The Silo Novels & Stories

Third Person Over the expansive grounds of Silas's mansion, nestled amidst the ancient trees that stood as silent sentinels in the night. A gentle breeze rustled through the leaves, carrying with it the scent of nature's quiet embrace. The mansion itself, a grand structure with intricate architecture, exuded an air of timeless elegance. As Nixon approached the imposing entrance, flanked by his loyal tracker team, the imposing wrought-iron gates swung open, revealing a pathway lined with meticulously manicured gardens. The gravel crunched softly beneath their feet as they advanced toward the entrance, where Silas awaited their arrival.

He noticed the change in my expression and moved to ask, but Cleo beat him to it. "How come she didn't turn?" Cleo's face mirrored the confusion I felt. Hilda added, "Why are we talking about her not turning now? How come she hasn't turned all this while? I'm pretty sure she's way past that age." Hilda had been waiting for the explanation we never gave, now roped into all of this. "She's never shifted before," Cleo explained shortly. "She's just a late bloomer, that's all. It's not a big deal—we've seen those numbers before. It's not that rare."

I step outside my building carrying the obnoxiously big Gucci duffle bag my dad bought me and I walk to the car in front of my bodyguards because I’m anxious and I really just want to reach The Cage as soon as possible... but, now that I think about it… "Shit," Silo growls as he crashes against my back because I stopped all of a sudden, "Why did you stop like that?"

Every sob felt like it echoed off the walls, making it sound even louder. After there weren’t any tears left to cry, I stood up from the ground and surveyed the cell. In the right corner, there’s a pile of hay with a blanket on it. I would assume that is the bed, and in the left corner is a metal bucket with a reeking stench coming from it. I approach the bucket with much caution, covering my nose in the prosses. As I peek over the edge of the bucket, I could feel the vomit appearing in the back of my throat. I gagged, and luckily, I didn’t throw up. The bucket is used for a toilet. It is absolutely revolting. How could they just leave it here to rot? They are supposed to dispose of it.

“The ‘master’ wants his dog back. Langston called me that. Elena funneled money to him. Who else in my circle knows that nickname? Who else had access to everything?” Aiden’s stomach turned. “You think it’s someone closer than Elena.” “I think we’ve been bleeding from the inside for years.” Silas braced both hands on the counter, knuckles white. “I built this empire on paranoia. Turns out I wasn’t paranoid enough.” Aiden reached across, covering one of Silas’s fists with his own. “Then we root it out. Together.”

the Silas-Sentry boomed. The sound was like a mountain groaning. The towering white giant before me raised his blade of sterile light. This wasn't the Silas who had whispered poetry to me in the dark of the Kernel. This was a ten-story monument to corporate order, his body a polished, featureless marble that reflected the chaos of the city with a cold, mocking clarity.

They were trying to tear apart an entire city while pretending nothing had happened at all. It was almost admirable. Almost. The town car rolled into a derelict loading bay before the heavy steel doors ground shut behind us with a metallic groan. The secondary warehouse smelled like stale concrete, motor oil, and isolation. Silas was already waiting near the freight elevator, standing with the same rigid discipline he carried into every operation. He acknowledged my arrival with a brief nod before leading me down the dimly lit service corridor without wasting time on unnecessary conversation. “Any issues?” I asked as our footsteps echoed softly against the damp cinderblock walls.

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐢𝐥𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐠𝐧

The grain silo sits alone on flat land. Twelve miles north of the safe house. No cover for three hundred meters in any direction. Whoever chose this location knew what they were doing. “He picked it deliberately,” Kade says, studying the satellite image on Jai’s feed. “Clear sightlines everywhere. Anyone who approaches, he see them coming.” “Anyone normal approaches,” Jamie says. “Pull up the interior layout.” “Converted about forty years ago. Original grain storage on ground level. Three floors added inside. Steel reinforced.” Jai highlights the structure. “One main entrance. Emergency exit on the north side. Both will be watched.”

"There hasn't been a horse on it since 1994. Margaux told me the story of my first Christmas, as a lesson. Her mother sold the last mare the winter her husband died and never mentioned it again. Name a place after the thing you can't bear to lose, she said, and you're forced to keep it." "That's grim," said Elena. "They all did it. Fenwick Ridge. Harrow Lane. Old Sable. I thought it was tradition." She almost smiled. "It took me years to see it was a habit of people who needed their paper trail to look like a memory." "Harrow Lane owns a warehouse outside the city," Sienna said. "I've watched it for six years. Trucks come twice a year and leave empty. I never found out what they take away."