“You’re in for a treat.” He nodded to Latif, who consulted the biro on his arm and nodded in reply. Lincoln flipped a final switch and stepped back.
Norman braced, ready to throw his hands over his ears. He blinked when something quite different came rattling from the Old World speakers: a tiny, scratching, broken voice.
He body jerked of its own accord.
There’s a man’s voice on the radio.
Others seemed caught in the same breathless revelation. Eyes were wide and unfixed throughout the chambers. Those aged enough to have seen the Old World had the light of nostalgia in their eyes, while those who had only heard stories of the big Before gaped open-mouthed—all the bedtime stories were true!
“—on? … Ga’darn thing, just work … Wait, the light, it’s on!”
An odd clicking, a solid thump, and then a grunt. The voice went on, though it jittered and thrummed, thin and watery despite its gruffness:
“Arghright, here goes: Broadcastin’ from Milton Percy radio tower. We bring werd from Dunburgh Alliance of t’eh Far North. We’re seekin aid, to send a warnin’ to those where the lights is still burnin in the South.”
The voice was strange, thick as custard and stuffed with rolling vowels. Norman had heard an accent like that from only one person, someone who had spent his earliest years in Old World Glasgow. He’d heard it from Lucian.
The broadcaster was a Scot.
He blinked and leaned forward even farther, determined not to miss a word.
“Beware the comin’ darkness. All manner of crazy folk, leagues of the bastards. They came w’tout warning, and they killed all they touched. Our cities are flamin, our dead rotting in the sun. They came from everywhere, after t’eh hunger of t’eh winter jus’ gone, on t’eh prowl for revenge from us who won’t forget the ways of Before.
“We know they’ve gone south aways for a good while, that they’re moppin’ ye’s up like flies. It’s given us a wee time to prepare, but we can’t win alone. We need ye’s. We’ll be makin’ a stand, to the last man if we have’tae, but we’d not do it before we had every’un we could on our side. If anyone is out there, please, come outta the shadows.
“A break-off group’s got us messengers pinned down here, at t’eh broadcast site, but if ye could spring us from their hold, we could raise t’eh alarm elseplace—we cud bring all we’ve to give to yer lands, and stan’ beside ye. If we don’t stop them, they’ll have all t’eh lights go out fer gud.
“Please, ye must come. Our coordinates are fifty-four degrees, thirty minutes, thirty-six-point-five seconds north; three degrees, twenty-seven minutes, fifty-two-point-nine seconds west. Please, ye mus’ help.”
Another click, a groan. An electronic whine, then, finally, so distant as to be almost part of the white noise. “Please.”
Then static. Latif lowered the volume to a distant hiss. “He repeats himself, over and over,” he said. “The messaging is circling.”
“Looping,” Lincoln said. “It’s looping.”
“Whatever. It’s been the same message playing for almost two weeks now.”
“He was …” Norman began.
Alexander nodded. “Scottish. We’ve never wandered farther than Northumberland; the North has belonged to the rapture cults and highwaymen since the End. But it seems the people of Scotland have themselves a shadow of civilisation just like ours.”
“Sounds like they’re up to their ears in shit, too,” Agatha said.
“That it does,” Lincoln said. “But the fact remains, there are others. We aren’t alone after all.”
At that, there was finally the beginning of a faint spell of muttering in the crowd.
Can’t blame them, Norman thought. It’s like Columbus finding the New World.
“To plague the Far North and us at once, their numbers must indeed be enormous.” Lincoln paused. “So many … How could chaos bring so many together, hunting for blood?”
Oppenheimer, wilted and frail, looked more sorrowful than ever. Heavy rings sagged under his eyes, and his skin was almost translucent.
Look at him; he’s too old to lose a daughter, let alone face this. They’re all too old for this.
“All it takes is a loon with a pitchfork to make the first strike,” Oppenheimer muttered. “Once the frenzy starts, there’s no stopping it.”
“I don’t think we have all the facts just yet,” Evelyn said in guarded tones. “There’s always a man behind the curtain. Or woman.”
“Can we send a reply?” Norman said.
Everyone looked at him, most blinking in surprise. It seemed the concept hadn’t occurred to them.
Lincoln was looking at him appreciatively. “No. Latif and I have tried. The Blanket holds on all other frequencies, and