The shelves were full. Everything appeared to be neatly organized. Two entire shelf units held cardboard boxes filled with reporter’s notebooks, labeled by the dates covered. They went back thirty years. Two longer units had rows of ancient desktop towers and round old monitors. Then clunky laptops not much smaller than a portable typewriter. The laptops got progressively newer and smaller until the last few looked like something you’d buy today. Everything was clean and free of dust. Not a technology graveyard, Peter thought. More like a museum.
“I don’t see any music players,” he said.
“Over here.” Ellie yanked a pull-chain, lighting a bare bulb in an old porcelain fixture, then led him past the furnace and water heater toward the front of the house. On the far side, under the living room, was a worn-out throw rug, a tattered wingback chair under a tarnished reading lamp, and set of makeshift shelves made from planks and cinder blocks. Like a dorm room, Peter thought. Maybe a reminder of KT’s younger days.
On the top shelf was a stereo receiver, turntable, and speakers. Each component was probably older than Peter, but he knew HarmanKardon was high-end stuff. A row of vintage vinyl filled the shelf below, except for one section that held a cassette player Peter recognized from his dad’s old setup. Expensive modern headphones were plugged into the jack.
“Sometimes she comes down here to listen to her records,” Ellie said. “She says there isn’t really room for all this stuff upstairs. But I think she just likes to be down here by herself every once in a while.”
Peter crouched by the cassette player and peered through the little window. There was a tape inside. He hit the eject button and gingerly pulled it out. KT had either rewound it, or she hadn’t listened to it yet. On one side, there was a small label. In the precise numerals of an engineer, someone had written a date. Two months before.
KT had gotten the threat letter yesterday. June said KT had gotten hate mail before. If that’s what this recording was, Ellie didn’t need to hear it.
He dropped the tape back into the player, then picked up the headphones. “I’ll listen to it first,” he said. “In case it’s something ugly.”
She put her fists on her hips. “You think I can’t handle it?”
He kept his voice calm and gentle. “I think you’re handling a lot already, kiddo.”
“My mom’s fuckingdead, meatball.” Her face was turning red again. “How much worse can it be?”
He was having trouble with the speed of her emotional pivots. Earlier that day, she’d been scared to be alone. Now she wanted to run the show. “Ellie, please. I’m trying to protect you.”
“Really? Like you protected my mom yesterday?” Her eyes were bright and welling with tears. “Fuck that. It’smylife.Iget to decide.”
He had no idea how to respond to that. Clearly Carlotta was right, he was not equipped to deal with a thirteen-year-old girl in crisis.Before he could come up with anything, she reached past him and hit the play button, then yanked the headphone plug from the socket.
The first sound was the hiss of the tape. It was strange and sibilant and very different from the digital deadness of modern media. It sounded old. Or maybe it was a recording of a recording.
Then came a voice.
20
“Hello, friends. This is your humble messenger. I am so very glad to talk with you again. As I record this in our mountain home, the sky is blue and the sun shines brightly on the greenhouses. Progress continues on the new cabins. We are almost ready.”
The voice was round and rich and full of warmth. The tape hiss gave it depth and gravity. KT’s sound system was pretty good.
“Each of you has found the message in your own way. Perhaps your religious tradition no longer spoke to you. Perhaps no religion spoke to you. Perhaps your faith still carried you, but it was not enough. You craved something that was profoundly missing. A community of like-minded people. True friends who know your fear, your pain, your anger, your loss.”
The words spilled forth effortlessly, like water from a spring, the most natural thing in the world. The voice of a radio announcer late at night, Peter thought, but without the careful consonants. Instead itwas folksy and friendly. Maybe a pastor at a country church, untrained but born with a gift for connection. Certain of his gospel, and his audience.
“For we have all suffered under the yoke of modern life. Even those who appear prosperous face the struggle to put food on the table, to maintain our dignity, our humanity, in the face of the industrial machine. You all know what I mean. Prices are through the roof, but most people’s pay has not gone up in years. Once upon a time, you could feed your family through the skill of your hands, the strength of your arms. Now two jobs are not enough to pay your bills, let alone build a life, buy a home of your own. The world has changed, and it’s going to keep changing. The future will not be better than the past. The industrial machine wants everything we have to give. It will take from us until we die.”
The voice rose and fell, one moment a hoarse whisper, the next a battle cry. With the tape hiss, it was hypnotic, like a message from another century. And so intimate, as if the speaker’s words were for you alone. The combination was undeniably powerful, Peter thought. You wanted to believe it.
“And this, friends, is why we have chosen to step away. We are survivors, plain and simple. We choose to make our own lives, together. Not as cogs in the machine, interchangeable, disposable. Used up, one by one, bones crushed, flesh torn from flesh, so that the mechanical beast is lubricated by our very lifeblood. That is not who we are, not who we will be. When the time comes for the beast to grind to a halt, we will take all necessary action.
“But not yet, friends. I am thinking of you all. I know we are not all together yet. Wherever you are, I am certain you are doing what must be done to make this community strong. It would not be possible without your efforts. I do not say this lightly. I know it to be true, as do we all.”
Ellie’s eyes were wide. Her mouth hung open. Her hands fluttered up from her sides, moths rising to a flame. “Whatisthis?”
Peter put his finger to his lips. Ellie clamped her mouth shut. The voice continued.
“It is difficult to spend your days in the bowels of the machine, away from the warmth and kindness of our community. It is all too easy to feel small and powerless. A single stick, thin and frail, is easily broken. As we have all been broken before. But if you take many such sticks and bind them together, as we are now bound together, we are stronger than steel. Stronger than the machine. Stronger than the change that is coming for us, inexorable and unyielding as fate.
“I know your tasks are not easy, friends. You are afraid. You feel alone. But you were chosen to join us because you are special. You are capable. And you are needed. So I am certain you will prevail, no matter the hardships. No matter the cost. We all rely on you to do your part to help us prepare for what is coming.
“And the dark timeiscoming, friends. The time of undoing. The time of remaking. Soon your messenger will call you home. We will survive the coming darkness together. More than survive, we will thrive, by going back to the old ways. We have prepared for this. We have made a place for ourselves. A kingdom. Where you are loved, without hesitation, without condition.
