J. Mitchell - Midnight City

“What is it?” a groggy voice asked from the other side of the fire. Mira was awake, looking at him with her green eyes laced with the ever-growing black tendrils.

“A rebel station,” Holt said. “Kind of far off, so it’s staticky… but we’re getting it.”

A lot of survivors ran rebel radio stations throughout North America, broadcasting a variety of content that was mostly rebellion-oriented. Some of them had managed to power up the older existing radio towers that dotted the landscape’s urban ruins, but most were mobile. Smaller, hastily constructed transponders made by the more industrious and electrically inclined. They had a limited range, but what they lacked in power, they made up for in the ability to move and avoid Assembly gunships from homing in on their signals. Of course, Holt figured the Assembly could pretty easily find them if they wanted to. The reality was they probably just didn’t care.

“I know this.” Mira climbed out of her sleeping bag and sat up, listening intently. “‘In the Fen Country,’ by Vaughan Williams.” The strings continued to pulse and meander around them, swelling and fluctuating in their battle with the static of the weak signal. “My dad loved Vaughan Williams, he played this one all the time.”

“What was he like?” Zoey asked. Holt studied Mira along with the little girl. Max had given up on getting any more jelly beans, and was lying at Zoey’s feet, letting her rub his head. Holt wondered if Zoey could feel whatever emotions Mira was feeling right now.

“I was only ten when the Assembly came. It’s terrible how fast the memories fade.” Even though the thoughts made her smile, her eyes didn’t lose their haunted look. “I’ve held on to… glimpses of him, just images, really: making pancakes, or writing, or working in his garden. He used to set me on his lap in the car and let me pretend to drive. My mom hated that—I guess she thought it was dangerous—but I always felt safe with him. I think she did, too. When the Tone took him, took both of them, they just… left me. Left me and walked away.”

Holt looked off into the night at that last bit. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Zoey switch her gaze from Mira to him.

“Neither of them would ever have left me like that,” Mira continued. “It was like watching who they used to be die.”

Holt looked at Mira, and she at him. They held their gaze, mutual understanding passing between them. If he hadn’t been connected to Mira before… he was now. Holt felt the frustration build. How was he going to do what he needed to do? Survival dictated it, but…

Mira looked back at him sadly, like she could sense his feelings almost as well as Zoey could.

The music built into an outpouring of emotion and sound, climaxing in the air around them. And then it receded, faded, withdrew. Holt and Mira were still staring at each other when the voice of the radio station DJ emerged from the static.

“Kid Cryptic, Cryptic Radio, broadcasting whenever and wherever he can,” the rapid-fire voice of a young boy said from the other side, across who knew how many miles of wasteland. “On the road to Midnight City this week, and if you’re hearing this, I’d bet you’re walking the same path. May our trails cross, and our journeys intertwine, my brothers and sisters.

“That was another classic from Cryptic Radio’s very limited music collection. We got more tunes coming your way, pretty much the same from last hour, but before we hit that, got some news from the rumor mill. As always, take it with a grain of salt. Further the truth travels, the more a story it becomes.”

Zoey got up and moved to Mira, sat in her lap. Mira smiled and ran her fingers through the little girl’s hair. Max padded over and sat next to Holt, his chin on his paws, and Holt scratched his ears.

“I keep getting reports from survivors and traders coming from the south that west of the Chicago ruins, there’s a lot of strange Assembly activity.”

Boy, was that the truth. Holt and Mira exchanged glances again as the voice continued.

“Kids are reporting seeing not just massive numbers of your average, everyday walkers… but also ones painted a solid red. Yeah, if I hadn’t heard a multifarious quantity of reports of the same thing, I wouldn’t believe it either, but this DJ keeps hearing the same damn thing over and over. To make matters worse, most reports say these red Assembly don’t get along very well with our home team. Hey, if we’re lucky, maybe they’ll wipe each other out.

“One thing’s for sure, something bad’s going down out in Assembly land, and anyone hearing this would be advised to stay away from the Chicago Presidium’s territory for now. I’d find an alternate route, or just sit tight until it all passes over. Whatever it is.”

“No kidding,” Mira said. Zoey looked up at her.

“In the ‘good news’ category,” the voice continued, “Kid Cryptic has a target lock on a whole new set of CDs. I know, I know, I always say that, but this time, the trading source seems legit. And hopefully we can get something else to play besides the old school… not that there’s anything wrong with that. I love me some strings.

“Remember, stay alert, stay alive, do what you gotta do to survive. Kid Cryptic is out.”

The signal filled with static as the voice vanished. And then new music floated out from the speakers. Classical again, but older this time, with a very specific rhythm that came in sets of threes.

Holt smiled, recognizing it. “It’s a waltz,” he said.

“What’s a waltz?” Zoey asked.

“It’s an old song made for dancing,” he said. “It has a certain beat, can you hear it?”

The music pulsed and moved in triplets. Zoey listened.

“One-two-three, one-two-three, one-two-three, hear it?” he asked the little girl. Zoey nodded, smiling and reclining further into Mira’s arms.

“My mom was a dancer before she met my dad.” Holt hugged his knees into his arms. “She taught me and my sister how to dance the waltz once. We were little, we stood on her feet while she did the steps.”

“What’s a dance?” Zoey asked immediately.

The question took Holt by surprise. Then he realized if Zoey didn’t know music, she definitely wouldn’t know what dancing was.

The music continued to churn around them. It had been a long time, maybe years, since he had heard any form of it, and it made Holt smile. The difficulties of the past few days, the pain in his muscles, the exhaustion—they seemed to recede.

Holt grabbed his pack and opened it. He dug through one of the side pockets until he found what he was looking for; then he stood up, held out a hand toward Zoey. “Come here,” he said. “I’ll show you.”

Zoey’s smile was huge as she stood up and took Holt’s hand.

“Put your feet on top of my feet,” he instructed.

“Won’t it hurt you?” she asked.

Mira laughed behind them, leaning back on her elbows to watch.

Zoey put her right foot on top of Holt’s left boot, then her left on top of his right. Holt handed her one of the things he had pulled from his pack. It was a simple black stone that had been buffed and polished until it was worn smooth and shiny. It fit neatly in Zoey’s small hand. Holt held on to another stone that was exactly the same.

“The important thing is to remember which side is your right side,” he continued. “Because you always move right to start, and it can get hard to remember when you’re thinking about your feet. So if you hold something in your right hand and grip it really tight, you won’t forget. Make sense?”

Zoey nodded, put the stone in her right palm and squeezed it.

“Okay, then.” Holt took her hands. “Here we go.”