THE LAST PRAYER

A Silo Story by Lyndon Perry

For those who are reaching beyond their own silos…

-1-

The gaunt priest set up his makeshift confessional in silence.

It had been quite a few years since the last cleaning—

“Ten or so?” Elias had asked his younger companion when the sheriff had informed him of the recent verdict.

Samuel didn’t hesitate. “Twelve,” his secretary had responded, always accurate, always prompt.

The responsibility, grim as it was, had sparked in the frail servant of God a sense of somber purpose. One he’d thought he’d lost. His previous act of ministry had been declined, well, twelve years earlier—politely, but a rejection nevertheless—and Elias had discovered, time and again, various confirmations of his suspected irrelevance to life in the underground community.

Beads of perspiration dotted the priest’s balding pate as he finished erecting the booth. His secretary handed him the curtain that would provide the confessor a semblance of privacy for the last prayer.

“I hope we’re not disappointed again, Samuel. I fear if our services are ignored our standing in the silo may wane.” The older man sighed. “Maybe I’m fooling myself. Maybe our days are already past and I’m just a relic of a bygone era. Has the sun already set for us, Samuel? Has it?” The priest’s eyes begged for contradiction.

“Elias…” Always accurate. Always circumspect. “…it may be that a new day will soon dawn.”

But both of them knew the truth of it. The number of candidates entering seminary training had been on the decline for years—twenty-seven straight, he’d been informed. And that despite the inclusion of women and the nongendered.

Hell, they’ve even allowed nonbelievers into the priesthood! Elias couldn’t help but be cynical. Dispensing liturgical compassion and rote absolution was a role any literate person could fill, the mayor had told him. But, God Almighty, that wasn’t him! He was a believer, he was one of the faithful….

“Father?” Jedediah Alston knocked at the door, interrupting Elias’s thoughts. Peeking his head into the converted storage room, the broad-shouldered sheriff said, “The condemned has agreed to confession. You ready?”

Elias hid a satisfied tremor with a lift of his shoulders and gave his secretary a flushed smile. Maybe he was needed after all. Maybe he could help direct this one soul—terrified, surely, and lost—toward peace before the cleaning.

“Send him in. All is prepared.”

The sheriff replied with a curt nod and retreated down the hall, passing empty cells until he reached the one that held the prisoner.

“I’ll be just outside the door if you have any need,” Samuel said as he left the temporary chapel adjacent to the near-empty jail. Crime had decreased along with faith, it seemed.

Elias nodded and entered his half of the confessional, settling himself to hear the final prayer of a desperate man. Just as he pulled the door to, he caught a glimpse of Sheriff Alston escorting a young girl into the room and pointing her toward the booth.

This can’t be right. But then he realized he never thought to ask who the condemned person was. Was he addled or simply a foolish and self-absorbed old man? He shook his head to clear it.

The priest heard Alston leave and the girl enter her side of the confessional.

“Father?” she asked in a whisper.

Confidence flooded his veins. Here was a frightened soul needing assurance. Here was his duty. “Yes, my child? Do you wish to make a confession?”

Silence met his anticipation and disassembled it.

“No, Father,” the girl said, her voice bold now, urgent. “I’ve come to ask you to help me clean.”

Elias wasn’t one to sputter. On this occasion it couldn’t be helped. “What in heaven’s name do you mean, child?”

“Yes! That’s it, heaven. We have to scrub heaven’s window.”

So innocent, so troubling.

The small booth grew stifling and more than a few beads of sweat hurdled the priest’s pinched brow and escaped down his sharply chiseled nose. Elias pushed at his door for air and impulsively pulled the curtain aside. Before him was a girl of perhaps ten or eleven, dressed in dreary garb—a sweeper’s daughter to be sure—with an uncertain yet expectant look playing across her face.

“I… I know you.”

“Yes, Father. You said words at my sister’s funeral last year.”

He remembered. The girl’s twin. Blondish hair, the both of them. Spry, wiry things. Inseparable, from what their parents said. The sister had died helping her father in an unauthorized sweep.

“Lorna, wasn’t it? She must have been about ten years old.”

“Lenora, but everyone calls her Lonni. I’m Hanna. And yes, we’re both eleven now. ” She sat up straight, waiting for the priest, meeting his gaze.

Elias coughed. “You’re both… yes, of course.” His eyes flitted to the door that led back to the jailhouse. Straying a bit from his liturgical script, he asked, “So why are you here, Hanna? Why were you condemned?”

“The dreams I think. Lonni’s been telling me about heaven and how everyone in the silo needs to go there.”

Such faith. “Yes, child, this is what I try to tell everyone as well.” He attempted a smile.

“Then you’ll join me in the cleaning?” Hanna matched his smile and raised him a shining glow. “Thank you! Thank you!”

“No. I mean… I don’t understand.”

The glow never wavered. “It’s outside, Father. It’s just above us. We’re supposed to show them the way. Once we clean the window, they’ll see for themselves and follow us to heaven.”

-2-

“Sheriff, we must stop this madness. Young Hanna is clearly touched. In the name of God, why has this child been condemned?”

Hanna had been returned to her holding cell and both Elias and Samuel stood in the office of Jedediah Alston, who leaned back in his chair, boots propped atop his desk. Alston’s easy manner and simple speech belied his strict authority as sheriff, second only to the silo’s mayor in its reach and reputation.

“It’s in the report, Father.” He tossed a file onto a stack of paperwork that looked weeks behind attention. “Didn’t you read it?”

He, in fact, had not. So caught up in his most sacred duty—preparing for a condemned soul’s last prayer—he’d neglected a rather essential part of it: familiarizing himself with the person and the crime. He’d come to rely on Samuel far too heavily in recent months. Or perhaps it was years.

His negligence had caught up with him. Nothing about his encounter with Hanna was going well. It went off-rail when he broke protocol and conversed with the prisoner. The confession went down-silo from there and ended with him forgetting to lead the girl in her final words to God.

One positive outcome, if it could be called that, was that his failure probably negated his sacrosanct responsibility to hold in confidence what was said to him. But looking into the steely eyes of the sheriff, Elias hesitated to let on how much he knew. Which was enough. After a brief conversation about Hanna’s trial with Samuel—always informed and ready to assist—he knew he couldn’t in good conscience agree with the verdict. He had questions. He had doubts.

“I’m familiar with the report, Sheriff. I want to hear it from you. It seems, if you don’t mind me saying so, a rather exceptional case and one that might have been handled, well, differently.”

Alston uncrossed his legs and removed them from his old wooden desk, pushed his swivel chair back, and slowly stood. His six-three frame offered a stark contrast to the stooped and shrinking figure before him. Even Samuel, who matched him in height but not in heft, was overshadowed.

“I do mind your saying so. We have a silo to run and you priests have a role to play. Or has age caused you to forget your place?”

Elias, frail as he was, took the dressing down in stride. He’d outlasted four sheriffs and two mayors in his forty-odd years as chief priest of the upper levels. It wasn’t their authority that intimidated him, it was something else entirely. The nagging feeling that the silo had moved on without him. But he put that concern behind him for now.

“The priesthood knows its place, young man. We all do,” Elias said.

That much he could affirm. His place, mimicked by every priest throughout the silo, was to work hand in hand with the authorities to maintain peace, order, and civility. But Elias also recognized a numinous component, even if the powers behind the curtain did not. He would provide—though some of his fellow name-only priests might scoff at the thought—spiritual guidance, edification, and instruction on things eternal.

He continued, “My job is to nurture faith among the flock under my care.”

“No. Your job is to make sure your flock knows the difference between what’s imagined and what is true. Hanna’s imagination is a dangerous thing. You know it and so do I. The sweepers are already too religious; talk of heaven only feeds their fanaticism. And who speaks of heaven except a priest?”

Elias came close to sputtering for the second time in one day. “Are you implying that my order is behind this somehow? That we want an uprising? That someone under my authority is stirring unrest by somehow influencing young Hanna to talk of the outside—”

“Watch your tongue, old man.”

“My…my apologies. I forget myself.” Elias produced a kerchief from a discreet pocket in his simple black robe and dabbed at his forehead.

“Did you also forget that you spoke at her sister’s funeral last year?”

“No, I remember.” He threw a sideways glance at Samuel, who was there as well and assisted in consoling the family. His shoulders began to sag.

“Was there talk of heaven?”

“But of course, the service requires a few words of comfort. Obviously I referred to it as a spiritual reality, not as a metaphor for….” Elias pursed his lips, close to defeat.

“But the connection was made.” Jedediah Alston turned abruptly to the secretary. “And what is your recollection of the events? Was this a simple homily by a sincere but misunderstood priest, or did he attempt to stir rebellion and discontent?” The small office took on the weight of a courtroom.

Samuel offered a sympathetic nod to his older mentor but Elias was staring at the floor, bent over, as if bearing the burdens of the silo itself. The secretary thought carefully before he spoke. “As you noted, Sheriff, the sweepers are quite…enthusiastic when it comes to their beliefs. A few aptly chosen words—and they need not be intentional—might foment their fervor.” Next to him, the priest withered. “But surely there is no warrant for accusing the priesthood. Otherwise, why has this child been brought forward and not the person responsible, if indeed there is someone responsible, for planting this seed in her mind? In fact, it isn’t clear from the report how her crime came to light.”

Elias raised his head at that and the sheriff met both their expectant looks. He picked up the folder he’d tossed aside earlier and flipped through it, his eyes not alighting on anything in particular.

“There is one omission,” Alston conceded. “It was Hanna’s father who turned her in.”

-3-

Samuel took each step seriously as, floor by floor, he wound his way down the silo. The hand railings smooth, the metal steps worn, these stairs had given themselves over to untold generations of people who traveled to wherever work or pleasure took them. The constant traffic up and down—even to the lower depths more than a hundred floors below—was a reminder of the silo’s stifling reality: there were plenty of places to go, but no ultimate destination.

This particular journey weighed heavily on the frail priest’s representative. Elias, grateful for any excuse to avoid a taxing excursion, had promptly accepted his apprentice’s offer to meet with Hanna’s parents. They were in a temporary residence on the fifth level. Samuel would go and offer comfort as he accompanied them to the top floor viewing screen to witness their daughter’s march outside the hatch.

During his eighteen years as shadow—the last six as confidant and secretary—he’d often ministered in his mentor’s stead. Soon, however, Samuel would take over all the priestly functions, having been groomed since childhood for the role. He took the inevitable promotion in stride. Holding the title was of little consequence at this point; he already held the power.

The thirty-year-old, dark-haired minister stepped off the stairwell and into a smallish commons area on the third floor for a short break and drink of water. The sound of children playing greeted him and, remembering to smile, he waved to the nearest group.

“Brother Sam, Brother Sam,” shouted one boy. The six-year-old, full of life and hope, broke away from his friends and gave Samuel a hug around the legs.

“Why, hello Seth. How are you?”

“Great!”

And then the boy was off, merging once again with the other giggling children who would soon shed their laughter and innocent joy when they became shadows themselves on their way to productive members of society. Samuel frowned as he considered their future. Awaiting them were various apprenticeships and eventual jobs as porters, dirt-farmers, and nursery-attendants—even mechanics, engineers, and IT-workers for the more promising youngsters—but no future. Important roles, to be sure, if a life of meaningless drudgery toiling for a faceless, impersonal silo was your dream.

They don’t know any different… Samuel took a sip from his canteen and considered his own dream, big enough for all of them. …But they will. The future chief priest strapped his canteen back in place and continued his serious journey down-silo.

Adin and Ester greeted him solemnly after a gentle knock at their door. The small sleeping quarters, wedge-shaped like everyone’s living space in this cramped, circular world, was utilitarian and bleak. Offering as few amenities as possible, the room was meant to host its guests for no more than a week. Hanna’s parents needed only half the night.

They’d traveled up from thirty-eight, one of three sweepers’ floor, earlier that day and would trek the final four levels before dawn. They would then enter the largest room in the underground complex, the cafeteria and lounge, and find their seats in front of the view screen that projected the reality of that toxic world just outside their bunker. That noxious world their ancestors had created. One that, it was said, claimed the lives of countless billions and would now claim the life of one more. Adin and Ester would march, and sit, and then they would watch their daughter die.

“My deepest sympathies,” the priestly representative said. He stood, back to the door, while the couple retreated to a dingy couch and leaned into each other, exhausted from their long walk.

Adin grunted. “A lot of good that will do us.”

“Adin,” Ester murmured. She looked into Samuel’s eyes, searching, pleading for some form of hope he knew he couldn’t provide.

He offered her instead a sorrowful shake of the head. “I can’t imagine what you are going through. First, with Lonni, now with Hanna. I’m truly sorry for—”

“Yes, yes! You’re sorry for us, for our loss, for our miserable lives. You stand there all high and mighty but you don’t give a damn, really. You just preach your sacred platitudes, your damned pieties, while we sweep and wait and grunt and toil and wait for some…” Adin’s voice broke off, rasping as if he’d swallowed a woolen scrub pad.

Samuel stifled a reply. Yes, the sweepers had worked and waited and worked some more. And the time was coming very soon when they would act. It was a cyclical occurrence, he’d discovered. Every twenty or thirty years. All it took was for massive discontent to meet widespread fanaticism. Both ingredients had increased in tandem in recent years among this particular caste, especially since Lonni’s unfortunate accident.

The sweepers’ lives were no worse, really, than all the other segments of society. But they were held in no high regard. Responsible for cleaning the underbelly of the silo, their class of workers would literally sweep the detritus, filth, and grime out from the crawlspaces that had accumulated between levels. It was dirty work and sometimes dangerous, as this couple well knew.

But change was always dangerous.

“…When will the waiting be over?” Adin demanded.

The man’s anguished voice interrupted Samuel’s musings, but he kept silent. He’d been waiting as well. The room was stuffy with tension, sweat, and fear.

“What? No words of comfort?” Adin mocked. “No talk of heaven?”

Ester tried to quiet her husband with a pat on the shoulder. He pushed her hand away and stood before the future priest, rage and grief and anguish flickering in turn across his face. “What about the changes you said would come, when we sweepers would no longer live as silo rats, scurrying underneath the feet of our neighbors.” Fists clenched and unclenched. “I sacrificed my own daughter, Samuel. Dear God, you owe me….”

“God will honor Lonni’s and Hanna’s sacrifice. Their future is with him—”

“What about our future, Samuel? What about our hopes and dreams?” Adin gnashed his teeth and hissed, “What about the uprising you promised?”

-4-

The Previous Year

It took them two days to walk down-silo for the funeral of Lonni Tate. The wizened priest could manage no more than twenty floors at a time so Samuel made arrangements for an overnight stay on nineteen before they continued on to one of the sweeper’s residences on thirty-eight.

There was no rush. The family would wait; their daughter was already gone. Lonni’s body had been ported to the dirt farms for decomposition as soon as the sheriff had finished his hurried investigation. Her nutrients would soon feed the plants that grew in the agricultural floors which in turn would feed the people of the community itself. Her death, unfortunate as it was, would serve some higher purpose in the end.

A much higher purpose, Samuel was confident.

When the accident was first reported, he suggested to the priest that he, being younger of course, accompany Alston almost a third of the way down the silo to comfort the family while the sheriff made formal inquiries. Elias readily agreed; he’d stay behind and prepare for the memorial service to come.

This was not unique. Over the years Samuel had found many sensible reasons to visit the sweepers—and other common workers—while carrying out his duties as the elder’s secretary. He’d one day be the upper-levels chief priest after all. Didn’t everyone plant seeds for a future harvest?

On that quick down-and-up the week before, Samuel took the opportunity to cultivate. Sheriff Alston had discovered that Lonni died sweeping with her father Adin Tate, a middling man in their caste. At ten, she was too young to shadow and the sheriff had wanted to make an arrest. “The sweepers are making noise,” Jedediah said. “A good cleaning will let off some steam. Haven’t had one in ten years.”

“Eleven,” Samuel responded automatically, always accurate. The longest the silo’s gone without one since the last uprising. And just a tad too soon to release the pressure. “Sheriff, might I suggest another course of action?”

And within the hour Alston closed the case, declaring the accident ‘unpreventable.’ He left soon afterward while Samuel had stayed an extra day to plant a very important seed….

When he and Elias finally arrived on thirty-eight for the funeral, Ester greeted them warmly on the small landing, a gathering of sweepers stacked up behind her. There was sadness in their eyes, but compassion and faith as well. Samuel could see that the pain of the previous week was slowly abating. Small strands of hope were being spun, suggesting they might one day become strong enough to mend the tear in their lives.

“Father, Brother Sam, thank you for coming,” she said. Adin stood behind her, brooding. “And thank you again for…helping clear my husband. He wasn’t…it wasn’t…his fault.” There were general murmurs of agreement and sympathy as the grieving mother choked back new found tears.

“Ester, that’s enough.” Adin turned and the crowd gave way, allowing the small group through, then following them to the floor’s humble chapel.

“Of course not,” Samuel said, walking beside her. “Adin was not to blame. I simply pointed out to the sheriff that some things were best left to rest.” Certain things, like a few of the sheriff’s past indiscretions. Samuel had mentioned these confidential matters to Jedediah who, rather quickly, saw the wisdom in letting them remain where they were.

Adin, too, had responded, albeit reluctantly, to Samuel’s rather persuasive liaise. All men have secrets better left unexposed. The art and craft was in the ability to leverage those momentary lapses into service for the greater good. Some called such measures surreptitious; Samuel preferred to call it diplomacy.

Elias, in his own way, was a diplomat and Samuel was impressed as the elder statesman took charge, confident and competent in his priestly role among the residents of the upper levels. Too bad his days were numbered. As the sweepers filed into the chapel, God’s man took his position at the front. Everyone remained standing, as was tradition, but the sheer numbers present to support the anguished family demanded it as well.

“We gather here, O Lord,” the priest began, “to honor the life of Lenora Tate and pray that thy glorious angels might usher her soul into thine heaven….”

Samuel smiled at the familiar liturgy and glanced sideways at the forgotten member of the family, young Hanna. Favored by God. Appropriate name for this surviving twin. Her eyes, he noticed, began to sparkle whenever the old man spoke of heaven.

He’d been sure to plant that seed on his fortuitous visit the week before. Hanna had been inconsolable and her parents distraught over the death of Lonni; but the assurance that she was alive and ‘just beyond the silo’s hill’—he’d couched his words so carefully—gave them all comfort.

When Ester and Adin played for him a degraded audio of their sweet Lenora’s performance at school and how Hanna lit up at the sound of her sister’s voice, Samuel knew the remaining daughter was aptly named.

Could I borrow the recording, he’d asked. There might be a way to restore the quality of the audio. The parents readily agreed, it being one of the few remaining links to their precious child.

The priest’s concluding words, with another expected reference to the life that awaits the faithful in heaven, brought Samuel into the present. After the funeral, as Elias mingled and ministered among his flock, he pulled Adin aside and they quietly returned to the family’s residence.

“Are you sure this will work?” Adin pressed when they were alone.

“The sweepers are discontent, you’ve said so yourself. They’ve been whispering for change, or am I mistaken?” Adin shook his head. “If you play your part, they’ll rise up within the year. Hanna’s innocent conversations will simply give voice to their own dreams of freedom.”

“But are you certain this poses no threat to Hanna?”

Samuel lifted his palms, as if in supplication. “Nothing is certain. But I’ve looked into our history quite thoroughly. No child has ever been sent to a cleaning. It’s unlikely she’ll even be brought to trial. All we need is an arrest and the sweepers will march up top and demand the changes they long for.”

We all long for.

It seemed Adin could read his thoughts. “And you’ll have a ready-made excuse in your pocket to discredit Elias as chief priest so you can make your move.”

Close. More like a ready-made army to overthrow the priesthood and politicians both.

Samuel pursed his lips. “Tread lightly, Adin. Your place in the new hierarchy is not yet established. If you are not the man I’m looking for, I’m certain…other arrangements can be made.” Diplomacy at work.

The grieving father bowed his head and grumbled, “I’m your man.”

“Good.” Producing a small bag from an inner pocket, Samuel instructed, “Simply give Hanna one pill at bedtime—to calm her fears, tell her—and when she’s entered her first deep sleep place this in her ear.” He held up a tiny globe that connected to an audio device by a thin wire. “Then turn it on.”

Adin took the gifts, pocketing the pills but putting the earpiece in place. He pressed a button. His face clouded a few moments later.

Although Samuel couldn’t hear the words, he knew them by heart. Words manipulated from snatches of Lonni’s voice prints from the recording he’d been given the week before.

“Heaven’s real. It’s just outside. Clean the window so all can see.”

-5-

Present Time

“What of your promises?” Adin repeated, his eyes bulging. He whipped out the audio player hidden in his work-vest and threw it at his visitor.

Samuel caught the small device and stared in steely silence at the man who had lost one daughter and might soon lose another. His eyes softened when they took in Ester.

After a moment he replied, simply, “Have patience.”

“Patience!” Adin spat. “It’s been a year since you traipsed in here with your plans and assurances. And yet Hanna is a day away from cleaning.” Ester gasped and turned away. Adin continued in a choked passion. “Why haven’t the sweepers come to our defense? Where is the outrage? Patience, you say!”

It was true. The sweepers had not responded immediately to the arrest as anticipated. When the young girl was sentenced, they still had not acted. Puzzling. Adin had played his part, secretly alerting the sheriff to Hanna’s forbidden words, pretending to be a concerned and cooperative member of the silo. Yet the expected uprising had not occurred. Samuel, always planning, was not yet alarmed. But with nothing to show for his betrayal except a condemned daughter, the man in front of him was near breaking point and very much a concern to the priestly secretary.

“I think it best you get some rest. One never knows what tomorrow might bring.” Samuel pocketed the recording and said to them both, “I’ll return in a few hours and accompany you to the cafeteria. We’ll want to arrive well before dawn.”

Anger and anguish spent, Adin barely nodded in assent.

#

Elias pulled up a short stool and settled his weary body outside the holding cell of Hanna Tate. More than a few bars separated them. Hanna’s simple faith had put the old priest to shame; and he considered himself a true believer!

But he was old, his time was past. Perhaps he should retire and let his shadow-turned-secretary take over. That just might assuage his feelings of guilt. If only he’d paid more attention to these proceedings, Hanna might not be standing before him now, a night away from her execution.

The old priest sighed. If pressed, he’d have to admit that the demise of the priesthood occurred on his watch. Ever since the last uprising thirty years before, their influence had waned. They were thought responsible because of their failure to placate the masses. This he’d heard from the four sheriffs and two mayors he’d worked with over the years. Elias swallowed a bitter laugh. Sure, he’d outlasted a few politicians but their ilk had slowly taken over and he hadn’t even realized it. Samuel couldn’t do much worse.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” Hanna’s meek voice caught him off guard.

“What is, my child?” Elias looked at the screen that filled the back wall of the cell. It showed a dismal picture: a black and gray, poisonous world that existed just beyond their silo’s walls, just outside the yellow hatch door. A door just down the hall through which this poor soul would pass in a few short hours.

“The view of heaven,” she replied.

“But…it’s dark out there, child. The clouds are black, the winds are devilish….”

“That’s why we have to clean. The window is just dirty. But there, and there—do you see?—light is shining through!”

Elias looked closely at the pixelated view. He noticed a few scattered dots of white. To his discerning eye, these were simply burned out sensors, part of the visual array that had malfunctioned over the years and were no longer transmitting images from the outside. He couldn’t help but smile at the girl’s faith.

But instead of correcting her, he asked, “And you’re not frightened to go outside and clean the…the windows?”

Hanna shook her head, still captivated by the view. “The hill, I can’t quite see them, but it must be covered with flowers, don’t you think? And the buildings beyond, they must be castles like in the picture books at school.”

Elias offered nothing in reply, bowing his head and praying instead for more faith.

“So will you help me, Father? Will you help me clean so that everyone in the silo will know it’s true?”

Such a thought roused him from his reverie. And it struck him. Would he? Would that make a difference? Could his life count for something once again? Hanna’s faith was rare, but could this be the beginning of a resurgence of belief? A revival?

Down the hall, opposite the airlock, an office opened and Jedediah Alston stepped out. “Visiting hours are over, Father. I have to give Hanna her last meal soon. I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

Elias, alive now, maybe for the first time in years, came off his stool and faced the sheriff with an authority born of his long tenure as the upper levels chief priest.

“No, young man. I’ll be staying all night.” Alston, about to object, closed his mouth when the priest held up his hand. “And in the morning I’m going to help Hanna clean.”

-6-

Elias looked into the surprised eyes of Samuel as the secretary approached his holding cell next to Hanna’s. Beside him quivered an emotional pair, clutching at each other, reaching for their daughter through the bars. Sheriff Alston stood behind the three visitors, giving them them a brief moment for their goodbyes.

“Elias?” The question encompassed the whole of their relationship.

“Yes, Samuel. It’s time.” A renewed sense of purpose filled and thrilled the old man. “It’s your time. The silo needs spiritual leadership. Bring about the change it longs for. Bring about a renewal of faith, a resurgence of belief. I leave the priesthood in your competent hands. You’ve earned it through your many years of faithful service.”

“I… don’t know what to say.”

“Say you’ll take care of the workers, Samuel. The sweepers, especially. I know you will. You haven’t forgotten, have you? That they’re your family. That they belong to you and you belong to them. That you came from them…” …Orphaned in the last uprising.

“Of course, Elias,” his secretary said, interrupting the reminisces. The sound of Ester’s sobs and the sheriff’s throat-clearings prompted him to say farewell to his mentor and friend. “I will do my best.” The two men grasped each other’s arms briefly and then stepped back. “May God grant you mercy.”

Upon hearing Hanna tell her parents she would see them soon, Elias smiled at his protégé and said, “God has, my friend. God surely has.”

In the silence that followed their departure, Elias allowed the tears to come.

When Alston returned, he brought with him a woman lugging a child-sized body suit, boots, and helmet. The sheriff held the priest’s slightly larger version. He laid the bulky, white hazard suit over a stool, placed the gear on the floor, then unlocked both jail doors. The prisoners slowly exited their cells. The airlock was just down the hall.

“This is Nina. She’ll help you suit up and tell you what to do.”

Without a word, the woman assigned to strap the condemned pair into their suits began, stage by stage, to dress them. She took to her work in nervous spurts. First the leggings, then the boots. Then she wrapped the connections with insulating tape.

“Straighten up, please. Take a step. Can you walk?” Both priest and child demonstrated that they could. “You’re lucky we had a suit your size, Father. We had to make Hanna’s special.”

Yes, quite lucky. Elias caught an amused look from the sheriff standing behind her.

Nina realized her mistake. “I mean to say, we….”

“That’s quite all right, daughter. Please continue.”

She resumed her frenetic tuggings, zippings, and tapings in embarrassed silence. Within a short time both of them were fully suited except for their helmets. They stood there awkwardly, awaiting the instructions they knew were next.

“You see these colored pouches? Numbered so you can read them?” Elias looked down on his chest and nodded. “Take the spray from one and squirt the sensor twice. Take the wool from two and scrub the lens. Take the cloth from three and wipe it clean. Take a film from four and apply the protective layer.” She turned to the girl and said, more gently, “You got that Hanna?”

“I think so,” Hanna said.

“I will assist her,” assured the priest.

Nina stepped back allowing the sheriff his official moment. Alston said gruffly, “Hanna Tate, Father Elias, you are hereby condemned to clean for endangering the silo. Do you have anything to say?”

At first, Elias shook his head then realized, “Hanna, I forgot to lead you in your last petition. Would you like to offer your final…”—somehow the word ‘penance’ didn’t quite fit—“…prayer?”

“Yes, Father. My last prayer is that everyone will follow us to God’s heaven.”

His heart, recently so weak and reticent, suddenly melted and was recast with a tensile strength that would last an eternity. He gripped both her hands through his thick gloves. “That is my confession as well.”

After Nina provided some final instructions about quickly leaving the airlock before it resealed, trapping them in a fiery death, Sheriff Alston led them to the hatch. He unlocked the door with a key from the cluster at his belt and ushered them inside. Nina, apologetically, placed Hanna’s helmet on first, then the priest’s, snapping them both shut then wrapping the connecting seam with protective tape. The time for words had passed. But for Elias, they were no longer necessary. He had a job to perform and he did so willingly.

Taking Hanna’s arm, Elias watched as Alston closed the hatch behind them. Together they sensed the vibration of the door slam shut, heard the klaxon horn blare out a warning, and felt the whoosh of pressure as the airlock matched the outdoors, form-fitting their suits around them. A flashing red light and the hiss of decompressed gas signaled the release of the outer door; the mix of gases and atmosphere produced a thick mist around them both.

A pale glow beckoned them through the airlock and Hanna pulled on Elias’s hand as she made her way easily through the narrow opening. Elias, likewise, had no trouble exiting the underground silo. Side by side they ascended a long cement ramp toward a red and pink-colored sky.

Arriving at the top of the path, Elias gasped. It was not quite sunrise, but the viewplate in his helmet revealed a palate of colors he hadn’t thought possible. The hill was indeed covered with flowers, deep yellow flowers on a field of dark green. And beyond the hill, castles! Beautiful and shimmering, high enough to catch the morning sun’s rays that would soon burst down upon their own bit of paradise.

Paradise! Yes! And they must clean the window so all may see it.

Hanna had already left his side and was spinning and running, clumsily because of the suit, but running, dancing, skipping among the flowers. Elias imagined her shouting with joy as she pointed to the top of the hill. Though he longed to join her in her ecstatic outburst, he knew his old, worn out frame simply could not. He also knew they needed to clean. Maybe the child had forgotten, maybe she would leave him behind and keep on skipping, traipsing to the castles in the sky. But before he could wave her back, Hanna turned and ran towards him, arms wide in carefree abandon.

She motioned to one camera; Elias indicated another. They knew their jobs and each headed to their assignment, climbing short ladders that led to muted, grime-covered sensors. Spray, scrub, wipe, apply; each utilized the contents from each pocket in turn. The directions were simple enough even if their execution took some effort. Beads of sweat trickled down his nose. Elias coughed a few times, the exertion catching up with him.

He glanced over at Hanna who was waving at the camera after every application. She motioned to whoever was watching the inner screen to come join them, pointing to the hill behind her where a fading twilight was giving way to a glorious day. The pinks and reds and oranges along the horizon were asserting themselves; the yellows and greens stretched before them were keeping pace. Surely this was a hint of heaven. Hanna had been right.

Finally, as if by mutual agreement, they both crawled down from their perches and met in the clearing in front of the earth-covered bunker. Hanna grabbed his gloved hand and started to pull him through the yellow flowers. Elias took a few steps and almost tripped, stumbling upon some hidden rock, he guessed. He coughed again and stopped to catch his breath. His viewplate shimmered and Elias blinked the sweat from his eyes.

Before him, Hanna pointed up the hill. He followed her gaze and could see the castles in the distance, golden in the sun that was about to illumine even them. The young girl pulled on his hand once more. Heaven, she seemed to say, we must make our way to God.

And so Elias put one foot in front of the other, trusting his way to paradise.

-7-

Samuel followed Jedediah, Adin, and Ester into the cafeteria where a large viewscreen projected the blurred and dreary image of the world beyond. They were alone, which was not unusual. Very few attended a cleaning; the disturbing images of dying friends were best left to the imagination. Even the mayor had chosen to remain in her quarters, washing her hands of a child’s execution, the first in the history of her silo.

The klaxon horn, muted at this distance but still alarming, caused them all to stiffen. In a few moments they would see the condemned fulfill their duties, allowing the people of the silo to see clearly once again the surface devastation wrought by their ancestors. It was a reminder the people of the silo paradoxically abhorred and welcomed.

At that moment a distant thundering of steps challenged the blaring horn and eventually gained the upper hand. The four who were standing in the open room turned to the stairwell and watched as a few individuals, then dozens, and finally scores of work-vested sweepers enter the commons area. Men and women, young and old, filed in and took positions behind the Tates in support and solidarity.

The new chief priest noted Jedediah’s alarmed reaction as the typically empty cafeteria filled to capacity. The sweepers had come in full force to witness the cleaning and there was no denying the impact they made. Samuel glanced at Adin and Ester and saw a mixture of hope and resolve steal away their grief. Samuel smiled to himself and nimbly fingered the audio device in his pocket as he caught the first glimpse of Lonni’s sister entering the viewing area.

Hanna broke away from the old man and ran part way up the barren hill, spinning, pointing. Skipping? It seemed absurd, but Samuel accepted the truth of it. When the child returned and she and Elias both made their way to the sensors, he heard Ester moan and Adin sob. Hanna’s helmet filled the screen. The crowd watched, stunned to silence, as she sprayed a liquid into the camera, scrubbed, then wiped, and finally placed something over the lens. The grime was gone, the image was much clearer. But the darkness and clouds remained. The land was brown and dead.

Her beckoning call, however, seemed enthusiastic. She pointed to the hills and the tall, broken city towers beyond, a remnant of a destroyed civilization. With all her waving, Hanna looked as if she might simply take flight and disappear into the rising sun.

All eyes in the cafeteria watched as the two of them started their path up the gentle slope. Some whispered their heartbreak as Elias nearly tripped over the remains of the last cleaner who’d died twelve years before. When the priest finally went down, most wept openly. They turned their heads when Hanna tugged at the old man, urging him to get up, only to fall down herself and crawl but a few feet before collapsing, never to rise again this side of heaven.

Samuel, however, watched it all. The joyous entrance, the enthusiastic cleaning, the stumbling toward God. The priest had clung so tenaciously to his faith, all the while worried that his role in the underground community had come to an end. Samuel remembered how, just two days before, Elias had asked if his days were long past, if the sun had already set for believers like him. The secretary hadn’t contradicted his mentor. But he recalled his answer.

“…It may be that a new day will soon dawn.”

Samuel—always truthful, always planning—closed his eyes in solemn satisfaction as the pair ended their journey together. An old priest, a young child, believers till the end.

A streak of light from the rising sun gently stroked their still, small forms. And the sweepers, as one, let out an anguished and embittered cry. A cry they’d bottled up for a generation. One that could no longer be contained.

It was, indeed, the dawning of a brand new day.

Thanks and Credits

Thanks first go to Hugh Howey for allowing (encouraging!) his fans to play in his playground. The Last Prayer is a work of fiction based on the world of Wool, a New York Times Bestseller, created by Mr. Howey. The setting and concepts original with his story are used by permission. This slice of silo life (and any shortcomings or mistakes relative to Howey’s novel) belong to me, Lyndon Perry. [BTW, names, characters, places, and incidents within this story are either the product of my imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Thought I’d lay that out there.]

Second, thanks to Jeff Parish, who designed the cover art. Jeff is the author of Jennings Grove, a modern day horror novel set in a small community in far North Texas. You should read it, it’s really good. The photograph used in the cover is by Ilya Bushuev and licensed through iStockphoto.com.

Thanks, also, to my cadre of beta readers, especially Stoney, Beth, and Steve for their constant feedback, whether on this work or others. And to Wes, who inspired me to write this piece by first posting his own silo story, The Runner. Then to Milo, Simon, and Jeff C — thanks for assimilating me into the SpecFic Authors Collective where we post free stories every month. I’m also grateful to my wife who will sit through just about anything I write as long as I tell her a day ahead of time that I’m going to read something to her. Oh, and to Dictionary dot com. What would I do without your thesaurus?

Finally, I want to express my gratitude to you, the reader. Whether you’re a fan of Howey’s “wooliverse” or stumbled upon The Last Prayer by some other means, thank you for taking the time to read this short story. If you enjoyed it and want to know what happens next in this particular silo, let me know! If you have questions, comments, or even corrections (typos or inconsistencies), drop me a line at lyngperry@yahoo.com. You can also visit my website at www.lyndonperrywriter.com and comment there. It would be most kind if you could post a review as well — both on Amazon and on Goodreads. Thanks!

Q&A About Various Things

Q. First, tell us a little bit about you.

A. I’m a middle school Language Arts teacher, part-time pastor, full-time husband, and grateful father of two living in Kansas. I write speculative fiction on the side with plans to make it a career in the next few years. So far I’ve written mostly short stories and novellas in a mix of genres but mainly speculative, including fantasy, SF, even a bit of horror. I enjoy writing humor as well. The sky’s the limit. Who knows, I might try paranormal romance one day!

Q. What’s currently in the works?

A. I’m finishing a suspense novel titled Simply Criminal featuring Ned Nbonivoy, a private eye from Detroit who hates guns, violence, and the mob. Unfortunately, he’s mixed up with all three. My science fiction novel, The Tralian Incident, is well on its way to completion, so look for that if you like space opera with a kick-butt female protag. Until then, check out the next section for a few of my current stories available online.

Q. How did you come up with the idea for The Last Prayer?

A. A few years ago I reviewed Hugh Howey’s YA science fiction novel, Molly Fyde and the Parsona Rescue. He was gracious enough to send me a free copy; we struck up an online friendship and an occasional correspondence began. When the original Wool novella started selling hundreds of downloads a day, I asked if other stories were in the works. Duh. He had plenty of ideas and one involved a class of priests. He said he might try to write a short story for the magazine I was editing. But alas, other things came up…like becoming a NY Times Bestselling Author!

So anyway, I decided to write my own version of what might happen if a priestly caste lost its influence and faith spiraled into decline. What power struggles might ensue? Would faith in something beyond life in the silo translate into open rebellion against the ruling class? This “Last Silo” series explores the tension that genuine belief in something “beyond” often causes in our lives.

Q. So this is a religious story?

A. No. It’s an open-ended “what if” that prompts readers (I hope!) to question what’s assumed. I very much intended the story to capture the spirit of Howey’s original. Wool had such an emotional impact, and while I’m not trying to duplicate that, I want the theme to be similar.

Q. What prompted you to self-publish this story?

A. When I saw another silo story pop up on Amazon, I thought, wow, here’s an amazing development. The author of a great series is allowing/encouraging fans to jump into his swimming pool. Fan fic was receiving legitimacy! So I contacted W. J. Davies, the author of The Runner, asked him a few questions, sent him this manuscript, and received such great encouragement that I decided to go for it. Plus, the fact that his story has already had over 6,000 downloads did cross my mind. [grin]

Q. Isn’t “fan fic” plagiarizing?

A. Not if the author, who owns the rights to the world he or she created, gives you the green light. I sent Howey the opening scene of this story and asked him if it “fit” his vision of silo life. His reply: “I love it. Feel free to write and publish whatever you want.”

Q. Anything to add?

A. Just that I made these questions up and asked them to myself. Thanks for reading! Feel free to email me at lyngperry@yahoo.com and say hello. Oh, and if you enjoyed this story please consider leaving a review. Very much appreciated!

Enjoy these excerpts from current projects available now or coming soon!

~*~

Coming Soon: The Last Uprising — A Silo Story by Lyndon Perry

The crowd of sweepers watched in confusion as one of their own stepped into the grim panoramic view that was projected onto the width of the cafeteria wall. The figure, in a form-fitted suit to protect her from the toxic world outside their underground silo, was spinning, running, pointing. Those who knew her could easily imagine her laughing. She was a child, after all. Her enthusiasm had been contagious.

So had her dreams. Dreams of paradise, of a heaven that awaited them on the other side of a yellow hatch door and protective airlock. She’d spoken of it with such certainty. The hatch wasn’t protecting them from the tainted atmosphere, she’d implied with her words. It was imprisoning them in their strict and stifling bunker.

“Heaven’s real. It’s just outside.” Those were her actual words. And her fellow sweepers believed them.

For that crime she’d been sent to clean.

(The Last Uprising will be available soon. Check here for updates.)

~*~

Available Now: Ulemet and the Jaguar God (A Mesoamerican Fantasy Novella)

The moon was dark rust at her untimely birth.

Ulemet’s mother had labored three days and nights, fainting in pain every few hours, and only responded to the shaman’s mixture of kakawa and sorosi when she was forced to drink. Once the elixir wore off, she would succumb to agony once again and cry out in shrieks that competed with the jungle’s nightly squawks and screeches.

When the moon rose a fourth time, dark and blood-red, she gushed forth a baby along with fetid fluids and putrefied organs. With desperate murmurs, she reached out weakly for her child. The medicine man, sneering at what the woman’s womb had cast out, thrust the limp and dying infant onto her belly. He left the dingy hut with a curt command for the wide-eyed midwife to dispose of the abomination before the sun’s rising.

Upon seeing the malformed otentzata that claimed by crying to be a baby, Ulemet’s mother keened in despair and let herself hemorrhage, praying that her spirit would quickly fly to whatever god would take her. Her father, with curses on his tongue, not prayers, abandoned his small family to the care of the attending woman and fled into the jungle. The midwife, grieving the recent loss of an only child and with breasts aching for relief, wrapped the baby, a girl she noted with indifference, in a bit of worked leather and shambled back to her own shelter.

And despite the village priest’s imprecations following the discovery of the defiant deed, the child lived.

To appease the shaman’s wrath, the Olmec village elders declared the infant zacila, one cursed-to-wander. Deformed and outcast, the child was destined to be rejected; forsaken even by the woman who raised her through her toddling years. When her breasts ran dry, the former midwife disappeared into a moonless night.

Ulemet remained and scavenged for survival by wandering the forest and from hut to hut. The village had no obligation to raise her, but some were sympathetic. Still, they mostly left the misshapen child to fend for herself until the fortunate day she would wander away into the rainforest for good. Until that day arrived, however, she stubbornly participated in village life to the extent she was allowed.

Her face marred with a twisted upper lip and a cleft head, Ulemet was ugly in a way that attracted second looks, but seldom pity. With barely a feminine feature, she was often mocked by the other children as a should-be boy. This did not stop her from attempting to join them in their childhood games, especially the ulama. But when she tried, she was frequently shoved to the side, relegated to watch as her teammates kicked the little rubber ball across temporary boundaries and through makeshift hoops.

The ulama, however, was what kept her alive.

She spent her days and many nights kicking and punting and dribbling a crudely fashioned rubber ball under the watchful eye of Uaxaca, the jaguar god of her people. When she looked into the almond-shape eyes of the stone carving near the clearing where they played, she knew the animal spirit gave her strength.

Daily, she came to the crude ballcourt in anticipation of those rare occasions when she was allowed to join in. Even then, the others would soon banish her as her shooting acrobatics often put them to shame. This prompted the older boys to slap her and kick her until she escaped to the relative safety of her jungle hideaway where she kept a small image of her god and a few other belongings. Yet Ulemet clung to the hope that one day she would be accepted, welcomed among her people. She would continue to cling to that hope until it proved to be misplaced.

The sad occasion arrived with her first bleed.

In the midst of a game in which she was told she could defend but not kick, Ulemet blocked a routine shot with her stomach. Normally, her strong muscles bounced the ball back into play, but this time she doubled over in pain. Her groin cramped and released and when she stood back up a dirty red rivulet streamed down from behind her loincloth. Her playmates laughed and pointed as she, in surprised confusion, smeared the blood along her inner thigh. Embarrassed and enraged by her embarrassment, she screamed hollow threats at the other children who only laughed the louder.

Without looking back, Ulemet dashed to her tiny hovel to gather her things. With tears streaming her face, she fled the village with only her throwing stick and an animal skin pouch hosting a few items slung over her shoulder. She ran into the jungle as fast as she could, the leather strap cutting an angle across her flat chest with each bouncing movement. Yet she needn’t have hurried for no one was chasing her. No one would even look for her. No one would miss her.

Still, she ran, forging a path where there was none, avoiding a path when she came to one. When she should have collapsed, she continued on for the pain in her lungs and legs and side dulled the pain that welled from within. Even when darkness came she kept moving blindly forward, a stumbling of legs and a flopping of arms, heedless of the danger of the jungle night.

At the point of exhaustion her instincts prevailed and she climbed into an olma tree, barely wedging herself in before immediately falling into a fitful and nightmarish sleep.

In the morning, with a suddenness of a monsoon rain, Ulemet awoke and began to weep, crying out with loud, chest-shaking sobs until the poison in her soul had bled out.

She slept once more and this time dreamed of jaguars and temples and cities of gold.

A few hours later, she looked up from her makeshift bed high in the tree into a few stray beams of light that snaked their way through an otherwise impenetrable growth. She reached into her pouch and produced a few dates and edible seeds and the jade figurine of Uaxaca, her jaguar guardian. After a thoughtless nibble or two she fingered the carving, outlining its cleft head and fleshy lips that mimicked her own broken features. It, too, was misshapen, and the comfort she found in her graven god brought a mist to her eyes.

After putting the small sculpture back in her pouch, Ulemet threw her javelin down into the jungle floor and jumped from her perch after it. For the first time in her short life she pondered her fate, what she might do, where she might go.

Zacila?

She nodded solemnly, no tears left to cry. If a wanderer she must be, then by the gods she would wander far from that hateful village. With a vague notion of discovering something more than a clan of mocking youths and elders, Ulemet once again ran. This time toward the rising sun, distant memories of stories of the golden city of Tenochtitlán giving her new strength.

(Read the rest right now! Currently 99 cents on Amazon.)

~*~

Available Now: A Lesson in War — A Sword of Otrim Story (Epic Fantasy Short)

Dawn broke in upon the stillness of the battlefield, but few broken weapons or armored plates would return the glint of the coming sun’s glare, still covered in blood and muck as they were. Around the various campfires soldiers were stirring, wisps of smoke adding a ghostly sheen to their movements. A few murmurs escaped the huddled troops, but no boasts, no cheers, no shouts for blood would be heard today; victory morning had long lost its ardor.

Otrim surveyed the camps, having awakened prior to his men to quietly assess his regiment’s surpluses and needs. He estimated their supplies would purchase another two weeks of grumbling, but his soldiers, already weary of the twelve-month crusade, could readily turn their gripes to action if given just cause. The man of war drew a sharp breath of cold air and held it. His conscience lingered over a nascent thought.

“Paeter!” Otrim kicked his friend’s saddlebag out from under his head. “You sleep late for a number two. Set the pace for your men and they will follow; lag behind and lose your place.” The jocular tone and quick laugh of the lieutenant softened the rebuke.

Jerked awake Paeter mumbled a response. “A little early for lessons in war, don’t you think?” He grabbed at his belongings and quickly readied himself for the day.

“Only for students without ambition, and I know you too well my brother to let the schooling stop before your aspirations are achieved. Come, I’ve given thought to your scurrilous proposal.”

Now fully awake, Paeter stood before his friend and leader and narrowed his eyes. “You mean you would confront Ardus –”

“I mean no such thing. But I can reason with him. This current struggle is all but over. The heathen have two, maybe three, strongholds left – to the north and west. Crush these stations and the Korreti will melt into the hills. We fulfill our charge and march home to Queen and country in victory.”

Paeter’s shoulders sagged a bit. “Your ability to strategize amazes one such as I.”

“As does your ability at sarcasm. Paeter, listen, the plan is not the thing. The risk is in the execution. I propose we split the division – two regiments head west, two stride north. You read the men aright, they are ready for home. One less battle is a powerful incentive and may be enough of a motivator to, shall we say, squelch an otherwise inevitable rebellion?” Otrim winked at his confidant. “That is, if the rumor is true that command is mine for the taking.”

Paeter slowly grinned. “Such talk would force Ardus to either end the campaign abruptly or set a dual front to vanquish our enemies. With the former the megalomaniac maintains control but goes home just shy of victory. With the latter he entrusts his lieutenants with a modicum of authority and returns to Idessa triumphant, Queen Philipa’s proudest thane. I’m betting his vainglory wins the debate.” The number two balked. “But will our armies conquer?”

“Always the optimist, eh brother?” Otrim struck Paeter’s shoulder an affectionate blow. “But, aye, that is the risk.”

“Another is that Ardus will commandeer our regiment, marching us west or north it matters not, and usurp your authority. We Leonine are not exactly overt admirers of that conniving fool.”

“‘Speak not against thine anointed,’ so the Psalmist admonishes us, Paeter. The Regiment of the Lion may be maverick but we are not disloyal. ‘Pray for those in authority that we may lead quiet and peaceable lives in all godliness and reverence.’”

“Ho, it’s a quiet and peaceable existence we’re after, is it, Otrim? I think we picked the wrong life to live my friend. See there? Another example of the impracticality of the Master’s words—” The morning trumpet interrupted a sure and certain rebuke, but a raised and serious eyebrow on Otrim’s face spoke volumes.

“Remind me, Paeter, to assign you another reading of sacred texts when our lessons resume. Your smidgen faith needs fed.” The warrior noticed a slight blush to his friend’s naturally pale complexion. “Ah, but even ‘a mustard seed can move mountains.’ Listen, the second trumpet summons the lieutenants; pray that I am persuasive. And ready the troops – we march regardless the proposal Ardus would choose.”

(Read the rest right now! Currently 99 cents at Amazon.)

Copyright

The Last Prayer

Copyright © Lyndon Perry 2013

Published by ResAliens Press

Cover Design by Jeff Parish

Content

THE LAST PRAYER
A Silo Story by Lyndon Perry

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Thanks and Credits

Q&A About Various Things

Enjoy these excerpts from current projects available now or coming soon!

Copyright