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Something I'm working up for an actual live game on Saturday, fingers crossed. This is in fact a little bit long for a Ten Candles scenario -- they really are just a couple of paragraphs long -- but I got excited about it.
(Still playing with the name of the town to get a) authentic Northern BC vibe and b) intimations of Larger Themes.)
[ETA - minor edits as I revise the scenario]
* * * * *
Welcome to Radio Star Lake, 59.9° north of the equator and just south of heaven, as they say.
Two weeks ago, an atmospheric river blasted through and flooded the town of Star Lake. Your radio station, up on the hill near the highway, was okay, but everyone along the lake was flooded out.
You stayed up day and night making sure broadcasts got out, maintaining communications when the power grid went down. You were commended by the mayor, and you were pretty sure you were getting a major broadcasting award. You were proud.
Ten days ago, the world went dark.
Absolutely dark. No sun, no moon, no stars. Outside the grey boundary of human light, there is the blank of an absolute night. The temperature began to drop, and the water lying in the streets froze.
What with the water damage, and the overload, and everything freezing, the power grid failed again. You powered up the station generator once more and kept broadcasting. You maintained contact with other stations, relaying news. You learned the truth: the whole world has gone dark.
People in the north know how to deal with darkness and cold, even if it comes months early. Star Lake pulled together. People gathered in the civic centre, pooled their generators and fuel. The legion kept the lights on and managed to keep serving food until every bag of frozen fries was empty. Casey at the gas station rigged up a way to get gas out of the pumps and gave it out for emergency purposes “on credit.” Canadian Tire sold out of portable generators, then out of propane and white gas, then flashlights, then candles. Every morning the mayor drops by the station (somehow she manages to bring hot coffee and doughnuts) and broadcasts an update and a message of encouragement to the community and outlying areas.
Satellite communications failed, though every so often you’ll get a text message from a week ago, or an old voice recording on the call-in line, asking worried questions about problems that seem beside the point now. The radio is one of the few collective lifelines left.
Five days ago, you started to hear messages of alarm from stations south. Broadcasters in South America were going silent. There might be cries of surprise or fear – “They're here. What are They doing here?" – or the announcer might just stop.
Then, silence. Or sometimes, deep in crackling static, as though from a long way off, a low, monotonous voice. Sometimes it seems to be counting, like a numbers station. Sometimes it seems to be speaking, but you can’t make out the words.
Three days ago, stations in the Southern US began to go silent. You started sleeping at the station, taking shifts to maintain continuous contact with the remaining broadcasters.
Two days ago, you got the message you’d been dreading from Radio Kelowna: they’d lost touch with Radio Vancouver. Over the course of the day, voices went silent from Chilliwack up to Hope, and the radio waves were full of strange whispers. Then Hope was gone too.
Yesterday, you listened grimly, hour after hour, as one by one stations went out like snuffed candles. Public, private, military: all silent or replaced by static and slow incomprehensible speech.
Around midnight, the last station south of you went silent.
As of now, 10 AM on Day Ten of the darkness, the only stations still on the air are those above 59° north. As far as you can tell, this is true for the whole world. Your closest active station is Radio Jade River, 200 km northeast.
This morning, the mayor didn’t turn up for her daily message.
When you opened the door of the station, the town was absolutely dark. No light at the civic centre, no music from the legion. No cars slowly negotiating the icy streets. There’s no sound except the occasional whoosh of an owl’s wing and its hunting cry.
Whatever has overtaken the world, it's here now. It’s time to move.
Here’s the situation as it stands.
(Still playing with the name of the town to get a) authentic Northern BC vibe and b) intimations of Larger Themes.)
[ETA - minor edits as I revise the scenario]
* * * * *
Welcome to Radio Star Lake, 59.9° north of the equator and just south of heaven, as they say.
Two weeks ago, an atmospheric river blasted through and flooded the town of Star Lake. Your radio station, up on the hill near the highway, was okay, but everyone along the lake was flooded out.
You stayed up day and night making sure broadcasts got out, maintaining communications when the power grid went down. You were commended by the mayor, and you were pretty sure you were getting a major broadcasting award. You were proud.
Ten days ago, the world went dark.
Absolutely dark. No sun, no moon, no stars. Outside the grey boundary of human light, there is the blank of an absolute night. The temperature began to drop, and the water lying in the streets froze.
What with the water damage, and the overload, and everything freezing, the power grid failed again. You powered up the station generator once more and kept broadcasting. You maintained contact with other stations, relaying news. You learned the truth: the whole world has gone dark.
People in the north know how to deal with darkness and cold, even if it comes months early. Star Lake pulled together. People gathered in the civic centre, pooled their generators and fuel. The legion kept the lights on and managed to keep serving food until every bag of frozen fries was empty. Casey at the gas station rigged up a way to get gas out of the pumps and gave it out for emergency purposes “on credit.” Canadian Tire sold out of portable generators, then out of propane and white gas, then flashlights, then candles. Every morning the mayor drops by the station (somehow she manages to bring hot coffee and doughnuts) and broadcasts an update and a message of encouragement to the community and outlying areas.
Satellite communications failed, though every so often you’ll get a text message from a week ago, or an old voice recording on the call-in line, asking worried questions about problems that seem beside the point now. The radio is one of the few collective lifelines left.
Five days ago, you started to hear messages of alarm from stations south. Broadcasters in South America were going silent. There might be cries of surprise or fear – “They're here. What are They doing here?" – or the announcer might just stop.
Then, silence. Or sometimes, deep in crackling static, as though from a long way off, a low, monotonous voice. Sometimes it seems to be counting, like a numbers station. Sometimes it seems to be speaking, but you can’t make out the words.
Three days ago, stations in the Southern US began to go silent. You started sleeping at the station, taking shifts to maintain continuous contact with the remaining broadcasters.
Two days ago, you got the message you’d been dreading from Radio Kelowna: they’d lost touch with Radio Vancouver. Over the course of the day, voices went silent from Chilliwack up to Hope, and the radio waves were full of strange whispers. Then Hope was gone too.
Yesterday, you listened grimly, hour after hour, as one by one stations went out like snuffed candles. Public, private, military: all silent or replaced by static and slow incomprehensible speech.
Around midnight, the last station south of you went silent.
As of now, 10 AM on Day Ten of the darkness, the only stations still on the air are those above 59° north. As far as you can tell, this is true for the whole world. Your closest active station is Radio Jade River, 200 km northeast.
This morning, the mayor didn’t turn up for her daily message.
When you opened the door of the station, the town was absolutely dark. No light at the civic centre, no music from the legion. No cars slowly negotiating the icy streets. There’s no sound except the occasional whoosh of an owl’s wing and its hunting cry.
Whatever has overtaken the world, it's here now. It’s time to move.
Here’s the situation as it stands.
- The temperature is down to a steady -5 degrees, and still falling.
- In the main propane tank, you have enough fuel to power the station for about three more hours.
- You have whatever’s in the station.
- You have the station van with portable broadcasting equipment. The gas tank is about half full. That might take you as far as Jade River. There, survivors from points south have begun to gather, sharing the one piece of information that gives you hope: whoever or whatever They are, they fear light.
