Silo

Chapter 9

"So is your pet project still mute?" Keith asked as he tossed his new crossbow to the floor and sifted through our recently acquired stockpile of food. He'd relished every moment of looting that silo; and, judging by the shit-eating grin on his face, I'd say he was still riding that high. 

I groaned, not bothering to respond. What the hell could I say? The kid was right. It'd been three days, three damn days, and she hadn't moved an inch, hadn't uttered a single word. She'd watch me, shift her body position so that I was always in her line of sight, but she refused to talk, wouldn't even acknowledge me with so much as a head nod. 

Every morning I'd go back into my room and she'd be sitting there. Same corner. Same huddled state. As far as I knew, she'd hadn't even gotten up to use the bathroom. That meant she was either dehydrated or ... yeah, dehydrated.  

At least she was eating. She'd refused to can of soup I offered her that first night, but thee expired can of beans I'd left her yesterday was half gone. She'd finished it this morning along with the can of mystery fruit I'd taken from her silo. She was still pale, and thin, but the color was starting to return to her lips, her bruises beginning to fade. 

But all the food in the world wouldn't help her, wouldn't mend her fractured body if she refused to sleep. Always awake, her sunken eyes followed my every move. She was barely alive, her eyes void of life, her desire to be rid of this earth clearly etched on her face. Yet she always found the strength to follow me, to silently question my every move.  

"I don't even think you can fix that one, Jakey Boy," Keith said through a mouthful of food. "She's what we call damaged goods." 

At this point, I didn't want to fix her. I simply wanted her to acknowledge me, to give me some indication that she understood I wasn't the enemy. I was tired of sleeping in the hallway, tired of opening cans of food for her that she'd stare at for hours before actually eating. And I was tired of listening to Keith spout off the irritating truth.  

As of today, I wasn't waiting for her to talk to me; I was going to talk to her. I was going to sleep in my own bed, eat my food in my own room, and carry on a conversation as if she were a willing participant. She could stay silent for the rest of her life, but I was going to talk. To her. 

"Where's Evan?" I asked, purposefully changing the subject.  

"Around." 

"Around where?" I asked as I stood up and made my way to the door. "I thought I told you two to stick together." 

We'd taken turns walking the outside parameter each morning and night, searching for any sign of company. I doubted those other kids would take too kindly to us stealing their supplies and was certain, eventually, they'd come looking. 

The food we'd acquired from the other silo may have temporarily relieved our worn bodies, but the anxiety that accompanied it was raw and consuming. A faint clink on the ventilation shaft, likely another limb raining down from a dead tree, had me sitting upright for hours last night, my ears straining to identify the barely audible noise.  

"He's fine," Keith said through a mouthful of soup, "Complaining about some stupid score sheet he can't find, but last time I checked, he was tucked nice and safe into his room." 

"What score sheet?" I asked.  

"The one from the last game. He keeps blaming me, thinks I used it for the fire or something stupid like that." 

"Did you?" I asked. 

Keith's look wasn't a simple no; it was a hell no. "Why would I care about his stupid stat book? It's not like he lets anybody near it anyway. Idiot probably hid it so well even he can't find it."