Hugh Howey

‘IT,’ she said. ‘Eye. Tee. They’re the ones. They know. It’s a secret that only they know.’

inviting hole oddly positioned across from forbidding prison bars.
The illusion, however, convinced only from a distance. Leaning closer, Holston could see a handful of dead pixels on the massive display. They stood stark white against all the brown and grey hues. Shining with ferocious intensity, each pixel (Allison had called them ‘stuck’ pixels) was like a square window to some brighter place, a hole the width of a human hair that seemed to beckon towards some better reality. There were dozens of them, now that he looked closer. Holston wondered if anyone in the silo knew how to fix them, or if they had the tools required for such a delicate job. Were they dead for ever, like Allison? Would all of the pixels be dead eventually? Holston imagined a day when half of the pixels were stark white, and then generations later when only a few grey and brown ones remained, then a mere dozen, the world having flipped to a new state, the people of the silo thinking the outside world was on fire, the only true pixels now mistaken for malfunctioning ones.
Or was that what Holston and his people were doing even now?

They sat quietly for a while, Jahns resting back on the pillows, Marnes staring off into space. She was surprised to find how calming and natural it was, just being in a room, alone, with him. The talk wasn’t necessary. They could just be. No badge, no office. Two people.

Lukas laughed. It was strange how familiar it already sounded, and how badly she needed to hear it. Juliette had a sudden urge to grab him, to tuck her chin into his neck, and to cry. She could almost feel her body begin to piece the moves together – even though her skin would not budge. It could never happen. She knew this, even as the sensation vibrated within her. It was just the loneliness,

‘I can’t imagine loving in secret like that,’ he said.

He was an easy man to figure, one of those who had grown old everywhere but in his heart, that one organ he had never worn out because he’d never dared to use it.

A project to pull the wool back from everyone’s eyes, a favour to the next fool who slipped up or dared to hope aloud.

If he went to work, at least he’d be distracted.

‘Thank you,’ she said, remembering her manners.
And then, after some consideration:
‘I’m sorry I fell asleep.’

Maybe he should just crawl back into bed and sleep, kill some hours with unconsciousness.