ask for Jeffery, he’s the head of Security down there, one of my boys. You tell him that this is from me and that I said you should hand it to Rodny yourself. In person.’ She waved her hands in the air, little trembling blurs. ‘I’ll write Jeffery a note.’

Mission glanced up at the clock on the wall while she dug into her desk for a pen and ink. Soon the hallways would begin filling with youthful chatter and the opening and slamming of lockers. He waited patiently while she scratched her note and scanned old posters and banners on the walls, the ‘motivators’, as Mrs. Crowe liked to call them.

You can be anything,
one of them said. It featured a crude drawing of a boy and a girl standing on a huge mound. The mound was green and the sky blue, just like in the picture books. Another one said:
Dream to your heart’s delight
. It had bands of color in a graceful arcing sweep. The Crow had a name for the shape, but he’d forgotten what it was called. Another familiar one:
Go new places.
It featured a drawing of a crow perched in an impossibly large tree, its wings spread as if it were about to take flight.

‘Jeffery is the bald one,’ Mrs. Crowe said. She waved a hand over her own white and thinning hair to demonstrate.

‘I know,’ Mission said. It was a strange reminder that so many of the adults and elders throughout the silo had been her students as well. A locker was slammed in the hallway. Mission remembered when he was a kid how the rows and rows of tiny desks had filled the room. There were cubbies full of rolled mats for nap time, reminding him of the daily routine of clearing a space in the middle of the floor, finding his mat, and drifting off to sleep while the Crow sang forgotten songs. He missed those days. He missed the Old Time stories about a world full of impossible things. Leaning against that little desk, Mission suddenly felt as ancient as the Crow, just as impossibly distant from his youth.

‘Give Jeffery this, and then see that Rodny gets my note. From you personally, okay?’

He grabbed his pack and slid both pieces of correspondence into his courier pouch. There was no mention of payment, just the twinge of guilt Mission felt for even thinking of it. Digging into the pack reminded him of the items he had brought her, forgotten due to the previous night’s brawl.

‘Oh, I brought you these from the farm.’ He pulled out a few small cucumbers, two peppers and a large tomato, bearing a bruise. He placed them on her desk. ‘For your veggie drinks,’ he said.

Mrs. Crowe clasped her hands together and smiled with delight.

‘Is there anything else you need next time I’m passing by?’

‘These visits,’ she said, her face a wrinkle of smiles. ‘All I care about are my little ones. Stop by whenever you can, okay?’

Mission squeezed her arm, which felt like a broomstick tucked into a sleeve. ‘I will,’ he said. ‘And that reminds me: Frankie told me to tell you hello.’

‘He should come more often,’ she told him, her voice aquiver.

‘Not everyone gets around like I do,’ he said. ‘I’m sure he’d like to see you more often as well.’

‘You tell him,’ she said. ‘Tell him I don’t have much time left—’

Mission laughed and waved off the morbid thought. ‘You probably told my grandfather the same thing when he was young, and his father before him.’

The Crow smiled as if this were true. ‘Predict the inevitable,’ she said, ‘and you’re bound to be right one day.’

Mission smiled. He liked that. ‘Still, I wish you wouldn’t talk about dying. Nobody likes to hear it.’