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Carlos is running before Cecil finishes his closing statements.
He throws as much equipment as he can carry in a bag, heaves it over his shoulder, and spits out a warning to his lab assistants:
“Get out of Night Vale. Stick to the back roads, they probably won’t find those. Don’t wait for me. I’m getting Cecil.”
He’s out the door and in his car before his team can protest, tires squealing over asphalt. The station isn’t far but it’s still too far, and every extra moment that it takes Carlos wishes more and more that he’d won the teleportation lottery last month.
He doesn’t know what they’re doing. But they’ve taken down Station Management, and Cecil is at their mercy.
He drives faster.
There is no fire, no swirling vortex or mysterious glowing cloud, and Carlos is more frightened than he has ever been in Night Vale. The flyers are everywhere, sickly yellow and jarring against the dull, municipally approved shades of the buildings. The sound of helicopters fills the air, beats against his ears, and Carlos wants to pull over and curl into a ball and dream that he’d never left New York.
The memory of Cecil’s terrified, nervous laughter over the radio spurs him on.
When he gets to the station and starts to pull into the parking lot, his car explodes. No, not explodes- he’s crashed. Into air, apparently.
He shakes off the crash, ignoring the burning on his chest where his seatbelt has cut into the skin, and stumbles out of the car to investigate.
Surrounding the station on all sides is a- a bubble, sort of. If bubbles were solid as diamond and emitted small electric shocks when touched. He snarls in frustration and makes to get back into the car, to crash against the barrier again and again until he gets in, gets to Cecil…
“Carlos,” someone says. He turns.
A young woman, more solid than the last time he’d seen her but still a little fuzzy around the edges, is standing behind him.
“Dana,” he says.
“It’s too late,” she says softly. “They took NVCR. They took everything.”
A sob escapes and he whirls around, pounds on the field surrounding the station. “You’re wrong,” he growls. “CECIL!”
Of course there is no answer. Just the howl of the wind, the buzz of approaching yellow helicopters, and the desperate voice in his ear:
“Carlos, we have to go. Please.”
“No,” he says, still beating helplessly on the wall. His knuckles are bleeding, but he hardly notices. “No, no, I can’t, Cecil, CECIL-”
Dana grabs his hand.
There is darkness, and then there is a mountain. A great, tall mountain, with a steadily blinking red light half covered by fog somewhere up near the top. He drops to his knees and stares, because Night Vale is gone. Cecil is gone. There is fog surrounding him, and in the fog he can see figures: his lab assistant, Kara; Tamika Flynn, clutching a machine gun in one hand and a teddy bear in the other; and a little boy with Dana’s eyes and nose.
“Where are we?” he chokes out. Dana, who looks much more solid, kneels down next to him and touches his shoulder gently.
“We’re safe,” she says. “We’re safe.”
***
Carlos added another pin over Big Rico’s and dragged a bit a string across the map, connecting it to the site where Josie’s house had once stood. By his calculations, StrexCorp helicopter 3A followed the path every day from the hours of 1:00 pm to 11:00 pm, switching off with copter 2B. He stood back and glanced over the map, noticing with a twinge of annoyance that there were hardly any safe areas left; they’d have to stick to navigating the subway systems when they ventured outside. Tamika would be angry- she hated the subways. He couldn’t really blame her.
“Carlos?”
He jerked, still not used to the sound of his name stretched over hundreds of dimensions. “Yeah, Erika?”
“Dana needs you. The show is starting soon, and she needs an update on the helicopter routes.”
“Yeah. Okay. Tell her I’ll be right there.”
Erika’s hundreds of tiny black eyes glowed briefly, and they inclined their head. “She knows.”
“Right. Um, thanks.”
They’d found Erika during the third week, lying in a perfect circle of ash and some unidentifiable element that Carlos honestly hadn’t wanted to examine too closely. At first they’d been scared the angel was dead. Their eyes had been dim and void, and their wings were- scorched wasn’t quite the word, but it was as close as he could get.
From his far-off Catholic past, Carlos had remembered tales of fallen angels, and shivered.
But when he’d reached out to touch the blackened wings, Erika had burst to life with a sound that was a little like a trumpet call except not very much at all, and shrunk back from his hand in what could only be fear.
Everyone had frozen- except for Dana. Dana, who had moved forward in a kind of daze, her hand outstretched loosely and tears streaming from her eyes. The rest of them had watched, struck dumb and cowering, as Dana reached out and brushed a shaking hand to the angel’s forehead.
Carlos did not remember what had happened. Only that it had been equally beautiful and terrifying and that he had dreamed about it for weeks afterward.
After Dana’s gesture of peace, Erika seemed to have joined their cause. But the angel was not well. Their powers were heavily diminished, and for the first few days they had hardly been able to move. They had gotten stronger over the past several weeks, but their wings had stayed stiffly plastered to their back and their head drooped with some dark, heavy burden that Carlos recognized easily enough as failure of the worst kind.
(He had his suspicions- StrexCorp’s takeover, great battles that had been lost in heaven, Josie. But it wasn’t like he could just ask.)
An angel was good to have around, even without some of their heavenly powers. Erika and Dana had formed a peculiar bond, which was almost certainly related to Dana’s…condition, but could have just been the junior broadcaster’s undeniable charisma.
And that was another thing- with Erika in the picture, an idea, barely formed and seemingly impossible, had become reality. It had been Tamika who’d thought it up, one night while they all huddled around the small battery-powered radio Carlos had snuck from his lab in those first few terrifying hours. They had been listening to Kevin, the new NVCR host, spew StrexCorp’s lies over a jarringly cheerful soundtrack when Tamika had growled, “We need a new show. Not this bullshit. The people need a real Voice.”
It was a good plan. A way to strike back, to let Night Vale residents know that the Strex regime wasn’t the usual chaos and misery, but something new.
Of course, the logistics were hard to overcome. They had no station, for one: NVCR had been taken over by StrexCorp in the early hours of the invasion, and storming a building which contained both Strex lunatics and a captive Station Management was...inadvisable.
But then Erika had fallen, and suddenly little things like physics stopped mattering so much.
After they’d been coaxed into a tentative friendship, Erika had been remarkably helpful. One day they mountain residents had woken up to find an old-fashioned but presumably functional radio mic propped up on a desk. It was not plugged into anything, but the red light near the top blinked steadily, so Carlos had assumed it worked.
Erika had helpfully explained the broadcasting process- they would broadcast the program directly into the mind of anyone in Night Vale who needed it, and avoid airwaves altogether. Efficient and, more importantly, untraceable. Carlos wasn’t sure how it worked, but Erika had fallen from heaven. So.
And people had come. At the end of every program they gave directions to their little group hidden away in the mountain, and citizens had finally started to escape. Michael Sandero had come first, babbling incomprehensibly in Russian and leading a group of four of the NVHS football team behind him. Cactus June had followed, clutching tightly to her small, bearded child and sobbing, begging them not to take Champ away from her. Carlos had thought of the child’s father and wondered, but did not ask.
It wasn’t something he’d ever imagined for himself, leading a motley crew of rebels against a force of terrifying power, but he couldn’t imagine leaving. And everyone trusted him for some reason, listened to him above all others- but of course they did. He was Perfect Carlos the Scientist. And everyone’s first choice for leader of the rebellion was missing.
(They’d named their little group the Voice. It had been the unanimous choice, and the obvious one.
“People will trust us,” Dana had said, as everyone carefully avoided Carlos’ eyes. “Like they trusted him.”)
Dana hosted the radio program. It had become clear immediately why she had been Cecil’s favorite- her voice was smooth and calming in her own way, with an undeniable pull. But Dana was not well, and Carlos worried about her often. Though she seemed to be residing mostly on their plane of existence, she was still sometimes not…there.
Erika coughed politely, jerking Carlos quite effectively out of his thoughts as the floor trembled and the lights flickered in response.
“Yeah, sorry, I’m going,” he said, rubbing a hand through his hair. It was getting long again- not that there was anyone around to notice. (Shut up don’t think about him focus.)
Scrawling a few last minute notes on his pad, he stumbled out of his makeshift lab and into the tunnel that led to the broadcasting room.
Their base was buried deep in the mountain under a sizeable chunk of rock. There were hundreds of rooms and even decent plumbing and electrical systems, though Carlos had no idea where they could have come from. He’d asked Dana, but she knew just about as much as he did.
“The man in the tan jacket was here when I got to the mountain,” she’d said, shrugging. “He told me I would need this place if the worst happened. I guess he was right.”
Dana’s broadcasting room was near his lab. She had unconsciously set it up quite like the NVCR booth, with a large desk (“Plenty of room for cowering from Management, dear Carlos!”) and mountains of reports stacked around her at all times. Dana took her work very seriously, despite Carlos’ many warnings to take it easy.
Coming to the end of the tunnel, he pushed open the door to Dana’s office and stepped inside.
Dana was leaning over the desk massaging her temples, eyebrows drawn together in obvious pain. He shut the door gently, frowning when Dana didn’t react.
“Dana? How’re you holding up?” he asked softly. The former intern’s head snapped up, and she scrubbed a weary hand over her eyes.
“Fine,” she mumbled, smiling tightly. “But, uh…the transparency is back. I mean, that’s pretty evident, I guess.” She held out one dark, trembling hand; the red blinking light of the mic shone right through.
“Shit,” Carlos muttered, grabbing his bag from the side table and sliding into a chair across from her. “How are you feeling? Tired? Any memory problems this time?”
“No,” she said. “I mean. No to the memory thing. Yes to the tired thing.”
He frowned, glancing at her desk. On top was a half-eaten sandwich and an untouched apple. “You haven’t eaten.”
“I don’t need to, Carlos.”
“Yes, you do. I know you don’t feel hunger anymore, but you’ll die if you keep this up.”
“I’m trying.”
“I know.” He touched her wrist lightly; his hand didn’t pass through, but he could barely feel the warmth of her skin. “You up for the show tonight?”
She sat up straighter and glared at him. “Of course. I’m a professional.”
“You’re a kid,” he reminded her gently. She snorted.
“I’m nineteen. Besides, none of us are kids anymore. Not even Tami.”
“Still,” he said, feeling a little sick himself. “You shouldn’t feel obligated to do this. I can take over for the night if you need me to.”
She smiled at him, affection tinged with a touch of pity. “Carlos, honey. No offense, but all Cecil’s talk about your “oaky tones” was more out of love than any-”
She froze; Carlos had stiffened and pulled away, busying himself with his bag. Immediately her face crumpled.
“Sorry,” she said. “Sorry, I’m so sorry. Carlos-”
“No,” he said quickly, avoiding her gaze. “It’s fine. It’s okay.”
The silence stretched between them, thick and unbearable. Eventually Dana sniffed, and said hoarsely, “I miss him.”
They didn’t talk about it.
Since that first night, when Carlos had curled into himself and sobbed until his body gave out, no one had dared to bring up Cecil. Carlos preferred it that way- he could focus better when he wasn’t thinking about it, and dwelling wouldn’t help anyone.
But Dana had been Cecil’s friend. One of his best and only friends, probably. With the exception of Carlos, Cecil had never trusted easily, and lived a fairly solitary life. Dana and Josie had been the only two acquaintances Carlos had ever heard Cecil speak of with real affection.
He owed Dana more than his silence.
“Yeah,” he said, clearing his throat when it came out a little choked. Dana looked up, shocked. “I-me too. Miss him, I mean. I…”
It was all he could get out. Dana shook her head and smiled, dark eyes sad and misty.
“It’s okay,” she said. “Thanks.”
He busied himself with taking readings. Dana’s pulse, as far as he could tell, was normal, as was her blood pressure and temperature. She just…wasn’t there.
Frustrated, he shoved his medical supplies back into his bag. He wasn’t a medical expert by any stretch of the imagination, but he’d learned to keep a well-stocked first aid kit, and their shelter was hurting for doctors.
“I’m sorry,” he said miserably. “I don’t know how to treat this. Hell, I don’t know what to do about anything here.”
She placed a gentle hand over his; he barely felt the weight. “You understand more than you think,” she said. “Otherwise the Strexheads wouldn’t consider you such a threat.”
“Yeah,” he said weakly. “At least I’ve got the wanted posters to remind me of my worth.”
She laughed; it hadn’t really been a joke, but Dana laughed at the same kinds of things Cecil did, so he didn’t really mind.
“Three minutes to air!” a voiced bellowed. Brandon stuck his head in the door and grinned at them. “Your voice get its beauty rest, sis?”
“Shut up,” Dana snapped, rolling her eyes. She reached to her desk and grabbed the apple from her uneaten dinner, tossing it to her little brother. “Eat that.”
He hesitated, cradling the fruit reverently. “You sure?”
Hers eyes went soft. “Yeah. You look hungry.”
He shrugged. “We’re all hungry. But thanks.” Biting into the apple with an audible crunch, Brandon wandered back out the door, probably to look for Tamika. He’d been one of her lieutenants during the Summer Reading Program disaster and they’d hit it off pretty well afterward. They were leading the other kids in town raids, searching for recruits and supplies.
“We need to make another food run,” Carlos muttered, scribbling the note onto his hand. If their situation had a bright side, it was that writing utensils were no longer banned.
“How?” Dana asked, glancing over the map he’d set on the desk. “They’ve covered every store and most of the restaurants, and no one even knows where Jerry from Jerry’s tacos is.”
“There’s been a lot of disappearances lately,” Carlos noted. Dana nodded and squeezed her eyes shut; her mother was still on that list, as was Tamika’s.
They’d all lost people to StrexCorp.
Suddenly, with a muffled pop, Erika appeared over Dana’s shoulder. Carlos yelped and nearly fell back in his chair. Dana laughed and shot Erika an appreciative grin.
“Sorry,” said Erika, not sounding very sorry at all. “Are you ready, Dana?”
“Yeah,” Dana said, grabbing a leaflet of papers from a pile on her desk. “Let’s go.”
***
“Hello, listeners. The helicopters continue to fly, and we continue to huddle-but somewhere, drifting among the angels and smelling of unsalted cornbread, there will always be hope. Welcome to Night Vale.”
Carlos settled in to listen to the show. He would, as always, be making his report on the air- he insisted on doing it himself under the guise of reminding Night Vale citizens that there was a whole team working underground for liberation.
Really, he was just hoping to reach one particular set of ears.
Dana went through the news quickly, knowing that every moment meant more strain on Erika and more of a risk to their group. Big Rico’s had been replaced with a chain pizza joint and no one had seen Rico in three weeks. A new third party candidate had been introduced to the election and endorsed by StrexCorp- they were (of course) the new favorite to win.
And still no sign of: Josie, John Peters, Carlos’ lab assistants Mei and Alec, Tamika’s siblings and parents, or Dana’s mother.
Or Cecil.
“Remember, Night Vale: come and huddle with us. Any subway station will lead you to a member of our organization. We cannot promise you safety, but we can promise a life outside of Strex.
We speak for the angels.
We speak for You.
We are the Voice.
Good night, Night Vale. Good night.”
***
“That was a good show,” Carlos said. Dana smiled at him wearily, stretching. Her back cracked with a painful sounding pop.
“Thanks,” she said. “Nothing as poetic as what would usually go down, but I’m still working on my writing.”
“…Cecil would be proud,” Carlos offered, and the outrageously happy grin that pulled at the corners of Dana’s mouth was worth the pain.
“Thank you,” she said genuinely. “That’s…all I want, really.”
Then the (fake) watch on Carlos’ wrist beeped, and Dana scowled.
“Time to listen to Kevin’s bullshit,” she muttered, slumping against the table. Carlos reached for the little radio and flicked it on, spinning the dial to the familiar station. The usual pre-Cecil programs had been suspended, replaced with ad after ad for StrexCorp owned businesses. Carlos much preferred the indecipherable screams and monotone recitations of the phone book.
They listened to WTNV every night, despite how irritating the entire thing was. Kevin freaked him out, if Carlos was being honest. But was important to keep up with what the enemy said, and Kevin was their only real link to the events inside their town.
Finally the last ad aired (Wal-Mart, and didn’t that just make sense?) and there was a beat of dead air. Carlos braced himself for Kevin’s grating voice.
Then the broadcast started, and he stood up so fast he knocked his chair over. He fumbled for the volume dial with shaking hands, hardly daring to hope-
“Hello, listeners.”
It wasn’t Kevin.
“The world is good, and the reward is plentiful for all those who do their part.”
Somewhere over the buzzing in his ears, Carlos heard the soft flutter of wings and felt himself being lowered gently back into his chair. Everything had taken on a blurry edge, and for one bizarre moment he wondered if he’d caught Dana’s transparency- but no. He was just crying.
Crying. He hadn’t done that in a while. Not since-
“Cecil,” Dana breathed. The radio crackled, turned to static for a long moment, and then-
“Welcome...to Desert Bluffs.”