by Eisele, Kimi
“There’s no FCC,” Flash said.
Gary nodded. “The important thing here is getting Halcyon Radio back on the air, right?”
“Obviously,” Beatrix said.
“We need to increase the power of our signal. We raise our antenna higher. There are some old stations where we might find something, or we could just build a tower for the existing wire.” He looked at Flash. “Want to assemble a team?”
“I’m on it,” Flash said. Then: “Dude, you’re amazing,”
“Back at you,” Gary said.
“You’re both amazing,” Beatrix said, suddenly feeling more hopeful. “But shame on that rat bastard for talking over our frequency. We’ll sock it to him.”
Gary laughed, then frowned. “Why do you always think everyone is out to get the little guy? Or more directly, why do you think everyone is out to get you?”
Beatrix blinked, taken aback. “I don’t. But this seems pretty possible. Doesn’t it?”
“I gave you a perfectly good explanation for what likely happened, but you won’t hear it,” Gary said. “You just want to believe that Jonathan Blue is threatened by Halcyon Radio.”
Beatrix felt her face flush. She tried to think of something to say back.
“Is that because you’re measuring your own sense of worth by whether or not the radio works?” Gary said. “Because if that’s what you’re doing, you should stop it. You are already worthy. You don’t need to take down a Goliath to prove it. Or in this case, not even a Goliath, but a weirdo preacher who might not even be telling the truth.”
Beatrix bit her lip. She thought she might suddenly cry. Was he right? Was she trying to prove something? And if so, what? And, wait, did he think Blue was a liar, too?
She looked at Gary’s hands, remembering that he’d made her candle lanterns and gave her a handgun, which she hadn’t asked for but was a gesture of care, nonetheless. On top of that, he had built a radio station, essentially because she’d asked him to.
“Okay,” she said. She slowly held up a fist, and he knocked it with his own. “Onward.”
Carson woke early and stepped out to the crisp dawn. A portly gray-haired man walked toward him on the path, hands clasped at his midriff, as if he’d just received Communion. “Good morning,” he said.
Carson asked him about speaking with Jonathan Blue, and the man looked surprised. “You will hear him speak soon. He addresses us every few days.”
The woman with the unibrow came briskly down the path. “You should be reporting to duties,” she said.
The man nodded and continued on, but Carson stood, awaiting instruction. When the woman didn’t say anything, he said, “I just got here last night.”
“Oh, right,” she said, seeming flustered.
“And actually,” Carson said, “I’m here to speak with Mr. Blue.”
She looked at him quizzically.
“Meaning, I’m not here to stay. I would simply like to speak with him.” He held up his notebook. “I’m a historian. I’m writing about what has happened. And he is part of that.”
She looked him over and nodded once. “Let me see what can be done.” Then she held out her hand. “I’m Marcy. Come with me.”
She led him down a path into a meadow of drying grasses. Carson heard the rush of water, and soon they arrived at the edge of a dark creek, about fifteen feet wide. “We are blessed,” Marcy said as they watched the water for a moment. Carson wanted desperately to bathe, but Marcy kept moving. He followed her past the large dining tent, already full of Pilgrims eating breakfast. He slowed to peer in, hoping to recognize someone. Marcy led him into the smallest of the stone buildings and gestured for him to sit at an empty table in a dim room. “Wait here,” she said.
The room smelled of smoke and fresh soil. Was it a meeting room or an interrogation room? He began to regret telling Marcy why he’d come.
A set of framed photographs hung on the wall. Most prominent was a portrait of a man in his late twenties, with blue eyes and dark hair falling messily over a wide forehead. He wore a white oxford shirt and cutoffs. A skateboard was tucked under his arm. The photo was signed J. Blue. Additional photographs showed him: older, again in white, without the skateboard, still with the mop of hair, posing with families, shaking hands with other men, standing in front of a large crowd.
Also on the wall were charts listing group assignments for tasks. Each group had a name: Blue Bird, Blue Jay, Blue Sky, Blue Sea, Blue Fox, Blue Corn.
A teenaged girl wearing a shapeless blue smock over a long skirt came into the room and set a bowl of something resembling cornmeal on the table in front of him. She showed him a jar. “Berries?” she said.
“Please,” Carson said, and the girl spooned out some and sprinkled them over the cornmeal. She pulled another jar from her pocket and set it down. “Local honey,” she said. “Hyperlocal.”
“Thank you,” he said as she left the room.
He sat in silence, not knowing what to make of the last eighteen hours. He felt like he’d traveled back in time, to a place where men with rough hands worked the fields, and women did the laundry by hand, and where everyone took turns keeping the fire going at night. He ate the porridge and the berries, and thought about what he would ask Blue. He didn’t feel very prepared.
Then the girl came back to retrieve his dishes, and soon after that, Marcy returned and said, “It has been arranged. Come.” She led him to a canvas tent surrounded by a dozen women who sat knitting.
“We have sheep,” Marcy said.
“Oh,” Carson said, surprised. He looked to the women. “And what are they knitting?”
“Socks and blankets, mostly,” she said.
Upon seeing him, one woman stood up quickly from her chair, the blue blanket in her lap falling to her feet.
Marcy gestured for the woman to sit down.
It was still too warm for blankets, Carson thought, as another woman came toward him, her eyes beseeching.
Marcy quickly took Carson’s elbow and led him away. When Carson looked back, the woman who’d come toward him was still standing frozen, watching him.
Marcy pulled him along. “This way.”
Carson stayed quiet for a while, not wanting to jeopardize his meeting.
“How long have you been here?” he finally asked Marcy.
“Since a little before the darkness,” she said. “I’d been following Blue already. He had a church—or, rather, a retreat center—in Kansas way before the October Shocks, but he’s been preaching for many years.”
They arrived at a large clearing contained by a fence. Beyond the fence were grasses, creamy against the morning sky. Small mounds of dirt rose up from ground, and a high-pitched bark sounded. Twenty yards away a rodent perched up on its hind legs, its front legs gathered in front of its chest. The rodent barked again, and three others emerged, surveying the scene. Prairie dogs.
Carson laughed to himself. Did Marcy know they were standing on a prairie dog town?
Marcy’s single eyebrow rose up, as if she were lifting a hat. “Oh my,” she said, looking at the ground around them. She shrugged. “Well, he says there are no accidents.”
After days of herbal infusions, Dragon was finally able to eat a cooked apple and keep it down. Everyone hailed Maria del Carmen’s remedies and her diligence in administering them, but she herself credited Dragon’s recovery to God.
Beatrix felt some relief in that—at least she wasn’t attributing it to Jonathan Blue.
“What would we have done without you, Abuela? Healing is your superpower!” said Flash.
“Oh, stop,” she said. “But make sure he takes it easy. No riding off into the neighborhood.”
“I’ll take it easy,” Dragon said. “It feels good enough just to walk right now.”
“Your bike will be ready when you are,” Flash said.
There was no herbal remedy for Halcyon Radio, however. They’d started constructing a tower for a new antenna, but it was taking a long time
to find the rest of the parts to assemble it. Thelma was happy the cast had more time to rehearse, but Beatrix was champing at the bit. The Red Raven was idling in silence. Maria del Carmen hadn’t even met him yet.
In the backyard, Maria del Carmen pinched off golf ball–sized clumps of dough and rolled them into perfect orbs, the first step for making tortillas. Her seasoned hands moved quickly.
Beatrix reached for one of the dough balls. She rolled and stretched it, then began patting it between her palms. But the tortilla came out thick and oblong. “What am I doing wrong?” she said.
Maria del Carmen held out her hands and demonstrated the quick slap back and forth of the dough. “Evenly,” she said. “Quicker.”
Beatrix tried to do it faster, but the dough still stretched unevenly. “I was going to leave once, too, remember? But I didn’t.”
“Beatrix, you have faith in many things. I find my faith in Mr. Blue. Leave it to me.”
“But what about Rosie?” Beatrix said. “What about her faith?”
“Rosie is a child,” Maria del Carmen said. “In my care.”
“Fifteen is old enough to make your own decisions about faith. Do you know what Rosie believes?”
Maria del Carmen pulled the last tortilla off the comal and began sorting them into a dozen stacks, her lips moving, counting. When the stacks were ready, Beatrix helped Maria del Carmen wrap them in cloth for pickup, neither of them saying anything more.
“What do you want?” Rosie said when Diego’s friend appeared on Halcyon. She hadn’t seen him in months. Charlie, with his big teeth, who liked to play cards. Charlie the sidekick. Charlie, alone.
“I need to tell you something, Rosie.”
She glanced at his hands. Was he T-Rize, too? “Oh, I probably already know.”
“We stole the bikes, Rosie. From the yard. It was Diego and me.”
“What?” Rosie said. But then it started to make sense. “Wait right there,” she said. She went inside and returned with Dragon.
“Start talking, kid. Now.” Dragon’s voice was solid and stern. He hadn’t regained all of his strength yet, but he was amped up.
Flash and Beatrix joined them, and Rosie thought maybe together they were going to rough Charlie up.
Dragon leaned in to Charlie’s face. “What’s the bike-light code? The flashes—tell us what they mean.”
Charlie shook his head. “I don’t know.”
Rosie had never seen Flash or Dragon so angry. She began to feel a little sorry for Charlie. After all, here he was, doing the right thing. Diego was the one they should have been messing with, wherever the hell he was. Bastard. “Tell them, Charlie,” she said.
“Five quick flashes are T-Rize. That’s how they ID themselves,” Charlie said, the words spilling out quickly. Two slow flashes meant a chance to score. Three more quick flashes meant scatter. Yes, they wanted bikes. They had no clear leader, and new rules were made up all the time, but Charlie was never sure who was making them.
“What did you do, specifically?” Dragon asked sternly.
Charlie lowered his head.
“Speak, dammit,” Dragon said.
“I helped set some of the fires. I stole bikes.”
“Our bikes?”
Charlie nodded.
“Fuck you,” Flash said.
“Did you kill anyone?” Dragon asked.
“God, no,” he said, looking up at them, his eyes pleading.
“And where’s Diego now?” Dragon said.
Rosie’s mind flashed back to the tent, the smell of Diego’s breath, his weight upon her. She hated him. But she leaned in to hear Charlie’s response.
“I don’t know,” he said. “But I want out. I swear it. I’m done.” He turned his palms up and looked at them. “Others want out, too, but they’re scared, and most have nowhere to go.”
“Which is why they joined in the first place,” Beatrix said.
“But how can we trust you?” Flash said.
“I’ll do anything,” Charlie said.
“Plenty to do around here,” Beatrix said. “Stick close then.”
Charlie nodded vigorously.
When the others went inside, Rosie stayed with Charlie. She had questions about Diego, but Charlie looked shell-shocked and weary. The whole thing—Diego, the sex, the T-Rize—made her want to puke. “This is the worst time in history to be alive,” she said.
“Yeah,” Charlie said.
CHAPTER 12
In person, Jonathan Blue was not unlike his image in the photographs. Even in his all-white garb, he looked rugged and hearty, like a longshoreman or a fisherman. His dark hair was cropped, and a thick mustache covered his top lip. His chiseled arms reached nearly to his knees.
Marcy and another woman came and set up folding chairs for the two men and then shuffled away, their long skirts hindering their stride.
“We are so glad you have come,” Jonathan Blue said. He smiled as if he’d been expecting Carson and extended a long arm in welcome. “Sit,” he said.
Carson sat down and introduced himself. “I’m glad to be here,” he said, feeling like a guest on a talk show. It occurred to him that for any of the hundreds (or thousands?) of Pilgrims out there, this encounter would be epic: here he was, face-to-face with the man who’d lured them across the miles on the promise of . . . what exactly?
Blue’s eyes twitched a few times before settling onto Carson. “I will tell you that you already know everything you need to know,” he said. “You have all the knowledge already inside you.”
“I appreciate your time,” Carson said.
Something nearby made a chirping sound, loud and continuous. Both men turned to look. A nearby prairie dog was standing on its hind legs, calling out. Its cry was insistent.
“Such marvelous creatures,” Blue said, sweeping his hand out across the yard. “They have a lot to teach us.”
Another prairie dog popped out of a hole, sniffed the air, and let out a loud cry.
“They have a very complex communication system, you know,” Blue said. “Different calls for different predators.”
Enough about the prairie dogs, Carson thought. He was eager to get started. “So this is the Center,” he said.
Blue smiled, his eyes blinking. “In the material sense, yes, this is what we call the Center. A place of abundance in what has become a bereft world. A place where we can come together. You know, the darkness was a good thing for us.”
Carson frowned. “How so?”
“We had become pixelated. Our selves had fragmented across the globe, across an illusory web, the internet. While trying to connect us, it fractured us—we lost our sense of wholeness. How can a body hold all that information? The web sagged and broke. And then came darkness, the answer to a prayer. An invitation to return to the Center. The center of our being. The void.” Blue let his gaze rest on Carson. “Close your eyes for a moment, if you will.
“The void,” he continued, his voice droning. “You are in the void. You are the center of the void. This is an invitation to call yourself back inside. To the core. The darkness within.”
Carson opened his eyes. He wasn’t here to fall under a spell.
“It takes practice,” Blue said. “It is not comfortable at first. We all want our comforts. That is why many come here, actually. For the comforts. But it will not always be comfortable.”
“They seem to trust you,” Carson said.
“I am simply a ladder,” Blue said. “I give them a boost. I was called to help them,” Blue said.
“Called by whom?” Carson asked, noticing that Blue seemed calmer now.
“I don’t know how much you know about me, about my past.”
“Very little,” Carson said.
Blue leaned in. “And what is it that you intend to do with my story?”
“What is it that you want me to do with it?” Carson said, surprised this question hadn’t come earlier.
“Tell it as I tell it to you. Without condesc
ension.”
Carson nodded. “I can do that.”
“I had millions of followers when I was young,” Blue said, leaning back in his chair. “I did tricks, filmed them, posted them online. People liked it.” He laughed. “It’s not really worth talking about, because it was all sort of asinine, but somehow I tapped into something people wanted to look at. We all wanted to look at things to distract us. So I do not fault anyone. I, too, was seeking distraction. Measuring my worth by how many followed me. It was a particular moment in history, was it not?”
“Tricks?” Carson said, caught up in the first part of the story.
Blue shook his head. “I’m absolved of that past now,” he said. “I think I’ll leave it there.”
But Carson wasn’t sure. Why was he calling the hordes to him now? Wasn’t he still seeking followers?
“I had tapped into the zeitgeist. I was hooked in, connected, making barrels of money, with a captive audience. I had all the things, more things than I knew what to do with.” He paused and gestured to Carson’s notebook. “You could write that clichéd part of my life story with your eyes closed, and you’d have all of it right. But that’s just it—the eyes were closed. All of it became vapid. The screen was just a screen. Inside, I was lost.”
Blue’s voice sounded different than it did in the broadcasts. Softer and slower, with many pauses.
“But I wasn’t really lost. I was just plugged into the wrong technology.”
“The wrong technology?”
“Yes. We have very ancient technologies that can keep us connected. Technologies of the spirit.”
He was entering familiar territory now with concepts Carson had heard on the radio broadcasts.
“The space between the core of the Earth and the ether. This is where we live. But there is so much more than that. We are not just a strip of humanity on the edge of the planet. We are much bigger. We reach into other planets and other universes. And someday soon, we will see how. Because now there is no more interference. The gray technology is gone—the technology that muted us. Someday soon, we will make contact. We need not fear that day. It will be beautiful.”