Blast Protocol

Chapter 25

SHILOH

By the time Shiloh reaches the main hall—moving at a fast jog, Miles only a few paces ahead of her—a warning siren blares over the loudspeakers. There's a lot of movement. People are hurried, and concerned, but not panicked. Not yet.

Some of them yell, turning in Shiloh's direction. She's a member of the Board, after all. Perhaps she knows what's going on. Perhaps she can tell them what's happening.

She can't, of course. The siren's wail is overwhelming. She can't hear their questions, and she certainly can't answer them.

There's already a hundred people packed into the main hall. Word travels fast, and the Cloister is pretty small, for how many people it houses. Not to mention that obnoxious alarm sound, putting a little pep in everyone's step. Sounds like an air-raid siren in a World War II movie.

Sliding past the encroaching mob of bewildered citizens, Shiloh hops up the stairs at the back of the cargo bay, two at a time. The stairs lead to an elevated plateau. It looks kind of like a stage, and it's used that way during main hall meetings.

Shiloh makes her way to the back of the 'stage', toward the door in the corner. She pulls the latch. The door makes a grindy complaint as it swings open. Shiloh shuts the door behind her. She heads down the narrow corridor, her way lit by greenish-white fluorescent bars. She makes one right turn and stops at the door at the end. She yanks on the latch, but it won't budge.

Damn thing's stuck.

She pounds on the door. "Hey! Open up!"

She makes her hand into a fist and keeps slamming the heel against the door in a steady, drum-like beat.

Two to three seconds pass. Finally, there's a mechanical crunch from inside the door. It opens, and Cade's head pops out through the gap.

"Yeah?"

Cade is a couple years Shiloh's junior. His complexion is pale, with freckles dotting his cheeks and nose, and he looks bored, if a little annoyed. Sometimes Shiloh wonders if redheads generally do have a fiery, rebellious disposition, or if that's more of a perspective thing. Maybe red-haired kids are aware of the expectation, if only subconsciously, and conform to meet that result, which would be ironic in its own way.

His orange-red hair is chin-length, and parted down the middle. Sometimes it's messy and all over the place. Sometimes he uses pre-war hair wax or gel to slick or style it.

Right now, it's more in the 'messy' department. He's wearing a dark grey jumpsuit, similar to Shiloh's, though his is in need of a good ironing. A set of over-ear headphones hangs over his neck, with an aux cord leading into one of his big pockets, likely connected to his portable CD player.

"What's up with the racket!?"

Shiloh doesn't need to yell. The walls and door between them and the loudspeaker in the main hall deaden the noise. But she's raising her voice to get a point across.

Cade shrugs. "Did what I was told."

"By who?"

"Gavin. Called me over the radio."

"Gavin doesn't have the authority to do that."

"He was quite insistent," Cade says. "And it seemed important."

"Well, it's not. It's making it difficult to communicate."

Cade shrugs, as if to admit her point.

"Yeah, so, can you shut it off? And can you let me in there?"