54

　　• Silo 18 •

　　The first moment of true rest came hours later at Supply, on the upper edge of the down deep. Therewas talk of holding there, of setting up some kind of barrier, but it wasn’t clear how the entirestairway could be blocked to include the open space between the railing and the concrete cylinderbeyond. This was the gap where the singing bullets lived, a place where jumpers were known to meettheir ends, and where their enemy could surely find some way to scamper¹ down.

　　Marck’s hearing had improved during the last leg of his run. Enough to grow weary of therhythmic clomp of his own boots, the sound of his pained grunts², the noise of his exhausted³ pants forair. He heard someone say that the last explosion had wrecked⁴ the stairway, had impeded⁵ the chase.

　　But for how long? What was the damage? No one knew.

　　Tensions ran high on the landing; the news of McLain’s death had unsettled the people of Supply.

　　The wounded in yellow overalls⁶ were taken inside, but it was suggested—and not gently—thatMechanical’s injured would be better off receiving treatment further below. Where they belonged.

　　Marck waded⁷ through these arguments, the voices still somewhat muffled⁸ and distant. He askedeveryone about Shirly, several in yellow shrugging as if they didn’t know her. One guy said she’dalready gone down with some of the other wounded. He said it a second time, louder, before Marckwas sure he’d heard him.

　　It was good news, and he’d figured as much. He was about to leave when his wife emergedwithout warning from the anxious crowd, startling him.

　　Her eyes widened as she recognized him. And then her gaze fell to his wounded arm.

　　“Oh, God!”

　　She threw her arms around him, pressed her face against his neck. Marck hugged her with onearm, his rifle between them, the barrel cold against his quivering cheek.

　　“Are you okay?” he asked.

　　She latched⁹ on to his neck, her forehead finding his shoulder, and said something he couldn’t hearbut could feel against his skin. She made room to inspect his arm.

　　“I can’t hear,” he told her.

　　“I’m fine,” she said, louder. She shook her head, her eyes wide and wet. “I wasn’t there. I wasn’tthere for any of it. Is it true about Knox? What happened? How bad was it?”

　　She focused on his wound, and her hands felt good on his arm—strong and confident. The crowdwas thinning as members of Mechanical retreated further down the stairwell. Several in Supplyyellow treated Marck to cold stares, eyeing his wound as if worried it would soon be their problem.

　　“Knox is dead,” he told her. “McLain, too. A few others. I was right there when the blast wentoff.”

　　He looked down at his arm, which she had exposed by tearing away his ripped and stainedundershirt.

　　“Were you shot?” she asked.

　　He shook his head. “I don’t know. It happened so fast.” He looked over his shoulder. “Where’severyone going? Why aren’t we holing up here?”

　　Shirly set her teeth and jerked her head at the door, which was two deep with yellow overalls.

　　“Don’t think we’re wanted,” she said, her voice raised so he could hear. “I’ve got to clean thiswound. I think some of the bomb is in you.”

　　“I’m fine,” he insisted. “I’ve just been looking for you. I’ve been worried sick.”

　　He saw that his wife was crying, unbroken tear tracks standing¹⁰ out amid the beads¹¹ of sweat.

　　“I thought you were gone,” she said. He had to read her lips to make it out. “I thought they had …that you were …”

　　She bit her lip and stared at him with uncharacteristic fear. Marck had never seen his wife fazed,not by a sprung casement¹² leak, not by a cave-in deep in the mine that trapped several of their closefriends, not even when Juliette was sent to cleaning. But heaps of dread¹³ were locked up in herexpression now. And that scared him in a way the bombs and bullets couldn’t.

　　“Let’s hurry after the others,” he said, taking her hand. He could feel the exposed nerves on thelanding, the gazes begging them to be off.

　　When shouts rang down from above once more and the members of Supply retreated to the safetyof their doorway¹⁴, Marck knew this brief moment of respite¹⁵ was over. But it was okay. He’d found hiswife. She was unharmed. There was little anyone could do to him now.

　　????

　　When they reached one-thirty-nine together, Marck knew they’d made it. His legs had somehowheld out. The blood loss hadn’t stopped him. With his wife helping¹⁶ him along, they passed the lastlanding before Mechanical, and all he could think about was holding the line against those bastardswho were taking shots at them from above. Inside Mechanical, they would have power, safety innumbers, the advantage of home turf. More importantly, they would be able to bandage wounds andget some rest. That’s what he sorely needed: rest.

　　He nearly tripped and fell down the last few steps, his legs not used to an end to the descent, a flatpiece of ground rather than one more tread to sink to. As his knees buckled¹⁸, and Shirly caught him,he finally noticed the jam of people at the security station leading into Mechanical.

　　The crew that had stayed behind while the rest marched up to fight had been busy. Steel plates hadbeen welded solid across the wide security entrance. The diamond-studded sheeting stood from floorto ceiling, wall to wall. Sparks hissed¹⁹ along one edge as someone worked to complete the job fromthe inside. The sudden flurry of refugees and wounded amassed²⁰ in a crowd desperate to get in.

　　Mechanics shoved and jostled against the barrier. They screamed and beat on the steel plates, madwith fear.

　　“What the hell?” Marck cried. He followed Shirly as she pressed into the back of the crowd. Atthe front, someone was crawling on the floor, wiggling on their belly²¹ through the tightest of gaps, arectangle left open below the security turnstile wide enough to slide through, easy enough to defend.

　　“Easy! Wait your turn,” someone ahead of them shouted.

　　Yellow overalls were mixed in with the others. Some were mechanics who had donned disguises—some seemed to be from Supply, helping the wounded, mixed up in the wrong crowd or nottrusting their own level for safety.

　　As Marck attempted to usher²² Shirly toward the front, a shot rang out, the thwack and clatter²³ of ahot ball of lead striking nearby. He changed direction and pulled her back toward the stairs. Thecrush around the impossibly small entrance grew frantic²⁴. There was a lot of yelling back and forththrough the hole, people on this side shouting that they were being shot at, those on the other sideyelling, “One at a time!”

　　Several were on their bellies²⁵, scrambling²⁶ for the tiny hole. One got his arms inside and was pulledthrough, sliding across the steel grating and disappearing into the dark space. Two others tried to benext, jostling for position. They were all exposed to the open stairwell above. Another shot rang out,and someone fell, clutching a shoulder and screaming, “I’m hit!” The throng²⁷ dispersed²⁸. Several ranback to the stairs, where the overhang of the treads protected them from the gunfire. The rest were inchaos, all trying to fit through a space expressly designed to allow no more than one at a time.

　　Shirly screamed and squeezed Marck’s arm as another person was shot nearby. A mechanic fell tothe ground and doubled over in pain. Shirly yelled at her husband, asking him what they should do.

　　Marck dropped his rucksack, kissed her cheek, and ran with his rifle back up the stairs. He tried totake them two at a time, but his legs were too sore. Another shot rang out, the ricochet of a miss. Hisbody felt incredibly heavy, slow like in a bad dream. He approached the landing of one-thirty-ninewith his gun level, but the shooters were further up, peppering the crowd from higher above.

　　He checked that he had a fresh round in the home-built gun, cocked it, and edged out onto thelanding. Several men in the gray of Security were leaning out over the railing above, barrels traineddown toward the ground floor of Mechanical. One of the men tapped his neighbor and pointed²⁹ towardMarck. Marck watched all this down the length of his own barrel.

　　He fired a shot, and a black rifle tumbled toward him from above, the arms of its wielder³⁰ slumpingover the railing before sagging³¹ down and disappearing.

　　Gunfire erupted, but he was already diving back toward the stairs. The shouting grew furious bothabove and below him. Marck went to the other side of the stairs, away from where he’d last beenseen, and peered down. The crowd was thinning by the security barrier. More and more people werebeing pulled through. He could see Shirly looking up, shielding her eyes against the stairway lightsabove.

　　Boots rang out behind him. Marck reloaded, turned, and aimed at the highest step he could seealong the upward spiral. He waited for whatever was heading down toward him.

　　When the first boot appeared, he steadied himself, allowed more of the man to sink before hisbarrel, and then he pulled the trigger.

　　Another black rifle clattered³² against the steps and bounced through the railing; another mansagged to his knees.

　　Marck turned and ran. He lost his grip on his own gun, felt it bang against his shins as it skitteredaway from him, and he didn’t stop to retrieve³³ it. He slid down the steps, lost his footing, landed onhis ass¹⁷, and bounced back up. He tried taking the steps two at a time, was running as if in a dream,not fast enough, legs like rusted³⁴ steel—There was a bang, a muffled roar behind him, and somehow, someone had caught up, had punchedhim in the back, had hit him.

　　Marck sprawled³⁵ forward and bounced down the steps, his chin striking the steel treads. Bloodpoured into his mouth. He tried to crawl, got his feet beneath him, and stumbled forward.

　　Another roar, another punch to the back, the feeling that he’d been bitten and kicked at the sametime.

　　This is what it feels like to be shot, he thought numbly³⁶. He spilled down the last few steps, lostsensation in his legs, crashed to the grating.

　　The bottom floor was nearly empty. One person stood beside the tiny hole. Another was half inand half out, boots kicking.

　　Marck saw that it was Shirly, on her belly, looking back at him. They were both lying on the floor.

　　So comfortable on the floor. The steel was cool against his cheek. There were no more steps to rundown, no bullets to load, nothing to shoot.

　　Shirly was screaming, not as happy as he was to be lying there.

　　One of her arms extended back out of that small black rectangle, reached for him past the roughcuts in the steel plates. Her body slid forward, pulled by some force beyond, pushed by this niceperson in yellow still standing by the strange wall of steel where the entrance to his home used to be.

　　“Go,” Marck told her, wishing she wouldn’t scream. Blood flecked the floor before him, markinghis words. “I love you—”

　　And as if by command, her feet slid into the darkness, her screams swallowed by that rectangular,shadowy maw.

　　And the person in yellow turned. The nice man’s eyes grew wide, his mouth fell open, and thenhis body jerked from the violence of gunfire.

　　It was the last thing Marck saw, this man’s deathly dance.

　　And he only distantly felt, but for a tremble of time, the end of him that came next.

 

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