part 1 holston

5

three years earlier

“i want to go out. i want to go out. iwanttogoout.”

holston arrived at the cafeteria in a sprint. his radio was still squawking, deputy marnes yelling

something about allison. holston hadn’t even taken the time to respond, had just bolted up three

flights of stairs toward the scene.

“what’s going on?” he asked. he swam through the crowd by the door and found his wife

writhing on the cafeteria floor, held down by connor and two other food staff employees. “let her

go!” he slapped their hands off his wife’s shins and was nearly rewarded by one of her boots to his

chin. “settle down,” he said. he reached for her wrists, which were twisting this way and that to get

out of the desperate grips of grown men. “baby, what the hell is going on?”

“she was running for the airlock,” connor said through grunts of exertion. percy corralled her

kicking feet, and holston didn’t stop him. he saw now why three men were needed. he leaned close

to allison, making sure she saw him. her eyes were wild, peeking through a curtain of disheveled

hair.

“allison, baby, you’ve gotta settle down.”

“i want to go out. i want to go out.” her voice had quieted, but the words kept tumbling out.

“don’t say that,” holston told her. chills ran through his body at the sound of the grave

utterances. he held her cheeks. “baby, don’t say that!”

but some part of him knew, in a jolting flash, what it meant. he knew it was too late. the others

had heard. everyone had heard. his wife had signed her own death certificate.

the room spun around holston as he begged allison to be quiet. it was like he had arrived at the

scene of some horrible accident—some mishap in the machine shop—to find a person he loved

wounded. arrived to find them alive and kicking, but knowing at a glance that the injury was fatal.

holston felt warm tears streak down his cheeks as he tried to wipe the hair from her face. her eyes

finally met his, stopped their fevered swirling and locked on to his with awareness. and for a

moment, just a second, before he could wonder if she’d been drugged or abused in any way, a spark

of calm clarity registered there, a flash of sanity, of cool calculation. and then it was blinked away

and her eyes went wild again as she begged to be let out, over and over.

“lift her up,” holston said. his husband eyes swam behind tears while he allowed his dutiful

sheriff-self to intervene. there was nothing for it but to lock her up, even as he wanted no more than

room enough to scream. “that way,” he told connor, who had both hands under her twisting

shoulders. he nodded toward his office and the holding cell beyond. just past that, down at the end of

the hall, the bright yellow paint on the great airlock door stood out, serene and menacing, silent and

waiting.

once in the holding cell, allison immediately calmed. she sat on the bench, no longer struggling

or blabbering, as if she’d only stopped by to rest and enjoy the view. holston was now the writhing

wreck. he paced outside the bars and blubbered unanswered questions while deputy marnes and the

mayor handled his procedural work. the two of them were treating holston and his wife both like

patients. and even as holston’s mind spun with the horror of the past half hour, in the back of his

sheriff brain, where he was always alert for the rising tensions in the silo, he was dimly aware of the

shock and rumors trembling through walls of concrete and rebar. the enormous pent-up pressure of

the place was now hissing through the seams in whispers.

“sweetheart, you’ve gotta talk to me,” he pleaded again and again. he stopped his pacing and

twisted the bars in his hands. allison kept her back to him. she gazed at the wallscreen, at the brown

hills and gray sky and dark clouds. now and then a hand came up to brush hair out of her face, but

otherwise she didn’t move or speak. only when holston’s key had gone into the lock, not long after

they had wrestled her in and shut the door, did she utter a single don’t that had convinced him to

remove it.

while he pleaded and she ignored, the machinations of the looming cleaning gyred through the

silo. techs rumbled down the hallway as a suit was sized and readied. cleaning tools were prepped in

the airlock. a canister hissed somewhere as argon was loaded into the flushing chambers. the

commotion of it sporadically rumbled past the holding cell where holston stood gazing at his wife.

chattering techs went dreadfully silent as they squeezed past; they didn’t even seem to breathe in his

presence.

hours passed and allison refused to talk—behavior that created its own stir in the silo. holston

spent the entire day blubbering through the bars, his brain on fire with confusion and agony. it had

happened in a single moment, the destruction of all that he knew. he tried to wrap his brain around it

while allison sat in the cell, gazing out at the dismal land, seemingly pleased with her far worse

status as a cleaner.

it was after dark when she finally spoke, after her last meal had been silently refused for the final

time, after the techs had finished in the airlock, closing the yellow door and retiring for a sleepless

night. it was after his deputy had gone for the night, patting holston on the shoulder twice. what felt

like many hours after that, when holston was near to passing out in fatigue from his crying and

hoarse remonstrations, long after the hazy sun had settled over the hills visible from the cafeteria and

lounge—the hills that hid the rest of that distant, crumbling city—in the near-dark left in the holding

cell, allison whispered something almost inaudible: “it’s not real.”

that’s what holston thought he heard. he stirred.

“baby?” he gripped the bars and pulled himself up to his knees. “honey,” he whispered, wiping

the crust from his cheeks.

she turned. it was like the sun changing its mind and rising back over the hills. that she’d

acknowledged him gave him hope. it choked him up, causing him to think this had all been a

sickness, a fever, something they could have doc write up to excuse her for everything she’d uttered.

she’d never meant it. she was saved just by snapping out of it, and holston was saved just by seeing

her turn to him.

“nothing you see is real,” she said quietly. she seemed calm of body even as her craziness

continued, condemning her with forbidden words.

“come talk to me,” holston said. he waved her to the bars.

allison shook her head. she patted the cot’s thin mattress beside her.

holston checked the time. it was long past visiting hours. he could be sent to cleaning just for

doing what he was about to do.

the key went into the lock without hesitation.

a metallic click rang out impossibly loud.

holston stepped inside with his wife and sat beside her. it killed him to not touch her, to not wrap

her up or drag her out to some safe place, back to their bed, where they could pretend it had all been a

bad dream.

but he didn’t dare move. he sat and twisted his hands together while she whispered:

“it doesn’t have to be real. any of this. none of this.” she looked to the screen.

holston leaned so close he could smell the dried sweat from the day’s struggle. “baby, what’s

going on?”

her hair stirred with the breath from his words. she reached out and rubbed the darkening display,

feeling the pixels.

“it could be morning right now and we’d never know. there could be people outside.” she turned

and looked at him. “they could be watching us,” she said with a sinister grin.

holston held her gaze. she didn’t seem crazy at all, not like earlier. her words were crazy, but she

didn’t seem to be. “where did you get that idea?” he asked. he thought he knew, but he asked

anyway. “did you find something on the hard drives?” he’d heard that she had run straight from her

lab toward the airlock, already barking her madness. something had happened while she was at work.

“what did you find?”

“there’s more deleted than just from the uprising,” she whispered. “of course there would be.

everything is deleted. all the recent stuff, too.” she laughed. her voice got suddenly loud and her

eyes lost focus. “e-mails you never sent me, i bet!”

“honey.” holston dared to reach for her hands, and she didn’t pull away. he held them. “what

did you find? was it an e-mail? who was it from?”

she shook her head. “no. i found the programs they use. the ones that make pictures on the

screens that look so real.” she looked back to the quickening dusk. “it,” she said. “eye. tee.

they’re the ones. they know. it’s a secret that only they know.” she shook her head.

“what secret?” holston couldn’t tell if this was nonsense or important. he only knew that she was

talking.

“but now i know. and you will too. i’ll come back for you, i swear. this’ll be different. we’ll

break the cycle, you and me. i’ll come back and we’ll go over that hill together.” she laughed. “if it’s

there,” she said loudly. “if that hill is there and it’s green, we’ll go over it together.”

she turned to him.

“there is no uprising, not really, there’s just a gradual leak. just the people who know, who want

out.” she smiled. “they get to go out,” she said. “they get just what they ask for. i know why they

clean, why they say they won’t but why they do. i know. i know. and they never come back, they

wait and wait and wait, but i won’t. i’ll come right back. this’ll be different.”

holston squeezed her hands. tears were dripping off his cheeks. “baby, why are you doing this?”

he felt like she wanted to explain herself now that the silo was dark and they were all alone.

“i know about the uprisings,” she said.

holston nodded. “i know. you told me. there were others—”

“no.” allison pulled away from him, but it was only to make space so she could look him in the

eyes. hers were no longer wild, as before.

“holston, i know why the uprisings took place. i know why.”

allison bit her lower lip. holston waited, his body tense.

“it was always over the doubt, the suspicion, that things weren’t as bad out there as they seemed.

you’ve felt that, right? that we could be anywhere, living a lie?”

holston knew better than to answer, to even twitch. broaching this subject led to cleaning. he sat

frozen and waited.

“it was probably the younger generations,” allison said. “every twenty years or so. they wanted

to push further, to explore, i think. don’t you ever feel that urge? didn’t you when you were

younger?” her eyes lost focus. “or maybe it was the couples, newly married, who were driven to

madness when they were told they couldn’t have kids in this damned limited world of ours. maybe

they were willing to risk everything for that chance …”

her eyes focused on something far away. perhaps she was seeing that lottery ticket they had yet to

redeem and now never would. she looked back at holston. he wondered if he could be sent to

cleaning even for his silence, for not yelling her down as she uttered every one of the great forbidden

words.

“it could even have been the elderly residents,” she said, “cooped up too long, no longer afraid in

their final years, maybe wanting to move out and make room for the others, for the few precious

grandchildren. whoever it was, whoever, every uprising took place because of this doubt, this

feeling, that we’re in the bad place right here.” she looked around the cell.

“you can’t say that,” holston whispered. “that’s the great offense—”

allison nodded. “expressing any desire to leave. yes. the great offense. don’t you see why? why

is that so forbidden? because all the uprisings started with that desire, that’s why.”

“you get what you ask for,” holston recited, those words drilled into his head since youth. his

parents had warned him—their only precious child—never to want out of the silo. never even to

think it. don’t let it cross your mind. it was instant death, that thought, and it would be the

destruction of their one and only.

he looked back at his wife. he still didn’t understand her madness, this decision. so she had

found deleted programs that could make worlds on computer screens look real. what did that mean?

why do this?

“why?” he asked her. “why do it this way? why didn’t you come to me? there has to be a better

way to find out what’s going on. we could start by telling people what you’re finding on those drives

—”

“and be the ones who start the next great uprising?” allison laughed. some of the madness was

still there, or maybe it was just an intense frustration and boiling anger. perhaps a great,

multigenerational betrayal had pushed her to the edge. “no thanks,” she said, her laughter subsiding.

“damn them if they stay here. i’m only coming back for you.”

“you don’t come back from this,” holston said angrily. “you think the banished are still out

there? you think they choose not to come back because they feel betrayed by us?”

“why do you think they do the cleaning?” allison asked. “why do they pick up their wool and set

to work without hesitation?”

holston sighed. he felt the anger in him draining away. “no one knows why,” he said.

“but why do you think?”

“we’ve talked about this,” he said. “how many times have we discussed this?” he was sure all

couples whispered their theories when they were alone. he looked past allison as he remembered

those times. he looked to the wall and saw the moon’s position and read in it the night’s hour. their

time was limited. his wife would be gone tomorrow. that simple thought came often, like lightning

from stormy clouds.

“everyone has theories,” he said. “we’ve shared ours countless times. let’s just—”

“but now you know something new,” allison told him. she let go of his hand and brushed the

hair from her face. “you and i know something new, and now it all makes sense. it makes perfect

sense. and tomorrow i’ll know for sure.” allison smiled. she patted holston’s hand as if he were a

child. “and one day, my love, you will know it, too.”