76
2313 – Year Two
• Silo 17 •
WEEKS PASSED, SCRATCHES accumulated, and the tip of the key around Jimmy’s neck wore down. He woke to another morning with crust in his eyes as though he’d been crying in his sleep and took his breakfast – one can of peaches and one of pineapple – up to the great steel door to eat. Unshouldering his gun, Jimmy sat down with his back against server number eight, enjoying the warmth of the busy machine against his spine.
The gun had taken some figuring out. His father had disappeared with the loaded one, and when Jimmy discovered the crates of arms and ammo, the method of inserting the bright casings into the machine had posed a puzzle. He made the task a Project, like his father had used to make their chores and tinkering. Ever since he was little, Jimmy had watched his dad disassemble computers and other electronics, laying out all the pieces – each screw, every bolt, the nuts spun back onto the bolts – in a neat pattern so he knew where they went again. Jimmy had done the same with one of the rifles. And then with a second rifle after he’d accidentally knocked the pieces from the first with his boot.
With the second, he saw where the ammo ended up and how it got there. The spring in the ammo holder was stiff, which made it difficult to load. Later, he learned that this was called a ‘clip’, after reading the entry for ‘gun’ under G in the tins full of books. That had come weeks after he’d figured out how the thing worked on his own, with a hole in the ceiling to show for it.
He kept the gun in his lap, across his thighs, and balanced the cans of fruit on the wide part of the stock. The pineapple was his favourite. He had some every day and watched with sadness as the supply on the shelves dwindled. He’d never heard of such a fruit, had to look the thing up in another of the books. The pineapples had led him on a dizzying tour through the book tins. Be for ‘beach’ had led to Oc for ‘ocean’. This one confused him with its sense of scale. And then the ‘fish’ under F. He had forgotten to eat that day as he explored, and the room with the radio and his little mattress had become cluttered with open books and empty tins. It had taken him a week to get things back in order. Countless times since then, he had lost himself in such excursions.
Pulling his rusty can opener and favourite fork from his breast pocket, Jimmy worked the peaches open. There was the whispering pop of air as he made the first cut. Jimmy had learned not to eat the contents if it didn’t make that pop. Luckily, the toilets had still been in operation back when he’d learned that lesson. Jimmy missed the toilets something fierce.
He worked his way through the peaches, savouring each bite before drinking down the juice. He wasn’t sure if you were supposed to drink that part – the label didn’t say – but it was his favourite. He grabbed the pineapples and his opener, was listening for the pop of air when he heard the keypad on the great steel door beep.
‘Little early,’ he whispered to his visitors. He set the can aside, licked his fork and put it back in his breast pocket. Cradling the gun against his armpit, he sat and watched for the door to move. One crack and he would open fire.
Instead, he heard four beeps from the keypad as a set of numbers was entered, followed by a buzz to signal that it was the wrong code. Jimmy tightened his grip on the gun while they tried again. The screen on the keypad only had room for four digits. That meant ten thousand combinations if you included all zeros. The door allowed three incorrect attempts before it wouldn’t take any more until the following day. Jimmy had learned these things a long time ago. He felt as if his mom had taught him this rule, but that was impossible. Unless she’d done it in a dream.
He listened to the keypad beep with another guess and then buzz once again. One more number down, which meant time was running out. Twelve-eighteen was the code. Jimmy cursed himself for even thinking the number; his finger went to the trigger, waiting. But thoughts couldn’t be heard. You had to speak to be heard. He tended to forget this, because he heard himself thinking all the time.
The third and final attempt for the day began, and Jimmy couldn’t wait to eat his pineapples. He and these people had this routine, these three tries every morning. Though scary, it was his only daily dose of human contact and he had come to rely on its regularity. On the server behind him, he had done the maths. He assumed they had started at 0000 and were working their way up. Three a day meant they would stumble on the right code on day 406 on the second try. That was less than a month away.
But Jimmy’s counting didn’t figure for everything. There was the lingering fear that they might skip some numbers, that they had started somewhere else, or that they might get lucky if they were inputting the codes at random. For all Jimmy knew, more than one code could open the door. And since he didn’t pay attention to how his father had changed the code, he couldn’t move it higher. And what if that only got them closer? Maybe they started at 9999. He could move it lower, of course, hoping to pass one they’d already tried, but what if they hadn’t tried it yet? To take action and let them in by accident would be worse than doing nothing and then dying. And Jimmy didn’t want to die. He didn’t want to die, and he didn’t want to kill anyone.
This is how his brain whirled as the next four digits were entered. When the keypad buzzed for the third and final time that day, he relaxed his grip on the gun. Jimmy wiped his sweaty palms off on his thighs and picked up his pineapples.
‘Hello, pineapples,’ he whispered. He bent his head towards his lap and punctured the can, listening closely.
The pineapples whispered back. They told him they were safe to eat.