羊毛战记 part 5 the stranded 72-凯发k8官网

　　72

　　• silo 17 •

　　the water inside the suit was freezing, the air cold, the combination lethal. juliette’s teeth chatterednoisily while she worked the knife. she slid the blade into the soggy skin of the suit, the feeling ofhaving already been here, having done all this before, unmistakable.

　　the gloves came off first, the suit destroyed, water pouring out of every cut. juliette rubbed herhands together, could barely feel them. she hacked away at the material over her chest, her eyesfalling to solo, who had gone deathly still. his large wrench was missing, she saw. their supply bagwas gone as well. the compressor was on its side, the hose kinked beneath it, fuel leaking from theloose filling cap.

　　juliette was freezing. she could hardly breathe. once the chest of the suit was cut open, shewiggled her knees and feet through the hole, spun the material around in front of herself, then tried topry the velcro apart.

　　her fingers were too senseless even to do this. she ran the knife down the joint instead, sawing thevelcro apart until she could find the zipper.

　　finally, squeezing her fingers until they were white, she pulled the small tab free of the collar andthrew the suit away from herself. the thing weighed double with all the water in it. she was left intwo layers of black undersuit, still soaking wet and shivering, a knife in her trembling hand, the bodyof a good man lying beside her, a man who had survived everything this nasty world could throw athim except for her arrival.

　　juliette moved to solo’s side and reached for his neck. her hands were icy; she couldn’t feel apulse, wasn’t sure if she would be able to. she could barely feel his neck with her frozen fingers.

　　she struggled to her feet, nearly collapsed, hugged the landing’s railing. she teetered toward thecompressor, knowing she needed to warm up. she felt the powerful urge to go to sleep but knewshe’d never wake up if she did.

　　the fuel can was still full. she tried to work the cap, but her hands were useless. they were numband vibrating from the cold. her breath fogged in front of her, a chilly reminder of the heat she waslosing, what little heat she had left.

　　she grabbed the knife. holding it in both hands, she pressed the tip into the cap. the flat handlewas easier to grasp than the plastic cap; she spun the knife and cracked the lid on the jug of fuel.

　　once the cap was loose, she pulled the blade out and did the rest with her palms, the knife resting inher lap.

　　she tilted the can over the compressor, soaking the large rubber wheels, the carriage, the entiremotor. she would never want to use it again anyway, never rely on it or anything else for her air. sheput the can down, still half-full, and slid it away from the compressor with her foot. fuel drippedthrough the metal grating and made musical impacts in the water below, drips that echoed off theconcrete walls of the stairwell and added to the flood’s toxic and colorful slick.

　　wielding the knife with the blade down, the dull side away from her, she smacked it against themetal fins of the heat exchanger. she yanked her arm back with each strike, expecting the whoosh ofan immediate flame. but there was no spark. she hit it harder, hating to abuse her precious tool, heronly defense. solo’s stillness nearby was a reminder that she might need it if she were able to survivethe deadly cold—

　　the knife struck with a snick, and there was a pop, heat traveling up her arm, a wash of it againsther face.

　　juliette dropped the knife and waved her hand, but it wasn’t on fire. the compressor was. part ofthe grating, too.

　　as it began to die down, she grabbed the can and sloshed some more fuel out of it, large balls oforange flame rewarding her, leaping up in the air with a whoosh. the wheels crackled as they burned.

　　juliette collapsed close to the fire, felt the heat from the dancing flame as it burned all across themetal machine. she began to strip, her eyes returning now and then to solo, promising herself thatshe wouldn’t leave his body there, that she would come back for him.

　　feeling returned to her extremities—at first gradually, but then with a tingling pain. naked, shecurled into a ball next to the small and feeble fire and rubbed her hands together, breathing her warmand visible breath into her palms. twice she had to feed the hungry and stingy fire. only the wheelsburned reliably, but they kept her from needing another spark. the glorious heat traveled somewhatthrough the landing’s grated decking, warming her bare skin where it touched the metal.

　　her teeth chattered violently. juliette eyed the stairs, this new fear coursing through her that bootscould rumble down at any moment, that she was trapped between these other survivors and thefreezing water. she retrieved her knife, held it in front of her with both hands, tried to will herself notto shiver so violently.

　　glimpses of her face in the blade caused her to worry more. she looked as pale as a ghost. lipspurple, eyes ringed dark and seeming hollow. she nearly laughed at the sight of her lips vibrating, theclacking blur of her teeth. she scooted closer to the fire. the orange light danced on the blade, theunburned fuel dripping and forming silvery splashes of color below.

　　as the last of the gas burned and the flames dwindled, juliette decided to move. she was stillshaking, but it was cold in the depths of the shaft so far from the electricity of it. she patted theblack underlinings she’d stripped off. one of them had been left balled up and was still soaked. theother she had at least dropped flat; if she’d been thinking clearly she would’ve hung it up. it wasdamp, but better to wear it and heat it up herself than allow the cold air to wick her body temperatureaway. she worked her legs in, struggled to get her arms through the sleeves, zipped up the front.

　　on bare, numb, and unsteady feet, she returned to solo. she could feel his neck this time. he feltwarm. she couldn’t remember how long a body stayed that way. and then she felt a weak and slowthrumming in his neck. a beat.

　　“solo!” she shook his shoulders. “hey …” what name had he whispered? she remembered:

　　“jimmy!”

　　his head lolled from side to side while she shook his shoulder. she checked his scalp beneath allthat crazy hair, saw lots of blood. most of it was dry. she looked around again for her bag—they hadbrought food, water, and dry clothes for when she got back up—but the satchel was gone. shegrabbed her other undersuit instead. she wasn’t sure about the quality of the water in the fabric, but ithad to be better than nothing. wrenching the material in a tight ball, she dripped what she couldagainst his lips. she squeezed more on his head, brushed his hair back to inspect the wound, probedthe nasty cut with her fingers. as soon as the water hit the open gash, it was like pushing a button.

　　solo lurched to the side, away from her hand and the drip from the undersuit. his teeth flashed yellowin his beard as he screamed in pain, his hands rising from the landing and hovering there, armstensed, still senseless.

　　“solo. hey, it’s okay.”

　　she held him as he came to, his eyes rolling around, lids blinking.

　　“it’s okay,” she said. “you’re gonna be okay.”

　　she used the balled-up undersuit to dab at his wound. solo grunted and held her wrist but didn’tpull away.

　　“stings,” he said. he blinked and looked around. “where am i?”

　　“the down deep,” she reminded him, happy to hear him talking. she felt like crying with relief. “ithink you were attacked …”

　　he tried to sit up, hissing between his teeth, a powerful grip pinching her wrist.

　　“easy,” she said, trying to hold him down. “you’ve got a nasty cut on your head. a lot ofswelling.”

　　his body relaxed.

　　“where are they?” he asked.

　　“i don’t know,” juliette said. “what do you remember? how many were there?”

　　he closed his eyes. she continued to dab at his wound.

　　“just one. i think.” he opened his eyes wide as if shocked by the memory of the attack. “he wasmy age.”

　　“we need to get up top,” she told him. “we need to get where it’s warm, get you cleaned up, getme dry. do you think you can move?”

　　“i’m not crazy,” solo said.

　　“i know you’re not.”

　　“the things that moved, the lights, it wasn’t me. i’m not crazy.”

　　“no,” juliette agreed. she remembered all the times she had thought the same thing of herself,always in the down deep of this place, usually while rummaging around supply. “you aren’t crazy,”

　　she said, comforting him. “you aren’t crazy at all.”