It was an improvement.
Her hand finally bumped into the door, and Juliette pushed it open. She cursed the loss of the knife; it was certainly missing from the grating. She wondered how far it might have fallen, if she’d ever find it again, or maybe a replacement. She turned to grab her flask—
And saw that it was missing as well.
Juliette felt her vision narrow, her heart quicken. She wondered if the closing of the door could have toppled her flask. She wondered how the knife had slipped through a gap in the grating narrower than its handle. And as the pounding in her temples receded, she heard something else.
Footsteps.
Ringing out on the stairwell below her.
Running.
45
The countertop in Supply rattled with the implements of war. Guns, freshly milled and wholly forbidden, were lined up like so many sticks of steel. Knox picked one up—could felt the heat in a barrel recently bored and rifled—and hinged the stock to expose the firing chamber. He reached into one of the buckets of shiny bullets, the casings chopped from thin tubes of pipe and packed with blasting powder, and slotted one into the brand-new gun. The operation of the machine seemed simple enough: point and pull the lever.
“Careful where you aim that,” one of the men of Supply said, leaning out of the way.
Knox raised the barrel toward the ceiling and tried to picture what one of these could do. He’d only ever seen a gun once, a smaller one on the hip of that old deputy, a gun he’d always figured was more for show. He stuffed a fistful of deadly rounds in his pocket, thinking how each one could end an individual life and understanding why such things were forbidden. Killing a man should be harder than waving a length of pipe in their direction. It should take long enough for one’s conscience to get in the way.
One of the Supply workers emerged from the stacks with a tub in his hands. The bend of his back and sag of his shoulders told Knox the thing was heavy. “Just two dozen of these so far,” the man said, hoisting the bin to the counter.
Knox reached inside and pulled out one of the heavy cylinders. His mechanics and even some of the men and women in yellow eyed the bin nervously.
“Slam that end on something hard,” the man behind the counter said, just as calmly as if he were doling out an electrical relay to a customer and giving some last-minute installation advice, “like a wall, the floor, the butt of your gun—anything like that. And then get rid of it.”
“Are they safe to carry?” Shirly asked as Knox stuffed one into his hip pocket.
“Oh yeah, it takes some force.”
Several people reached in the tub and clattered around for one. Knox caught McLain’s eyes as she took one for herself and slotted it into a pocket on her chest. The look on her face was one of cool defiance. She must have seen how disappointed he was in her coming, and he could tell at a glance that there would be no reasoning with her.
“All right,” she said, turning her gray-blue eyes toward the men and women gathered around the counter. “Listen up. We’ve got to get back open for business, so if you’re carrying a gun, grab some ammo. There are strips of canvas over there. Wrap these things up as best you can to keep them out of sight. My group is leaving in five minutes, got that? Those of you in the second wave can wait in the back, out of sight.”
Knox nodded. He glanced over at Marck and Shirly, both of whom would join him in the second wave; the slower climbers would go first and act casual. The stouter legs would follow and make a strong push, hopefully converging on thirty-four at the same time. Each group would be conspicuous enough—combined, they might as well sing their intentions while they marched.
“You okay, boss?” Shirly rested her rifle on her shoulder and frowned at him. He rubbed his beard and wondered how much of his stress and fear was shining through.
“Fine,” he grumbled. “Yeah.”
Marck grabbed a bomb, stashed it away, and rested a hand on his wife’s shoulder. Knox felt a pang of doubt. He wished the women didn’t have to get involved—at least the wives. He continued to hope that the violence they were preparing for wouldn’t be necessary, but it was getting harder and harder to pretend as eager hands took up arms. They were, all of them, now capable of taking lives, and he reckoned they were angry enough to do so.
McLain stepped through the opening in the counter and sized him up. “This is it, then.” She reached out a hand.
Knox accepted it. He admired the strength in the woman. “We’ll see you on thirty-five and go up the last level together,” he said. “Don’t have all the fun without us.”
She smiled. “We won’t.”
“And good climbing.” He looked to the men and women gathering up behind her. “All of you. Good luck and see you soon.”
There were stern nods and clenched jaws. The small army in yellow began to file for the door, but Knox held McLain back.
“Hey,” he said. “No trouble until we catch up, okay?”
She slapped his shoulder and smiled.
“And when this does go down,” Knox said, “I expect you at the very back, behind the—”
McLain stepped closer, a hand gripping Knox’s sleeve. Her wrinkled face had suddenly hardened.
“And tell me, where will you be, Knox of Mechanical, when the bombs fly? When these men and women who look up to us are facing their gravest test, where will you be?”
Knox was taken aback by the sudden attack, this quiet hiss that landed with all the force of a shout.
“You know where I’ll—” he started to answer.
“Damn straight,” McLain said, releasing his arm. “And you’d better well know that I’ll see you there.”
46
Juliette stood perfectly still and listened to the sound of footsteps retreating down the stairwell. She could feel the vibrations in the railing. Goose bumps rushed up her legs and down her arms. She wanted to call out, to yell for the person to stop, but the sudden surge of adrenaline made her chest feel cold and empty. It was like a chill wind had forced itself deep into her lungs, crowding out her voice. People were alive and in the silo with her. And they were running away.
She pushed away from the railing and dashed across the landing, hit the curved steps at a dead run and took them as fast as her legs could take her. A flight down, as the adrenaline subsided, she found the lungs to yell “Stop!” but the sound of her bare feet on the metal stairs seemed to drown out her voice. She could no longer hear the person running, dared not stop and listen for fear they would get too far ahead, but as she passed the doorway on thirty-two, she worried that they might slip inside some level and get away. And if there were only a handful of them hiding in the vast silo, she might never find them. Not if they didn’t want to be found.
Somehow, this was more terrifying than anything else: that she might live the rest of her days foraging and surviving in a dilapidated silo, talking to inanimate objects, while a group of people did the same and stayed out of sight. It so stressed her that it took a while to consider the opposite: that this might instead be a group who would seek her out, and not have the best intentions.