SHILOH
The Cloister. Shiloh's home. Shiloh's world.
Though she's been outside before on expeditions, she can't decide if she cares for the open world much. It is terrifying in its scale, and unforgiving in its inhospitality. She can only glimpse it through a clear glass lens, her breath echoing inside her survival mask as she inhales clean, cycled air through filtered tubes. The open world rejects humanity. It rejects life itself. Even these brief exposures leave Shiloh breathless with awe, but also a renewed conviction for insular living. The outside is out there. And that's where it should stay, away from where people live.
And yet, it is difficult to forget the stories her father used to tell her. Tales of generations past, of a time when humanity and nature were in at least some degree of harmony. A time when the world was humankind's home. When you could breathe fresh, natural air. You could look up at the stars, your view of the sky unimpeded by dark clouds and a thick, polluted atmosphere. A time, a place where you could just...be.
A mythical tale. A legend. A fantasy. But it is—was—her father's fantasy. And despite her numerous misgivings, Shiloh can't bring herself to give it up.
Still, until that time when the world is humanity's domain once more, the Cloister will more than do.
It is not open. Chaotic. Unpredictable. It is a closed system. Defined. Regulated.
It is not a big place. Shiloh knows and feels this, though there are few structures in her memory to compare the Cloister to. It takes, at most, fifteen minutes to travel between its two furthest points; one being East Housing, and the other the far end of Salvage. From the electronics section of Salvage, it normally takes Shiloh twelve minutes to make the journey. Moving at a fast clip, she hopes she can cut it down to eight minutes, maybe even seven.
She passes through the main hall for the second time in the past several minutes. It's only a little crowded. The Cargo Bay is a lot like what Darvin used to refer to as the 'water cooler'. A place where people congregate, away from their daily duties, to shoot the shit for a while. Also, being the largest and most open space in the Cloister, it's where the younger children like to spend their time for most of the day, when they aren't doing chores. There's enough room for them to run and play games without getting in the way of the adults.
Right now, the kids are playing the aptly named 'First to the Top'. It's exactly like it sounds. One of the biggest, highest, most notable features in the bay is the Crane. A giant arm composed of latticed, crisscrossing metal, extending out toward the center of the bay, holding a long chain with a massive hook dangling at the end. Underneath and leading to the crane system is a metal stairway. It is iron-brown, the color of rust and old rebar. But it appears to still be secure enough. Most of the adults don't seem to mind when the kids race up those old stairs, as long as they're not pushing, shoving, or trying to climb up along the outside, clinging to the railing like jungle monkeys in the old picture books and video archives.
A couple of them notice Shiloh passing through, and turn to wave down to her from up on the stairs. Shiloh returns their waves, and their smiles, but under the surface she can feel the tension building. Time is running out. Actually, it feels like it already has run out, and she's just watching the inevitable play out.
She exits the main hall through a double-door sized opening and heads down one of the hallways. The corridor is mostly empty. She passes two people, but otherwise it's just her, the buzz of the lights, her footsteps echoing off the walls of concrete. Walls that are starting to feel more and more cramped, as if they are squeezing down, closing in on her.
Minutes pass——too many, it feels--before Shiloh is standing in front of a metal door with a laminated card which reads: 'Evelyn Keller'.
Shiloh brings up a fist, about to rap on the door with her knuckles. She hesitates. And with that hesitation, there is a sharp intake of breath, which she holds, even as the seconds pass. Her heart dances in her chest, moving to a rhythm she can feel pounding in her face, ears, and neck.
If she does this, if she goes through with this, there will be no turning back. She will have drawn a line in the sand.
If she fails, she could lose everything. But as far as she can see, she's about to lose it all, anyway. Maybe not now, or today, but soon. Gavin's influence is already too strong. If he has his way, and things continue down this trajectory, the community will be trapped here, in the Cloister, for decades and generations to come.
If there's one thing her father taught her, and that she's come to believe, it's that human beings aren't meant to live in a hole like this. Not forever.
She knocks. Three times. The metal is smooth and cold against her knuckles.
She waits. Long enough to wonder if perhaps she should knock again.
Just when she's about to, the door cracks and Evelyn's face peeks out through the gap. Wizened and matronly, with puffy, sagging cheeks, ringed with collagenic wrinkles. Her hair is still thick, though it is a shiny, silverish grey. She has it pulled back tight into a severe bun, which always makes her look older than she actually is.
“Should I put on some coffee?” she says, examining Shiloh with bright, intelligently glistening eyes. You can always see someone's actual age in the eyes. The identity of a person lies in the mind, not the body, Shiloh feels. Perhaps, as with most people, Evelyn's eyes will one day turn distant and unfocused, but Shiloh still believes they are far from that yet.
"If you like," Shiloh says. "But I'm short on time. Did Ezra pop by?"
"Seamus did," Evelyn says. "I decided to stay put for a few more minutes. Seeing as you're the one who called the meeting, I figured you might want to touch base with me beforehand."
"You were right," Shiloh says.
Now she sees that bright look in Evelyn's eyes for what it is. Curiosity.
Her living quarters are the space of one modestly sized room, if you don't count the closet-sized space for the toilet.
There's a chair next to a writing desk. A small shelf with a curated selection of books. Most of them are classics like The Illiad and Moby Dick and A Tale of Two Cities, though there's also an entire row of titles by someone named Stephen King.
Three framed pictures rest on top of the bookshelf. One of Evelyn and her late husband, Mateo. They are much younger people. In the prime of their life. At a time when the world itself was also at its prime. They are holding hands, leaning in toward one another. A horizontally stretched tree branch levitates above them in the foreground. The air is clear, and the tree's bark is a bright, papery white under the high sun. The branch is dotted with vibrant pink blossoms. Petals fall like thick flakes of snow.
Evelyn and Mateo have bright, full smiles in the picture. As bright and wondrous as the rivulets of sunlight on the surface of the creek behind them.
Sometimes, Shiloh finds herself looking into the eyes of the subjects of this picture. As if, if she gazes long enough, she can see what they saw. Feel what they felt. Know, for sure, that it was all actually real.
Next to that framed picture is one of Evelyn's two boys. Hugo and Sebastien. They are in their late teens, their backs to one of the shipping containers in the Cargo Bay, arms crossed, smiling. They both died at the same time Mateo did, on the same expedition. An unexpected SERAPHIM attack. They went too far, and into the wrong territory. The Cloister has extensive maps of where the supposed 'safe' areas are now, but not back then. Mateo and the boys probably never even saw the threat coming. After recovering the bodies, the Watch discovered none of the three had managed to fire off even a single round.
The last picture is of Evelyn next to Shiloh's father. She and Darvin had just finished planting the first tree in the greenhouse, under the UV lights. Nothing but a little, slightly wilted sapling. Not much to look at. But boy do they seem proud of it.
To be honest, Shiloh is surprised she still keeps this picture up. Mateo and the boys died carrying out Darvin's orders. Back then, he'd still been trying to access the facility to the south. It wasn't until after that tragic incident that Darvin slowly began to dial back on his efforts. Things weren't the same. Everyone blamed Darvin, and he blamed himself. Shiloh had to watch as the fire of her father's passion, stoked and blazing for as many years as she could remember, slowly ebbed and faded away. There were only embers left in his final days, never to be reignited.
But Shiloh's been standing in front of the bookshelf, staring at those pictures, for too long. Does she expect to gain some insight, gazing at this old photograph of her father? By peering into those eyes, is she to cross the boundary of death itself, and retrieve some of that strength her father once had, harnessing it for herself?
She thinks not.
There's a counter in the corner, with a plug-in burner, and a coffee maker. Two implements Evelyn uses to make most of her food. She claims she drinks coffee off and on throughout the day, and has a meager, singular meal at night, just a couple hours before bed. 'People eat a lot more than they need to, Shiloh. You'd do well to eat fewer meals. It's better for your energy, as well as your figure. You'll realize I'm right as you get older.'
She has her back to Shiloh, pouring coffee grinds out of a tin can and onto a filter.
"I assume this has to do with that Ruster Gavin and the boys picked up."
"Yes. Well, no. And yes."
Evelyn stops to look over her shoulder. "I'm waiting with bated breath, sweetheart."
Shiloh pulls one hand out of the pocket of her jumpsuit. Another wave of apprehension seizes her suddenly, as if her wrist is caught, stuck on the inside hem.
Is she going to regret this? Is it a mistake? What will happen as a result?
Her father would tell her to perform...what had he called it? 'Cost-Benefit Analysis.' You weigh the pros, and the cons. You decide what you're willing to give, and if the thing you stand to gain is enough to offset the potential cost.
Gavin will come for her in earnest. He'll find a way to push her out of the inner circle, take her power away. But there's more at stake here than her own prestige and social standing.
Besides, if she can't stand up for herself, why should she think she can stand up for the community, and for the future of mankind?
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No more deliberations. At some point, courage has to prevail. In the same way that her father believed in a future he knew he wouldn't live to see, Shiloh herself must take this flying leap into the unknown.
She pulls a tape recorder out of her pocket and sets it on the counter to the left of Evelyn. She sets her finger on the Play button and punches it down with a crunchy click. And the audio recording begins to play.
In the passing moments, as the recording plays, Evelyn pours out coffee into two ceramic mugs. She hands one to Shiloh, without making eye contact. Her gaze is distant, contemplative. Every ounce of her focus and attention is on the recording.
The tape doesn't go for very long. It starts at the point, in the mechanical bay, when Shiloh brought up the southern facility. She'd already turned on the recorder in the deep pocket of her jumpsuit. Luckily, the conversation between her and Gavin comes through loud and clear, even if it is a bit tinny and high-pitched. The slap is unmistakable. Then the back-and-forth escalates. Gavin claims he should be in charge, that maybe the Cloister could use some 'Martial Law'. This is the most crucial part of the recording, and Shiloh watches Evelyn for a reaction. Evelyn takes a good, long sip from her coffee, eyes wide, staring off at nothing.
The recording continues. Gavin criticizes the old regime further—as well as the current regime. He comes on to Shiloh. She turns him down, and that's when the exchange goes from fiery hot, to freezing, as they both create distance with each other, setting the boundaries. But the intentions are clearly communicated for both, and the truce, if one can call it that, is temporary.
The recording ends with Shiloh's last words to Gavin. "It is a promise. Believe it."
Click.
The Play button on the recorder snaps back up to its original position. Evelyn finally turns her attention to Shiloh. She takes a long, slow slurp of coffee. Outside, there's the padded echo of multiple pairs of boots traveling down the hall. They are quiet, loud, then quieter again.
"Is there any particular reason you've chosen to show me this?" Evelyn asks. She looks at Shiloh over the rim of her mug. Plain-faced. Eyes flinty.
Something about that look puts the hairs all down her back on end. She hopes Evelyn can't see how unnerved she is.
She leans against the counter, holding up her cup as if she might take a sip, though coffee is the furthest thing from her mind.
"I'm in a corner, Evelyn."
"I can see that. Gavin's going to appeal to the Board to have the Watch's purview expanded. They'll give him powers he's never had, before. God knows what he'll do with them. But he's done a fair enough job, so far."
"You're seriously going to justify this behavior?" Shiloh says. She's making a conscious effort to keep her voice at an even keel. She can't afford to flip out. Let Gavin be the crazy one. But she needs to stay in control.
"Not at all," Evelyn says. "But the reality, whether you like it or not, is that Gavin has been indispensable to the Cloister for a long time now. He has little fear for the outside, and without his expeditions we wouldn't have half the resources and tech we have now. We wouldn't even have the Walker. And without the Walker, no one's getting out of this place. To get it, you would have to go through him, anyway."
"What does the Walker have to do with this?" Shiloh says. It's a pointless denial. She knows it even as she says it.
Evelyn sets down her cup, with a gentle tap of ceramic mug against ceramic tile. The movement is slow, cold, and calculated.
"Don't play games with me," Evelyn says. "The Walker is everything. It's the last bastion humanity has, should the Cloister fall under attack. It's the only way out of here. And Gavin's not going to let you take it. So what are we talking about?"
"But that's why I came to you. If we can convince at least one other member of the Board-"
"Miss Darvin," Evelyn cuts in. Sharp, in the tone of a reprimand.
To Shiloh, who has looked up to Mrs. Keller her entire life, it's not unlike a slap. For a sliver of a second, she is rendered childlike. She can't help but feel like she's misbehaved by contradicting the older lady. Still, the transformation is brief. She sloughs off that emotion, shedding it like an old coat that doesn't fit her anymore.
Still, she decides to let Evelyn finish out her rebuke.
"Let’s not dance around the issue," Evelyn says. "This thing between you and Gavin is a conflict of interest. Your focus is outward. His focus is inward. It is a difference of ideology. Let's not make it out to be anything more than that. It's just politics. The question you should be asking is, what's in it for me? Why should I help you?"
Shiloh stares at Evelyn. It's like she's looking at her for the first time. This old, harrowed lady with her tight posture and severe expression, and so many wrinkles.
It's as if something has been pulled back and Shiloh is being given a glimpse into the interior. It's not a lie, the outside. It's the truth. But so is the inside. And the inside is the part that Evelyn has kept locked away. Perhaps for Shiloh's benefit and the rest of the community, and perhaps for her own.
But something's changed. The shift in the status quo has triggered this. There is a new avenue for adaptation. A new way for Evelyn to process her sorrow.
Or maybe this is how she's always seen it. Since the death of Mateo and her sons, at least. She's always had this conviction of where the blame should be laid, and what the future of the Cloister should be.
"He wants to make me his wife," Shiloh says.
"Then say no," Evelyn says. "Carter popped the question to me a year after Matteo died and I told him to go outside without a mask. You can do the same. You're a grown woman, Shiloh. You're an adult, act like one. Stop letting him push you around. Grow up, already. You act like it's so strange for him to be interested in you. But there's only so many young ladies in this place to go around. We live in a concrete box, for God's sakes. It does things to everybody, especially the men. You can't discount that."
"So," Shiloh says. "You agree that we don't belong here."
Evelyn doesn't answer right away. Her expression is stiff and unmoving. But there's something going on behind the eyes. It's as if there decades of memories are playing out behind her irises.
"There was a time," she says, slowly, "When almost everyone here in the Cloister would agree with you. They would stand with you. There was a time when there wasn't one person here that didn't want to get out. There was a time when we believed there was a better world out there, worth striving for. But it's been decades, now. A lot of those people are old. A lot of those people are already dead. And the young ones, the ones coming up, they don't remember what it was like. They don't remember the way things used to be. We've been down here so long, it's become normal. And if there's one thing that people are terrified of the most, it's the unknown. They don't want to leave. They don't want to change. And the idea that you can fix that, that you can reverse the entire mindset of this community on a dime...I'm telling you, it's a mistake."
Shiloh sets down her coffee. "You say that as if it's viable to live down here in the long term."
"Perhaps. But we can't survive out there, either. Your attempts to pursue a dead man's dreams are going to fracture what community we have left. Destroy the resources that we have and alienate the people that are going to keep us alive. And I don't even think you realize that's what you're doing."
A dead man's dream. That's all she has to say about it. Decades of work and sacrifice. Decades of helping and protecting everyone. Decades of trying to save humanity and the world.
It's everything Shiloh's ever feared. To be confronted with the fact that nothing her father did mattered, and that none of the values and priorities she inherited from him mattered either.
Couldn't she see? The world was fucked. Humanity was going to dwindle and die, no matter what. So why even try? Why even put up a fight?
Well. Because it's the right thing to do. That's why. It is not scientific, perhaps even rational, to say so. But it is true.
Not that logic has a role in this, at this point. Shiloh expected Evelyn to be sensible. By operating on that assumption, she's walked directly into an intellectual brick wall.
It doesn't make any sense. Does Evelyn not see it, or does she just not want to see it?
"You think I haven't considered the risks?" Shiloh says. "Of course I have. That's the whole point. Don't you know what's going to happen to us if we stay down here? Not just spiritually. I'm talking about the fucking gene pool, here. Is that really the world you want to exist? Or do you just not care because you're so old you think you're never going to have to see it? "
"I should kick you out for that," Evelyn says. Her eyes are glinting, moisture settling in the corners. "But there's a reason I waited to speak with you alone. I've been around long enough to know things are about to change, around here. And I've known you long enough to predict what you might try to do. It's my responsibility to finally put this to rest."
Shiloh has half a mind to walk out right now. Because maybe there's still time to pivot. To try something else. Even if she's not sure what, yet.
"Do you know what you're really afraid of?" Evelyn says. "Almost as much as your father was?"
She's close now, leaning toward and somehow over Shiloh, though they are about the same height. She's braced, one hand gripping the edge of the counter, using her arm to gain a little bit of height, and perhaps strength as well.
Every part of her is trembling. Just a little. Her jaw is clenched, her brow is furrowed. But she is shaking.
"It's over," she says, barely louder than a whisper. As she speaks, her eyes seem to look through and past Shiloh, as if the words are not actually meant for her, not entirely. As if she's reciting some creed for her own edification. "Whatever the world was, whatever it used to be. It's done. Whatever humanity was, whatever we used to be, we're done too. For all we know, we are the last, and we're not going to be here for that much longer.
"You don't want to face reality. Fine. You're young, and your father was young at heart. Young people are supposed to dream. But that's all it is. It's just a dream. So leave me out of it."
With that, she deflates. Still defiant, but not quite so in Shiloh's face. The message has been delivered. If not the message Evelyn must have intended it to be. This display. It's not one of strength, but grief.
Even after all these years, Evelyn grieves. And why shouldn't she? She has that right. It's almost a wonder she's never laid the deaths of Matteo and her sons at Shiloh's feet, as illogical as that would ultimately be. Darvin may have given the order, but it had still been Mateo's decision to carry it out. He and his sons knew what they were potentially getting into.
In terms of brutal facts and logic, it is irrational to place all the blame on Darvin for what happened.
But grief isn't always rational, and it is not so easily quieted. It's been many years since those deaths, and during those years, Evelyn's had plenty of time to think about how it happened, and why, and to imagine how things may have gone differently. In the end, who should she blame? In the end, what sense can be made of what happened?
Mateo believed in something. He believed in a future that he tried to help create. And that future never came. His death was for nothing.
How do you process something like that? Where do you put it?
No. Shiloh doesn't blame Evelyn at all. She empathizes. She wants to understand. Shiloh isn't operating based on her fear and anxieties; or at least, not just that. It is courage and hope which drives her, now. She just needs Evelyn to see that.
Hope is contagious, after all. Hope is the reason why the people of the Cloister believed in and followed Darvin, and for all those years. In the times when their hope was not enough, Darvin supplied the rest.
There's a strength of will that comes with faith. Shiloh has felt it.
When her father was alive, she'd believed she got that strength from him, that it flowed from him to her like energy in a conduit. But now she believes that perhaps this was only partly true. Perhaps she has some of this strength of her own, and has all along.
"That Ruster Gavin brought in," Shiloh says. She moves on to the next topic—her next point, really—as if this is a round table meeting, and not every voice has been heard yet. "He came from the south. On foot."
Evelyn takes a step back. "Is that supposed to mean anything to me?"
"My dad said that there was a facility to the south with models that had been put into hibernation. If this is one of those models, and he was right about that, then maybe he was right about the rest of it."
"You're free to believe it, if you wish," Evelyn says. Her eyes are weary and dark. "You can walk that path of death. But I'll do what I can to make sure you don't take anyone with you. I'm not sure I can be any more clear than that."
So that's it, then. Even if she could prove it was true, that humanity had a potential future, Evelyn would still choose the Cloister. She really has lost hope.
Well, this has been a colossal waste of time.
But at least now Shiloh knows. What she should make of it, and what exactly she should do next—that, she doesn't know.
She's almost ashamed to realize she hadn't just wanted Evelyn's help. Part of her wanted Evelyn to take over. To shoulder the burden of it. To be the strong, ruthless figure she always imagined her to be.
It's always better to be disillusioned sooner rather than later.
Shiloh should see herself out. She needs space. She needs to think. While there's still some time.
She grabs the tape recorder off the counter. Just as she slips it into her pocket, there's a sudden, electronic beep from just outside Evelyn's door, and the crackle of radio static.
Shiloh and Evelyn exchange questioning looks.
The moment drags, as if slowed down. A slideshow, played frame by agonizing frame.
But then the inertia kicks in.
Shiloh makes it to the door in two quick bounds. Her hand finds the latch. She pulls, and swings the door wide.
Miles stands directly in front of the open door, facing it, eyes wide and brows elevated in a snapshot of 'fight-or-flight'. She's caught him somewhere between the two. If she's honest, she's not sure how to handle the situation yet, herself.
In one hand, Miles holds the chattering walkie-talkie. And as the awkward seconds pass, Shiloh realizes he's more interested in the words coming through the radio than the fact he was just caught eavesdropping.
"...repeat, this is not a drill, every woman and child must be escorted to the Safe Rooms. Every able-bodied man must report to the Armory for instructions, every Board Member must report to Surveillance. I repeat, this is not a drill-"