First Shift: Legacy (Shift, #1)(42)

Looking down at his feet, Troy felt self-conscious about his shorts and tee shirt. The only semblance of authority he really felt was lent by his coveralls, but there was no time to ride up and change.

The lift beeped and opened, a conversation inside falling silent. Troy nodded a greeting, and two men in yellow said hello. The three of them rode in silence for a few levels until the men got off on forty-four, a general living level. Before the doors could close, Troy saw a bright ball skitter across the hallway, two men racing after it. There were shouts and laughter followed by guilty silence when they noticed Troy.

The metal doors squeezed shut on the brief glimpse of lower and more normal lives.

With a shudder, the lift sank deeper into the earth. Troy could feel the dirt and concrete squeezing in from all sides, piling up above. Sweat mixed with more sweat and so remained hidden. He was coming out of the other side of the medication, he thought. Every morning, he could feel some semblance of his old self returning, and it lasted longer and longer into the day.

The fifties went by. The lift never stopped on the fifties. Emergency supplies he hoped would never be needed filled the corridors beyond. He remembered parts of the orientation time, back when everyone had been awake. He remembered the code names they came up with for everything, the way new labels obscured the past. There was something here nagging him, but he couldn’t place it.

Next were the mechanical spaces and the general storerooms, followed by the two levels that housed the reactor. Finally, the most important storage of all: the Legacy, the deep sleep of men and women in their shiny coffins, the survivors from the before, the sailors asleep in their bunks.

There was a jolt of gravity as the lift slowed, a ding, doors trembling open. Troy heard a commotion in the doctor’s office, Henson barking commands to his assistant. He hurried down the hallway in his gym attire, sweat cooling on his skin.

When he entered the ready room, he saw an elderly man. It was Hal—Troy recognized him from the cafeteria, remembered speaking with him the first day of his shift and several times since. Hal was being restrained on a gurney by two men from Security. The doctor and his assistant were fumbling through cabinets and drawers, gathering supplies.

“My name is Carlton!” Hal roared. He seemed to be coming out of a fog, looked dazed like he had just woken up from a stupor. Troy assumed they would’ve had him under control to get him down the lift, wondered if he had broken free or come to. Hal’s thin arms flailed while unbuckled restraints dangled from the flat table and swayed from the commotion. Henson and his assistant found what they needed and gathered by the gurney. The Security guys grunted with effort. Hal’s eyes widened at the sight of the needle the assistant was holding; the fluid inside was a blue the color of open sky.

Dr. Henson looked up and saw Troy standing there in his exercise clothes, paralyzed and watching the scene. Hal screamed once more that his name was Carlton and continued to kick at the air, boots slamming against the table. The two Security men jerked with effort as they held him down.

“A hand?” Henson grunted, teeth clenched as he began to wrestle with one of Hal’s arms.

Troy hurried to the gurney and grabbed one of the man’s legs. He stood shoulder to shoulder with the Security officers and wrestled a boot while trying not to get kicked. Hal’s legs felt like a bird’s inside the baggy coveralls, but they kicked like a mule’s. His skinny arms stirred the air while one of the officers worked a strap across his thighs. Troy leaned his weight on Hal’s shin while a second strap was flapped over.

“What’s wrong with him?” he asked. His concerns about himself swiftly subsided in the presence of true madness. Or was this where he was heading?

“Meds aren’t taking,” Henson said.

Or he’s not taking them, Troy thought.

The medical assistant used his teeth to pull the cap off the sky-colored syringe. Hal’s wrist was pinned. The needle disappeared into his trembling arm, the plunger moving bright blue into his pale and blotchy flesh.

Veins, already purple with effort, deepened in hue.

Troy cringed at the sight of sharp steel being stabbed into Hal’s jerking arm—but the power in the old man’s legs faded immediately. Everyone seemed to take deep breaths as he wilted into unconsciousness, his head drifting to the side, one last incomprehensible scream fading into a moan, and then a deep and breathy exhalation.

“What the hell?” Troy wiped his forehead with the back of his arm. He was dripping with sweat, partly from the exertion but mostly from the scene of madness, from feeling a man go under like that, sensing the life and will drain from his kicking boots as he was forced asleep. His own body shook with a sudden and violent tremor, gone before he knew it was coming. The doctor glanced up and frowned.

“I apologize for that,” Henson said. He glared at the officers, directing his blame.

“We had him no problem,” one of them said, shrugging.

Henson turned to Troy. His jowls sagged with disappointment. “I hate to ask you to sign off on this—”

Troy wiped his face with the front of his shirt and nodded. The losses had been accounted for—individual losses as well as silos, spares stocked accordingly—but they all stung.

“Of course,” he said. This was his job, right? Sign this. Say these words. Follow the script. It was a joke. They were all reading lines from a play none of them could remember. But he was beginning to. He could feel it.