First Shift - Legacy (Part 6 of the Silo Series) (Wool) (26 page)

That same year, CBS re-aired a program about the effects of propranolol on sufferers of extreme trauma. A simple pill, it had been discovered, could wipe out the memory of any traumatic event.

At almost the same moment in humanity’s broad history, mankind had discovered the means for bringing about its utter downfall. And the ability to forget it ever happened.

Troy startled awake from a series of terrible dreams. The world was on fire, and the people who had been sent to put it out were all asleep. Asleep and frozen stiff, smoking matches still in their hands, wisps and gray curls of evil deeds.

He had been buried, was enveloped in darkness, could feel the tight walls of his small coffin like a closed fist.

The confinement brought a scream to his lips, but his fearful cries leaked out in a trembling whimper.

Dark shapes moved beyond the frosted glass, the men with their shovels trying to free him.

Troy’s eyelids seemed to rip and crack as he fought to open them fully. There was crust in the corners of them, melting frost coursing down his cheek. He tried to lift his arms to wipe it away, but they responded feebly. An IV tugged at his wrist as he managed to raise one hand. He was aware of his catheter. Every inch of his body tingled as he emerged from the numbness and into the cold.

The lid popped with a hiss of air. There was a crack of light to his side that grew as the suffocating shadows folded away.

A doctor and his assistant reached in to tend to him. Troy remembered this. This was real. So were the nightmares. He tried to speak but could only cough. They helped him up, brought him the bitter drink. Swallowing took effort. His hands were so weak, arms trembling, they had to help him with the cup. The taste on his tongue was metallic. It tasted like the death of a machine.

“Easy,” they said when he tried to drink too fast. Tubes and IVs were carefully removed by expert hands, pressure applied, gauze taped to frigid skin. There was a paper gown. He remembered this.

“What year?” he asked, his voice a dry rasp.

“It’s early,” the doctor said, a different doctor. Troy blinked against the harsh lights, didn’t recognize either man tending to him. The sea of coffins around him remained a hazy blur.

“Take your time,” the assistant said, tilting the cup.

Troy managed a few sips. He felt worse than last time. It had been longer. The cold was deep within his bones. He remembered that his name wasn’t Troy. He was supposed to be dead. Part of him regretted being disturbed. Another part hoped he had slept through the worst of it.

“Sir, we’re sorry to wake you, but we need your help.”

“Your report—”

Both men were talking at once.

“Another silo is having problems, sir. Silo 18—”

Pills were produced. Troy waved them away. He no longer wished to take them.

The doctor hesitated, the two capsules of clear blue sky resting in his palm. He turned to consult with someone else, a third man. Troy tried to blink the world into focus. Something was said. Fingers curled around the pills, filling him with relief.

They helped him up, had a wheelchair waiting. A man stood behind it, his hair as stark white as his coveralls, his square jaw and iron frame familiar. Troy recognized him. This was the man who woke the freezing.

Another sip of water as he leaned against the pod, knees trembling from the weak and cold.

“What
about
Silo 18?” Troy whispered the question as the cup was lowered.

The doctor frowned and said nothing. The man behind the wheelchair studied him intently.

“I know you,” Troy said.

The man in white nodded. The wheelchair was waiting for Troy. His sleep had been longer, his legs more like a newborn’s than a foal’s. Troy felt his stomach twist as dormant parts of him stirred.

“You’re the Thaw Man,” he said, even though this didn’t sound quite right.

The paper gown was warm. It rustled like the leaves of winter as his arms were guided through the sleeves. The men working on him were nervous. They chattered back and forth, one of them saying a silo was falling, the other that they needed his help. Troy cared only about the man in white. They helped him toward the wheelchair.

“Is it over?” he asked. He watched the colorless man, his vision clearing, his voice growing stronger. He dearly hoped that he had slept through it all.

The Thaw Man shook his head sadly. Troy was lowered into the chair.

“I’m afraid, son,” a familiar voice said, “that it’s only begun.”