Third Shift: Pact (Silo #2C)(51)

39


The hardest part was making her wait to eat. Donald knew what it felt like to be that hungry. He put her through the same routine he’d endured a number of times: made her drink the bitter concoction, made her use the bathroom to flush her system, had her sit on the edge of the tub and take a warm but not hot shower, then put her in a fresh set of clothes and a new blanket.

He watched as she finished the last of the drink. Her lips gradually faded to pink from pale blue. Her skin was so white. Donald couldn’t remember if it’d been white like that before orientation. Maybe it’d happened overseas, sitting in those dark trailers with only the light of a monitor to bathe in.

“I need to go make an appearance,” he told her. “Everyone else will be getting up. I’ll bring you breakfast on my way back down.”

Charlotte sat quietly in one of the leather chairs around the old war planning table, her feet tucked up under her. She tugged at the collar of the coveralls as if they itched her skin. “Mom and Dad are gone,” she said, repeating what he’d told her earlier. Donald wasn’t sure what she would and wouldn’t remember. She hadn’t been on her stress medications as long or as recently as him. But it didn’t matter. He could tell her the truth. Tell her and hate himself for doing it.

“I’ll be back in a little bit. Just stay here and try to get some rest. Don’t leave this room, okay?”

The words echoed hollow as he hurried through the warehouse and toward the elevator. He remembered hearing from others as soon as they woke him that he should get some rest. He was usually on the other side of that advice, thinking those dispensing it were out of their minds. Charlotte had been asleep for three centuries. As he scanned his badge and waited for the elevator, Donald thought on how much time had passed and how little had changed. The world was still the ruin they’d left it. Or if it wasn’t, they were about to find out.

He rode up to the operations level. The express was anything but. It stopped twice to pick up four others with sleep in their eyes and a shuffle in their step. They rode in silence, all in coveralls of various hues, like men in a factory from the olden days heading to another Monday morning. Always Mondays in that place. Six months of Mondays. No weekends to look forward to.

The lift spilled them into the hall. Donald felt a chill from the thought that his sister was down below, awake and alone. He felt an impatience like bugs beneath his skin, urging him forward faster than he could go.

He checked with Eren, knocked on his doorframe. The Ops Head was already at his desk, surrounded by files, one hand tangled in his hair, his elbow on piles of paperwork. There was no steam from his mug of coffee. He’d been at his desk a while.

“Thurman,” he said, glancing up.

Donald startled and glanced down the hall, looking for someone else.

“Any progress with 18?”

“I, uh …” Donald tried to remember. “Last I heard, they’d breached the barrier in the lowest levels. The Head over there thinks the fighting will be over in a day or two.”

“Good. Glad the shadow is working out. Scary time not to have one. There was this one time on my third shift I think it was when we lost a Head while he was between shadows. Helluva time finding a recruit.” Eren leaned back in his chair. “The mayor wasn’t an option; the head of Security was as bright as a lump of coal; so we had to—”

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” Donald said, pointing down the hall. “I need to get back to—”

“Oh, of course.” Eren waved his hand, seemed embarrassed. “Right. Me too.”

“—just a lot to do this morning. Grabbing breakfast and then I’ll be in my room.” He jerked his head toward the empty office across the hall. “Tell Gable I took care of myself, okay? I don’t want to be disturbed.”

“Sure, sure.” Eren shooed him with his hand.

Donald spun back to the elevator. Up to the cafeteria. His stomach rumbled its agreement. He’d been up all night without eating. He’d been up and empty for far too long.





40


He was pushing the time limit by letting her eat an hour early, but it was hard to say no. Donald encouraged her to take small bites, to slow down. And while Charlotte chewed, he caught her up. She knew about the silos from orientation. He told her about the wallscreens, about the cleaners, that he was woken because someone had disappeared. Charlotte had a hard time grasping these things. It took saying them several times until they became strange even to his ears.

“They let them see outside, these people in the other silos?” She chewed on a small bite of biscuit.

“Yeah. I asked Thurman once why we put them there. You know what he told me?”

Charlotte shrugged and took a sip of water.

“They’re there to keep them from wanting to leave. We have to show them death to keep them in. Otherwise, they’ll always want to see what’s over the rise. Thurman said it’s human nature.”

“But some of them go anyway.” She wiped her mouth with her napkin, picked up her fork, her hand trembling, and pulled Donald’s half-eaten breakfast toward her.

“Yeah, some of them go anyway,” Donald said. “And you need to take it easy.” He watched her dig into his eggs and thought about his own trip up the drone lift. He was one of those people who had gone anyway. It wasn’t something she needed to know.