[Snowpocalypse] Back-Up (M 1.4)

Rich

Molotov,



You've healed up a bit now, took the day off and laid low. This morning, you're at the buried cathedral, some place that, according to rumor, survived pre-Fall fires and the Ice Age and everything. IS there a staff here, like clergy or something? Why is this place even still standing, do you know?

Why are you here, again? What do you do?

Kaillan

Molotov:

I let the sheet of opaque plastic that is door fall behind me. The 'floor' is ice, three feet deep; I remember looking down before, so do not now, but is like - grave, da? Is black shapes, kneeling, preserved beneath my studded boots. Maybe, some people are saying these shapes move, saying this place is cursed and leaving it the fuck alone. But, I know better.

I know this church belongs to the Preservers. It was explained to me like this, long ago, by Santa Cruz: some men treat Winter as not-forever, just little fucked up journey, and us surviving is not important - not as important as all of it surviving. They're saying world is bigger than us, and is job of some men to keep it together. To be letting people, later, know how not to be such fucking assholes with each other. So, they collect nice stories, keep important things, and use all these tricks to keep it safe.

She - Santa Cruz - was the daughter of a Preserver, in little Ohio town, east of here. It is far east, and long time ago for me. Maybe it is no ice-cubes, or I'm going little bit insane, but I feel her watching me sometimes. She would be fucking disappointed in last couple of days, in Underlake situation. My judgmental, suka of an angel. I miss you.

(This was her, alive)

So, I am here to keep her happy, maybe, and feel less like shit. I say the words of greeting she taught me, let them ring throughout this buried, once-holy place, and maybe there is Preserver here, listening.

The words are: "I am cold, and lost, and my humanity is needing preservation." And I only think they are half-bullshit.

Rich

Molotov,

"Brother..." you heard a voice echo against the walls and the ice. A man with a scraggly beard, a little younger than you approaches from a side passage.

It's Signal, one of the Preservers.


"We are all cold, for now." Signal continues. His tone is accepting, gentle. "Do you wish to speak to someone, or to this place?"

Kaillan

Molotov:

I do not startle, but little part of me is surprised when this man walks out. You never know, with the Preservers, whether they're here or not - whether, in this town, they have survived. He sounds exactly like Santa Cruz' father. That's funny, da, how all of them sound so similar? Like, is okay who you are, because part of you is good and that is part I talk to.

I shake my head at this man and walk forward, studs on boots eating the ice-floor, "Nyet, I am not one of, you know -" gesturing to the church "- this. I am Molotov. I thought, maybe..."

My voice trails off, of course, because what do I say? I am hating self almost, for doing that brutal thing, to men down in Underlake? I am so ashamed, I will kill anybody who knows? I say all this to this man, who is having the job of recording nice things?

I'm squinting little bit while silence drags on and I think, then I shrug and act natural, "Is men looking for me, out there. Is safe in here."

Rich

Molotov,

Brother Signal smiles, "We are all one of this." He gestures towards the church, then with a wave of his hand, to you, and then himself.

"Why are these men looking for you, brother?" He calls you so casually, a term of endearment, of equality.

Kaillan

Molotov:

I sit down on the back of a pew, facing this man - is reasonable height for sitting, as half the wood is submerged. "Why?" I retort and spit Russian curse word - the idea of not responding does not fire off in my brain. But, I feel slightly ashamed to be cursing, and look down between feet.

In the ice, I see old lady in biznes suit - she is hard to make out, in poor light, but I think I see smile on her face. In soft voice I'm telling this brother of mine, "He made names up, accused me of being fucking queer so I shot at him - is, ah, fuck. Is not how I wanted to go, but I was afraid..."

The word, in my own voice, causes my throat to clamp shut like foot in bear trap.

Rich

Molotov,

Brother Signal steps over to climb up and sit on a pew so he's facing you, only one row between you two. He has this disarming focus, like your concerns are his number one thing, your story is the light of his day. It's... how does that feel to you?

"What were you afraid of, Molotov? Death?" He seems skeptical on that, like he guesses you aren't so afraid of death. He offers, "It seems like something else?"

Kaillan

Molotov:

It feels like it did, those years ago - what, is almost fifteen now? Academy, that is Santa Cruz' father, would speak to me like this, when I was sick in bed in his little chapel. He would say these things, "Why are you so angry, Molotov? Why do you hate me?" and just sit there, while I was spitting in his face with Russian. I spoke little English at the time.

Eventually, I cracked, and maybe this is why I feel so easy cracking now, like same man. "Nyet," I whisper. My knuckles are white, as if hands strangling themselves. "Is harder every day, otets. I wake up in sweat, three times at least a night, the dreams...is always so much blood. I am taking ice again, to help, for bliss - is not so easy to come by." I'm rambling, and he is patient. A few more thoughts fall from my lips like leeches off a wound, bloated, but now meaningless.

I tell him I'm tired, alone, that the world isn't fair but that doesn't make me feel okay about things I have done. I'm shivering now, but the church is not that cold. And after a pause (it is like the Preserver listens to pauses, but how is that possible?) I finally confess, "I am afraid I am done surviving."

Rich

Molotov,

There is a pause as Broher Signal takes that in. He huffs a laugh, not derisive, just a show of understanding. "Surviving can suck, yeah."

He lets you sit there in silence, watching the smiling rictus of the businesswoman. Then, he offers, "You're here for a reason. It isn't to stop surviving. What is it?"

Kaillan

Molotov:

Da, it is silent - wait, what did he just say? It can suck? I look up at him to stare bullets, my mouth opens - and I laugh. Is rasp at first, then settles in bottom of stomach, deep laugh that feels...good. "You are shitty fucking Preserver," I reprimand with slight shake of head, repeating his words softly, surviving can suck, then another chuckle comes up like a burp.

"I don't know, I don't know," I finally say, and he is smiling at me, and the whole chapel feels sort of warm. It is good to have ears to listen, and all of this off my chest. Is that all? He is not wrong, feels like something is still missing, like last thorn in my side, like something left to say.

And then I know. My smile drops, and I ask the Preserver evenly, "You have radio, da?"

Rich

Molotov,

"I've been told I'm a shitty Preserver before. I've made my peace with it." Brother Signal responds, not at all perturbed. You ask about a radio, and he says, "Yes. Why?"

Kaillan

Molotov:

I lift shoulder in a shrug, and continue to look him in the eyes, "I have confessed to you, maybe is time I confessed to others."

Is so tiring, waiting for moment when it is all coming out. Truth is, I do not want to be guy who runs any more. I run from mistakes I've made, I run from Santa Cruz' death, I run from Mill. You know, shooting Carnation was running, like I was running to death.

Okay, so time to let world know what kind of guy I am, da? And maybe put out message for Carnation to hear. Give him head start.

Rich

Molotov,

Tell me about radios here. How does it work? Who all has them? What are they used for?

Kaillan

So, not many people probably know how radios were supposed to work but here is how they work now: depending on the day and weather, you're going to pick up mostly static, except for a hundred or so stable channels in the low-hertz range, where you get pretty good quality. That's shortwave stuff, barely big enough to cover Chi-town, and small gangs have almost always staked out their turf before they're even large enough to have a holding.

It's not unheard of for nutjobs to waste their days surfing the upper giggaz on private radios, waiting for a sign from who-the-fuck-knows. God. Jesus Reborn. The Zombie President. Yeah, some people think they've heard ghosts whispering to them up there. But, you listen to only static for long enough and your brain gets desperate for real, English words. Right?

A few massive radio transmitters, put together by clued-in savyheads, can broadcast on the lower ranges all at once - I mean, there's not that many of them. And up past the short-range stuff, that's town-to-town frequency. If you pick something up there, it's your neighbor, and you'll probably only get to speak with them once a month if you're lucky. So, Chi-town to Underlake, for instance.

The Preservers almost always have one of these multi-band radio transmitters, for emergencies. And to 'preserve the technology,' of course.

Rich

Molotov,

Brother Signal nods, "We have a radio, da. Come with me." He leads you out of the worship area to a stone passage and into a set of rooms where stones have shifted so much that the structures are almost trapezoids. There against one of the lopsided walls is an oversized cross between a switchboard, control panel, and radio. "Do you know how to work it? I can, if you don't."

Kaillan

Molotov:

This...is total mess of machines. I'm not understanding any of it, so I shake my head to Preserver and murmur, "Nyet. Give me speaking thing, and make it so everybody is hearing what I am saying." I can feel my cheeks twitch, and there is excitement like fire in my gut where anxiety knotted self only an hour ago.

Maybe, this man is not such shit Preserver after all. For once, in long time, I feel like this is right thing to do. It's not just business.

Rich

Molotov,

Brother Signal has you take a seat at the control panel. The seat actually has a little cushion to it, it feels pretty damn nice. He comes up behind you, puts a reassuring hand on your shoulder, fiddles with some toggles, and then flicks a switch by the mic.

There's a low hum that fills the room for a moment, then it dies down a bit. A small fan kicks on by your feet. Signal says, "Pull this, ah, trigger here by the neck for it to hear you. It's ready to go when you are. Speak your truth, brother." Signal steps back to hear what you have to say.

What do you do?

Kaillan

Molotov:

I cough, and my mouth feels dry and my palms are sweaty. I let the hum and whirr fill my ears for moment before finally pulling the trigger. CLICK.

"Hello. I am Molotov Niklaievich Kalashnikov. I am lugger of guns, and I was arriving in Chi-town six months ago. You may not know me, but you will want to know this. It was not long ago, I was visiting Underlake for some business. It was supposed to be simple thing. It was 6 in morning when we found him, this man, our business, in far north mines, holed up. He had grenades, bullets. So, we said, why bother losing life for stupid fucking job? Let's be quick. We set up the explosives."

I wet my lips. Is ironic that thrill fade, as I approach climax of story.

"It went wrong. It was like windows blowing up, on all sides, and the water poured in. It chased us, for three hours, on our sled. You have heard of this story so I will not continue. Da, I am responsible for the loss of the northern mines and the fish. Da, it is me, Molotov, who should be blamed for the starving and dying. So, if you are having something to say, then say it. But I will not hide from truth."

I almost let trigger go, but then, I add, leaning close into the microphone, "Oh, and Carnation? I am coming."

And now I am smiling. CLICK.

Rich

--END SCENE--