53
• Silo 1 •
DONALD STUMBLED AND fell. The shock of being touched sent his heart into his throat. He waved his arms to free himself but someone had a grip on his suit. More than one person. They dragged him back until he could no longer see beyond the ridge.
Screams of frustration filled his helmet. Couldn’t they see that it was too late? Couldn’t they leave him be? He flailed and tried to lunge out of their grip, but he was being pulled inexorably down the hill, back towards silo one.
When he fell the next time, he was able to roll over and face them, to get his arms up to defend himself. And there was Thurman standing over him – wearing nothing more than his white overalls, dust from the dead earth gathering in the old man’s grey brow.
‘It’s time to go!’ Thurman yelled into the heavy wind. His voice seemed as distant as the clouds.
Donald kicked his feet and tried to crawl back up the hill but there were three of them there, blocking his way. All in white, squinting against the ferocity of the driving wind and pelting soil.
Donald screamed as they seized him again. He tried to grab rocks and fistfuls of soil as they pulled him along by his boots. His helmet knocked against the lifeless pack of dirt. He watched the clouds boil overhead as his fingernails were bent back and broken in his struggle for some purchase.
By the time they got him to the flats, Donald was spent. They carried him down a ramp and through the airlock where more men were waiting. His helmet was tossed aside before the outer door fully shut. Thurman stood in a far corner and watched as they undressed him. The old man dabbed at the blood running from his nose. Donald had caught him with his boot.
Erskine was there, Dr Sneed as well, both of them breathing hard. As soon as they got his suit off, Sneed plunged a needle into Donald’s flesh. Erskine held his hand and seemed sad as the liquid spread through Donald’s veins.
‘A bloody waste,’ someone said as the fog settled over him.
‘Look at this mess.’
Erskine placed a hand on Donald’s cheek as Donald drifted deeper into the black. His lids grew heavy and his hearing distant.
‘Be better if someone like you were in charge,’ he heard Erskine say.
But it was Victor’s voice he heard. It was a dream. No, a memory. A thought from an earlier conversation. Donald couldn’t be sure. The waking world of boots and angry voices was too busy being swallowed by the mist of sleep and the fog of dreams. And this time – rather than with a fear of death – Donald went into that darkness gladly. He embraced it, hoping it would be eternal. He went with a final thought of his sister, of those drones beneath their tarps, all those things he hoped would never be woken.