Brevard glanced at his night-shift officer and realized he’d misjudged the young man. That was the blasted thing about working these shifts with different people every time. You couldn’t really get to know anyone, couldn’t gauge their worth.
“So the first thing I did was look in the medical records for any strange activity in the Deep Freeze. I wanted to see if anyone had ever been disturbed from there.”
Brevard felt uneasy. The doctor was doing all of his work for him. “Did you find anything?” he asked.
Dr. Whitmore nodded. He waved toward the terminal on the waiting room desk. “There has been activity in the Deep Freeze initiated by this office. Not on my shift, mind you. But twice now, people have been woken up from coordinates that place them there. One of them was in the middle of the old Deep Freeze, that storehouse from before orientation.”
The doctor paused to allow this to sink in.
It took Brevard a moment. His sleep-deprived night guard proved a hair quicker.
“A woman?” Darcy asked.
Dr. Whitmore frowned. “It’s hard to say, but that’s my suspicion. I don’t have access to this person’s records for some reason. I sent Michael down to check, to get a visual on who’s in there.”
“We could be dealing with a murder of passion,” Stevens said.
Brevard grunted in agreement. He was already thinking the same thing. “Say there’s a man who can’t handle the loneliness. He’s been waking up his wife in secret, would probably have to be an administrator to have access. Someone finds out, a non-executive, and so he has to kill the man. But… he gets killed instead—” Brevard shook his head. It was getting too complicated. He was too decaffeinated for this.
“Here’s the kicker,” Dr. Whitmore said.
Brevard groaned in anticipation. He regretted having dumped out his cold coffee. He waved for the news.
“There’s been one other case of someone pulled from Deep Freeze, and this guy, I do have access to his records.” Dr. Whitmore scanned the three security officers. “Anyone wanna guess the guy’s name?”
“His name is Troy,” Darcy said.
The doctor snapped his fingers, his eyes wide with surprise. “Bingo.”
Brevard turned to his night guard. “And how the hell did you come up with that?”
Darcy shrugged. “Everyone loves a match.”
“So let me get this straight,” Brevard said. “We’ve got a rogue killer from the Deep Freeze knocking off an administrator, taking his place and likely his codes, and waking up women.” The chief turned to Stevens. “Okay, I think you’re right. It’s time to get Shepherd involved. This just hit his pay grade.”
Stevens nodded and turned toward the door. But there was a slap of hurrying boots out in the hall before he could leave. Michael, one of the medical assistants who had helped remove the body from the pod, flew around the corner in a lather and out of air. Resting his hands on his knees, he took several deep breaths, his eyes on his boss.
“I said be quick,” Dr. Whitmore said. “I didn’t mean for you to race.”
“Yessir—” Michael took a series of deep breaths. “Sirs, we’ve got a problem.” The medical assistant looked to the men from Security and grimaced.
“What is it?” Brevard asked.
“It was a woman,” Michael said, nodding. “Sure enough. But the readout on her pod was flashing, so I ran a quick check.” He scanned their faces, his eyes wild, and Brevard knew. He knew, but someone else beat him to it.
“She’s dead,” Darcy said.
The assistant nodded vigorously, his hands on his knees. “Anna,” he muttered. “The name on the pod was Anna.”
The man in the OR with no name tested his restraints, his old and sinewy arms bulging. Dr. Whitmore begged the gentleman to hold still. Captain Brevard stood on the other side of the gurney. He could smell the odor of a man newly awakened, a man left for dead. Wild eyes sought him out among those gathered. The man who had been shot seemed to recognize Brevard as the one in charge.
“Unloose me,” the old man said.
“Not until we know what happened,” Brevard told him. “Not until you’re better.”
The leather cuffs around the old man’s wrists squeaked as he tested them. “I’ll be better when I’m off this damn table.”
“You’ve been shot,” Dr. Whitmore said. He rested a hand on his patient’s shoulder to calm him.
The old man lowered his head to his pillow, his eyes travelling from doctor to security officer and back again. “I know,” he said.
“Do you remember who did it?” Brevard asked.
The man nodded. “His name’s Donald.” His jaw clenched and unclenched.
“Not Troy?” Brevard asked.
“That’s what I meant. Same guy.” Brevard watched the old man’s hands squeeze into twin fists and then relax. “Look, I’m one of the Heads of this silo. I demand to be released. Check my records—”
“We’ll get this sorted out—” Brevard started to say.
The restraints creaked. “Check the damn records,” the old man said again.
“They’ve been tampered with,” Brevard told him. “Can you tell us your name?”
The man lay still for a moment, muscles relaxing. He stared up at the ceiling. “Which one?” he asked. “My name is Paul. Most people call me by my last name, Thurman. I used to go by Senator—”
“Shepherd,” Captain Brevard said. “Paul Thurman is the name of the man they call Shepherd.”
The old man narrowed his eyes. “No, I don’t think so,” he said. “I’ve been called a number of things in my time, but never that.”
Silo 17
18
The earth growled. Beyond the walls of the silo, the earth grumbled and the noise steadily grew.
It had begun as a distant thrum a few days ago, had sounded like a hydroponics pump kicking on at the end of a long run of pipe, a vibration that could be felt between the pads of one’s feet and the slick metal floor. And then yesterday it had morphed into a steady quake that travelled up Jimmy’s knees and bones and into his clenched teeth. Above him, drops of water shivered from pipes, a light drizzle splashing into puddles that had not yet fully dried from the vanishing floods.
Elise squealed and patted the top of her head as she was struck with a drop. She glanced up with a gapped smile and watched for more of the bombardment.
“That’s an awful racket,” Rickson said. He played his flashlight across the far wall of the old generator room where the noise seemed to originate.
Hannah clapped her hands together and told the twins to get away from the wall. Miles — at least Jimmy thought it was Miles; he could hardly tell the twins apart — had his ear pressed to the concrete, his eyes closed, his mouth agape in concentration. His brother Marcus tugged him back toward the others, face lit up with excitement.
“Get behind me,” Jimmy said. His feet tingled from the vibrations. He could feel the noise in his chest as some unseen machine chewed through solid rock.
“How much longer?” Elise asked.
Jimmy tousled her hair and enjoyed the embrace of her worried arms around his waist. “Soon,” he told her. The truth was, he didn’t know. They’d spent the past two weeks keeping the pump running and Mechanical dry. That morning, they had woken up to find the noise of the digging intolerable. The racket had gotten worse throughout the day, and still the blank wall stood solid before them, still the light rain from wet and shivering pipes continued. The twins splashed in puddles, growing impatient. The baby, inexplicably, slept peacefully in Hannah’s arms. They’d been there for hours, listening to the grumbles grow, waiting for something to happen.