Chapter 7

"Steady — my soul: What issues Upon thine arrow hang!" -Emily Dickinson, A day! Help! Another day!

Orson reached out to feel the grass, but it swayed out of his reach, just air in front of him.
The soil beneath his feet was not loose and warm, like the sun’s personal pillow. Instead it was flat, and cold, like the entire world was simply a cube of ice, with unreachable just barely reaching out. Tall, unreachable, ice grass.
The sky was white.

 

Orson woke up.
He stayed in bed, staring at the ceiling. The grey, tiled sky of his world of 17 years.

 

The Third of October.


He pulled out the earbuds out of his ears, the music from the radio box suddenly transitioning from a definite world of sound to just two earbuds playing music on the surface of his pillow.
He reached over to the box, and flipped the music off.
Silence.
Noise as bland as the walls it resonated on.
Orson made a noise with his throat, to make sure that he could still talk.
For a second he thought about making breakfast, but then it dawned on him that he didn’t make breakfast before-

Before everything. Yesterday he read a book written by a psyche professor in the 2030’s, and found a section about depression.
Staying in bed, inability to eat, no desire to do any kind of work, sadness out of boredom, and sadness out of nothing.
He stood up, and stretched his arm, but nothing happened. No popping. He reached his arms up and felt a tiny, sharp crack in the back of his neck, and he let out a loud, involuntary groan, and the sheets beneath his feet that acted as his ‘carpet’, slid as he leaned forward in pain, slipping as the back of his ankles hit the bed frame, and the rest of him hit the floor.

He laid there, not moving for a while. He could get up if he wanted to. His ankles and his elbows were still kind of throbbing from the fall, but other than that he was perfectly capable of getting up. He had only fallen a few times in his life, when he was little he used to run down the halls. Sometimes in the gym the treadmill would skip a beat and he would fall then too. But this time was different, of course. Everything was different. Again. First when-
And now it-
Orson let out a deep, long sigh.
He couldn’t even think straight.

 

 

‘…And according to sources, there has been a mass disappearance of the military soldiers after they invaded a Maran land nest, anyone who is in the Clurd Hill area is encouraged to volunteer. Any help at all is greatly appreciated, and will go a long way to regain our country from th-‘ He pulled his earbuds out.
He was depressed.
Orson walked into the garden, and activated CYL.
“Hello, Orson, it has been over a month since our last session, have you been deathly ill?” The robotic voice asked, with artificial concern.
“No, I had company.” He responded.
“Fantastic! Are you ready for your next session of-imaginary numbers-?”
“Actually, I want to ask you some questions about the bunker.”
“I will answer to the best of my ability.”
“Is there any way to open the door even if hasn’t had the initial month-long reboot?”
“No, I am afraid not. However, there is a way to re-write the system.”
Orson was taken aback.
He was just going to ask to just to say that he tried, but, were the CYL systems programmed to help the inhabitants with non-learning experiences?
“How can you re-write the system?” Orson asked, digging deeper.
“You must enter the temperature control room, and remove the foreign atmospherical drive. This will allow you to open the door again, as the system will not realize if the air vault has dust particles or not, assuming it clean, it will allow you to leave.”
“…Thank you, CYL.”
“You are welcome, Orson.”

 

Orson was glad, that he didn’t have to spend another month alone in this bunker. He read some manual material on the dust vents and temperature room. He gathered his things in one of the bags in advance, and looked in survivor guides to estimate about what he needed:
Water
Food
Maps of the area
A compass
A knife

 

And then he packed the other stuff, which, to him, was somehow more important:
The portable radio, and lots of batteries
A few journals and pens
The thermos of Alcohol
Chilo’s gun

 He went back into the garden.
“CYL, are you going to be okay here by yourself? Who’s going to take care of everything?” He asked.
“When you deactivate the vents and temperature, I will have access to-“
“The temperature?” Orson asked. There was a small pause, and the humming in CYL’s mainframe made a small skip.
“You need to deactivate the temperature controls in order to get past the vault doors.”
“Oh, you didn’t mention that.”
“I apologize, after such a long time without maintenance, I have become rather faulty in my access to information.”
Orson felt bad for it for a second. It was, afterall, the closest thing to another person Orson knew and talked to for 17 years, and then a thought occurred to him.
“CYL, would you like to come with me?” When he asked the robot this, it seemed to “think” for a long time. Much longer than robots should, but then it seemed satisfied with its calculated answer.
“I apologize, Orson, but I cannot come with you, wherever you’re going.  I must stay here, unlike the radio device you are harboring, I cannot exist on informal energy sources. I must thrive on the bunkers energy source only. I apologize.” It ended its sentence the same as it started it.
“It’s okay,” Orson said, kind of disappointed.
“ Walk me through everything I need to do.” Orson said.

 

He awoke, it was morning. CYL advised him to spend one more day in the bunker, and then he would be permitted to leave.
Everything was in place, all the restrictions on leaving within monthly intervals have been lifted, and all that stands between him and the surface is a door.
He got all of his things together, and got dressed.
He put his black diamond necklace on, and as he did, something spoke to him, in a distant memory.
‘Orson, be brave.’
He stood at the large grey-tiled door.
07172056
The third door slammed shut on the outside, and the first one lifted, leaving only the glass door. He placed his thumb on the scanner, then it too opened. He walked outside. It was hotter, still inside the air vault. He walked to the third door, identical to the first.
07172056, and a thumb scan.
And then it opened.
A brilliant flash of light, a warm, dry breeze, the sound of something rustling outside.
His eyes were blinded for a few seconds, but when his eyes finally adjusted, he could see the world.

Some dry, thin, tall grass pushed from the rough looking soil in front of the vault. Miles and miles of hills and dry, cracked soil, and thin, tall brown dull grass.
And clouds in the sky, real, grey, poofy clouds.
And a green sky.
He took a step outside, in his shoes. For the first time, he touched the ground. The surface.
For that moment, he was connected to every single thing on the surface. Every standing survivor, every radio broadcaster, every alien invader.
And Chilo.
Out there was his friend, his only friend.
He was going to find her.
He took a breath, re-adjusted his bag, then started to walk.