Wool Omnibus Edition (Wool 1-5)

way.”

“Then we’ll tell them we’re going up to fix the problem!” Knox felt himself getting frustrated. The damn dog was sitting on his boot again.

“Up to fix a problem?” McLain laughed. “When’s the last time that made any sense?”

Knox pulled on his beard. He wasn’t sure what was so complicated. There were a lot of them. They worked with tools all day. They were going to go beat in tech heads, little men like Bernard who sat on their butts and clacked on keyboards like secretaries. They just needed to go up there and do it.

“You got any better ideas?” he asked.

“We need to keep in mind the after,” McLain said. “After you’ve bludgeoned some people to death and the blood is dripping through the grates, what then? Do you want people living in fear of that happening again? Or of whatever you put them through to get there?”

“I only want to hurt those that lied,” he said. “That’s all any of us want. We’ve all lived in fear. Fear of the outside. Fear of cleaning. Afraid to even talk about a better world. And none of it was true. The system was rigged, and in a way to make us hang our heads and take it—”

Jackson barked up at him and began to whine, his tail swishing the floor like a dropped air hose with a stuck nozzle that had gone out of control.

“I think when we’re done,” he said, “and we start talking about using our know-how to explore a world we’ve only ever looked out at, I think that’s gonna inspire some people. Hell, it gives me hope. Don’t you feel anything?”

He reached down and rubbed Jackson’s head, which stopped the animal from making so much noise. McLain looked at him for a while. She finally bobbed her head in agreement.

“We’ll go with the power outage,” she said with finality. “Tonight, before any who went to see the cleaning return disappointed. I’ll lead up a squad with candles and flashlights, make it look like a goodwill mission headed by Supply. You’ll follow a few hours later with the rest. We’ll see how far the repair story gets us before we run into trouble. Hopefully, a good number will be staying in the up-top, or back in their beds in the mids, too exhausted from climbing for a meal to care about the commotion.”

“There’ll be less traffic those early hours,” Knox agreed, “so maybe we won’t run into too much trouble.”

“The goal will be to hit IT and contain it. Bernard is still playing Mayor, so he probably won’t be there. But he’ll either come to us or we’ll push up after him once the thirties are secure. I don’t think he’ll put up much of a fight, not once his floors are ours.”

“Agreed,” Knox said, and it felt good to have a plan. To have an ally. “And hey, thanks for this.”

McLain smiled. “You give a good speech for a greaser,” she said. “And besides—” She nodded toward the dog. “Jackson likes you, and he’s hardly ever wrong. Not about men.”

Knox looked down and realized he was still scratching the mutt. He pulled his hand away and watched the animal pant, staring up at him. In the next room, someone laughed at a joke, the voices of his mechanics mixing with the members of Supply, all gently muffled by the wall and door. This laughter was joined by the sounds of steel rods bending into shape, flat pieces hammered sharp, machines for making rivets turned instead into making bullets. And Knox knew what McLain meant about loyalty. He saw it in that dumb dog’s eyes, that it would do anything for him if only he would ask. And this weight bearing down on his chest, of the many who felt that way for him and for McLain—Knox decided that this was the heaviest burden of them all.

13

“Death’s pale flag is not advanced there.”

The dirt farm below filled the stairwell with the rich smell of fresh rot. Juliette was still waking up as she descended another level and began noticing the scent. She had no idea how long she’d slept—it had felt like days but could’ve been hours. She had woken with her face pressed to the grating, a pattern of red lines marking her cheek, and had gotten underway immediately. Her stomach was gnawing at her, the odor from the farm hurrying her along. By twenty-eight, the pungency hung in the air so thick it felt like she was swimming through the scents. It was the smell of death, she decided. Of funerals. Of loamy soil turned over, releasing all those tangy molecules into the air.

She stopped on thirty—the hydroponic farms—and tried the doors. It was dark inside. There was a sound down the hallway, the whir of a fan or a motor. It was a strange encounter, this small noise. For over a day, she had heard nothing but the sounds she made herself. The green glow of the emergency lights were no company; they were like the heat of a dying body, of batteries draining with the leak of photons. But this was something moving, some sound beyond her own breathing and footfalls, and it lurked deep in the dark corridors of the hydroponic farms.

Once again, she left her only tool and defense behind as a doorstop to allow in a trickle of light. She stole inside, the smell of vegetation not as strong as in the stairwell, and padded down the hallway with one hand on the wall. The offices and reception area were dark and lifeless, the air dry. There was no blinking light on the turnstile, and she had no card or chit to feed it. She placed her hands on the supports and vaulted over, this small act of defiance somehow powerful, as though she had come to accept the lawlessness of this dead place, the complete lack of civilization, of rules.

The light spilling from the stairwell barely reached the first of the growing rooms. She waited while her eyes adjusted, thankful of this ability honed by the down deeps of Mechanical and the dark interiors of broken machines. What she saw, barely, when she was finally able, did not inspire her. The hydroponic gardens had rotted away. Thick stalks, like ropes, hung here and there from a network of suspended pipes. It gave her an idea of how long ago these farms had succumbed, if not the silo. It hadn’t been hundreds of years, and it hadn’t been days. Even a window that wide felt like a treasure of information, the first crumb toward an answer to this mysterious place.

She rapped one of the pipes with her knuckles and heard the solid thud of fullness.

No plants, but water! Her mouth seemed to dry out with just the prospect. Juliette leaned over the railing and into the growing room. She pressed her mouth to one of the holes in the top of a pipe where the stalk of a plant should be growing. She created a tight seal and sucked. The fluid that met her tongue was brackish and foul—but wet. And the taste was not of anything chemical or toxic, but stale organics. Dirt. It was only slightly more distasteful than the grease and oil she had practically been drenched in for two decades.

So she drank until she was full. And she realized, now that she had water, that if there were more crumbs to find, more clues, she might just live long enough to gather them.

Before she left, Juliette snapped a section of pipe off the end of a run, keeping the cap intact on one side. It was only a little over an inch in diameter and no more than two feet long, but it would work as a thermos. She gently bent the broken pipe that remained down, allowing water to flow from the remaining loop. While she topped up her pipe, she splashed some water on her hands and arms, still fearful of contamination from the outside.

Once her pipe was full, Juliette stole back toward the lit doorway at the end of the hall. There were three hydroponic farms, all with closed loops that wound through long and twisting corridors. She tried to do a rough calculation in her head, but all she could come up with was enough to drink for a very long time. The aftertaste was awful, and she wouldn’t be surprised if her stomach cramped from the contents, but if she could get a fire going, find enough fabric or leftover paper to burn, even that could be helped with a good boil.

Back in the stairwell, she returned to the rich odors she had left behind. She retrieved her knife and hurried down another thick slice of the silo, almost two times around the stairwell to the next landing, and checked the