First Shift - Legacy (Part 6 of the Silo Series) (Wool) (25 page)

He cranked the engine and raced through the least muddy path on the way back to the stage, his sister holding on tight and squealing with delight. They pulled up beside Anna, his sister hopping off and into her arms. While they chatted, Donald killed the ignition and checked his phone. His messages were still sending. And then he saw that an incoming one had arrived.

Helen:
In Tennessee. where r u?

There was a jarring moment as his brain tried to make sense of the message. It was from Helen. What the hell was she doing in
Tennessee
?

Another stage fell silent. It took only a heartbeat or two for Donald to realize that she wasn’t hundreds of miles away. She was just over the hill. None of his messages about meeting at the Georgia stage had gone through.

“Hey, I’ll be right back.”

He cranked the ATV. Anna grabbed his wrist.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

He smiled. “Tennessee. Helen just texted me.”

Anna glanced up at the clouds. His sister was inspecting her hat. On the stage, a young girl was being ushered up to the mic. She was flanked by a color guard, and the seats facing the stage were filling up, necks stretched with anticipation.

Before he could react or put the ATV in gear, Anna reached across, twisted the key, and pulled it out of the ignition.

“Not now,” she said.

Donald felt a flash of rage. He reached for her hands, for the key, but it disappeared behind her back.

“Wait,” she hissed.

Charlotte had turned toward the stage. Senator Thurman stood with a microphone in hand, the young girl, maybe sixteen, beside him. The hills had grown deathly quiet. Donald realized what a racket the ATV had been making. The girl was about to sing.

Ladies and gentlemen, fellow Democrats—

There was a pause. Donald got off the four-wheeler, took a last glance at his phone, then tucked it away.

—and our handful of Independents.

Laughter from the crowd. Donald set off at a jog across the flat at the bottom of the bowl. His shoes squished in the wet grass and the thin layer of mud. Senator Thurman’s voice continued to roar through the microphone:

Today is the dawn of a new era, a new time.

He was out of shape. Or was his chest pounding from the time apart? From missing her and worrying all day? He flashed back to summer camp when he was a kid standing by the road with all the other kids, emotional farewells between new and supposedly eternal friends, but all he wanted was to see his mom and dad, to get home. He remembered nearly wetting his pants or bursting out in tears from trying to hold all the longing inside.

As we gather in this place of future independence—

By the time the ground sloped upward, he was already winded.

—I’m reminded of the words from one of our enemies. A Republican.

Distant laughter, but Donald was concentrating on the climb. The hill was steepest in a direct line toward the Tennessee bowl. Glancing to one side, he saw a crease in the hills where they had been pushed together, sealing up the path that once lay between them. That’s how he should have gone.

It was Ronald Reagan who once said that freedom must be fought for, that peace must be earned. As we listen to this anthem, written a long time ago as bombs dropped and a new country was forged, let’s consider the price paid for our freedom and ask ourselves if any cost could be too great to ensure that these liberties never slip away.

A third of the way up—and Donald had to stop and catch his breath. His calves were going to give out before his lungs did. He regretted puttering around on the ATV the past weeks while some of the others slogged it on foot. He promised himself he’d get in better shape.

He started back up the hill, and a voice like ringing crystal filled the bowl. It spilled in synchrony over the looming rise. He turned toward the stage below where the national anthem was being sung by the sweetest of young voices—

And he saw Anna hurrying up the hill after him, a scowl of worry on her face.

Donald knew he was in trouble. He wondered if he was dishonoring the anthem by scurrying up the hill. A few faces from the crowd were indeed trained his way. Everyone had assigned places for the anthem and he was ignoring his. He turned his back on the angry faces and Anna and set off with renewed resolve.

—o’er the ramparts we watched—

He laughed, out of breath, wondering if these mounds of earth could be considered ramparts. It was easy to see the bowls for what they’d become in the last weeks, individual states full of people, goods, and livestock, fifty state fairs bustling at once, all for this shining day, all to be gone once the facility began to operate according to its true purpose.

—and the rockets’ red glare, the bombs bursting in air—

He reached the top of the hill and sucked in deep lungfuls of crisp, clean air. On the stage below, flags swayed idly in a soft breeze. A large screen showed a video of the girl singing about
proof
and
still being there
.

A hand seized his wrist. A fierce hand.

“Come back,” Anna hissed.

He was panting. Anna was also out of breath, her knees covered in mud and grass stains. She must’ve slipped on the way up. He wondered if the anger in her voice and her narrowed eyes were related.

“Helen doesn’t know where I am,” he said.

—bannerrr still waaaaave—

Applause stirred before the end, a compliment. The jets streaking in from the distance caught his eye even before their rumble arrived. A diamond pattern with wingtips nearly touching.

“Get the fuck back down here,” Anna yelled. She yanked on his arm.

Donald twisted his wrist away. He was mesmerized by the sight of the jets approaching.

—o’er the laaand of the freeeeeee—

That sweet and youthful voice lifted up from fifty holes in the earth and crashed into the thunderous roar of the powerful jets, those soaring and graceful angels of death.

“Let go,” Donald demanded, as Anna grabbed him and scrambled to pull him back down the hill.

—and the hooome of the...braaaaave...

Miles of applause bubbled up together. The air shook from the grumble of the perfectly timed fly-by. Afterburners screamed as the jets peeled apart and curved upward into the white clouds.

Anna was practically wrestling him, arms wrapped around his shoulders. Donald snapped out of a trance induced by the passing jets, the beautiful rendition of the anthem amplified across half a county, the struggle to spot his wife in the bowl below.

“Goddamnit, Donny, we’ve got to get
down
—”

The first flash came before she could get her hands over his eyes. A bright spot in the corner of his vision in the direction of downtown Atlanta. It was a daytime strike of lightning. Donald turned toward it, expecting thunder. The flash of light had become a blinding glow. Anna’s arms were around his waist, jerking him backward. His sister was there, panting, covering her eyes, screaming,
What the fuck
?

Another pop of light like being punched in the face, starbursts in one’s vision. Sirens spilled out of all the speakers, a grating noise compared to the sweet voice they replaced. It was the recorded sound of air raid klaxons.

Donald felt half blinded. Even when the mushroom clouds rose up from the earth—impossibly large to be so distant—it still took a heartbeat to figure out what was going on.

They pulled him down the hill. Applause had turned to screams audible over the rise and fall of the blaring siren. Donald could hardly see. He stumbled backward and nearly fell as the three of them slipped and slid down the bowl, the wet grass funneling them toward the stage. The puffy tops of the swelling mushrooms rose up higher and higher, staying in sight even as the rest of the hills and the trees disappeared from view.

“Wait!” he yelled.

There was something he was forgetting. He couldn’t remember what. He had an image of his ATV sitting up on the ridge. He was leaving it behind. How did he get up there? What was happening?

“Go. Go. Go,” Anna was saying.

His sister was cussing. She was frightened and confused, just like him. He had never known his sister to be either one.

“The main tent!”

Donald spun around, his heels slipping in the grass, hands wet with rain and studded with mud and grass. When had he fallen?

The three of them tumbled down the last of the slope as the sound of distant thunder finally reached them. The clouds overhead seemed to race away from the blasts, pushed aside by an unnatural wind. The undersides of the clouds strobed and flashed as if more strikes of lightning were hitting, more bombs detonating. The air growled with the force of the earlier blows. Down by the stage, people weren’t running to escape the bowl—they were instead flowing into tents, guided by volunteers with waving arms, the markets and food stalls clearing out, the rows of wooden chairs now a heaped and upturned tangle, a dog still tied to a post, barking.

Some people still seemed to be aware, to have their faculties intact. Anna was one of them. Donald saw the Senator by a smaller tent coordinating the flow of traffic. Where was everyone going? Donald felt disembodied as he was ushered along with the others. It took long moments for his brain to process what he’d seen. Nuclear blasts. The live view of what had forever been resigned to grainy wartime video. Real bombs going off in the real air. Nearby. He had seen them. Why wasn’t he completely blind? Was that even what happened?

The raw fear of death overtook him. Donald knew, in some recess of his mind, that they were all dead. The end of all things was coming. There was no outrunning it. No hiding. Paragraphs from a book he’d read came to mind, thousands of paragraphs memorized. He patted his pants for his pills, but they weren’t there. Looking over his shoulder, he fought to remember what he’d left behind—

Anna and his sister pulled him past the Senator, who wore a hard scowl of determination, who frowned at his daughter. The tent flap brushed Donald’s face, the darkness within interspersed with a few hanging lights. The spots in his vision from the blasts made themselves known in the blackness. There was a crush of people, but not as many as there should have been. Where were the crowds? It didn’t make sense until he found himself shuffling downward.

A concrete ramp, bodies on all sides, shoulders jostling, people wheezing, yelling for one another, hands outstretched as the flowing crush drove loved ones away, husband and wife separated, some people crying, some perfectly poised—

Husband and wife.

Helen!

Donald heard her name over the crowd. But it was his voice. He was yelling it. He turned and tried to swim against the flowing torrent of the frightened. Anna and his sister pulled on him. People fighting to get below pushed from above. Donald was forced to move his feet the opposite direction of his will. He was drowning. The tide was pulling him beneath the waves, a white mist rising up around him like sea foam. He wanted to go under with his wife. He wanted to drown with her.

“Helen!”

Oh, God, he remembered.

He remembered what he had left behind.

Panic subsided and fear took its place. He could see. His vision had cleared. But he could not swim up the ramp, could not fight the push of the inevitable. His world was gone.

Donald remembered a conversation with the Senator about how it would all end. There was an electricity in the air, the taste of dead metal on his tongue. He remembered most of a book. He knew what this was, what was happening.

His world was gone.

A new one swallowed him.

In 2007, the Center for Automation in Nanobiotech (CAN) outlined the hardware and software platforms that would one day allow robots smaller than human cells to make medical diagnoses, conduct repairs, and even self-propagate.