The Plant

A storm is coming. I can smell the sulphur in the air. The orange horizon is darkening, the wind heavy with sand.

“Badger!” I call.

A pair of smudged goggles emerge from the lip of the convertor. Badger’s skin is worse than ever, liquid constantly oozing from peeling flesh on his forehead.

“Sound the alarm.”

He takes a moment to gaze at the sky. Then, he drops from the rusted machine and races off - a trail of dust following him.

I take one last look at the sun before the wailing siren screams out across the yard. Heads emerge, faces hidden by woollen masks and visors. Bodies shuffle from beneath generators, purifiers and every other hunk of metal. I run to the nearest machine and help a crew fix a worn tarp over the extractor fan. Around us people run to the shelter, their panic executed with the precision of routine. The metal gates rattle loudly, accompanied by the purring of taut material.

Wolf raises a gloved hand and gives a thumbs up. With that, we all make towards safety - me following last, like always. It’s a short journey, but already the air is thick with dust and visibility near impossible. We push against the wind, trudging through waves of sand. I hear the shelter door being pulled open before I see the entrance. Then a multitude of hands pull me inside. The door shuts with a metallic thud and darkness consumes us.

The smell of damp and sweat is strong, it almost overpowers the putrid sulphur that sits on the air. It takes a good few seconds before my eyes can adjust to the dim light of sputtering lanterns. The benches are filled with huddled people, uniformed by stained yellow clothing. It is cold underground, and water droplets race along the corrugated steel panels, plopping into puddles here and there. Everyone takes their place. I tally heads; twenty three, that is everyone accounted for.

“Everyone is here.” My voice rings out against the metal tunnel, eyes fixed on me. “I think winter has arrived.”

“You said we had at least 10 more cycles!” Wolf is always the first voice of objection.

“I hoped we'd have ten cycles, but everyone here knows there is no way to predict the change. Two storms in a week, I feel it in my bones - winter is here." I pause, searching for the strength to say what is needed. "We have planned for this. The summer has been long and difficult. You have all sacrificed and worked tirelessly. It is that hard work that has ensured we have enough supplies to last twice as long as last winter.”

Wolf shifts uneasily in his seat. Biting whispers from friends urge him to argue further. For them, arguing has become a reason to live - something that keeps them fighting. Good for them. There had been three suicides in the last five cycles alone.

“Moth, I think now is the time for..."

That's when I see him. Dark eyes staring back at me from midway along the left hand bench. Could it be a trick of the dim light? They look away.

Moth rises from the far bench, clad in a faded rainbow shawl and a yellow balaclava, ready to scurry off to the store room. I pay no notice, moving between the overlapping knees towards the middle of the room. I'm staring now, at smooth, pale skin.

"Are you okay?" murmurs Moth, pulling her battered face mask down.

I'm not okay. I counted twenty three present, and one of them is definitely someone I've never seen before.