The Lighthouse Broadcast



Scene Title The Lighthouse Broadcast
Synopsis Lance keeps the lights on at WSZR.
Date December 7, 2019

WSZR Building

“Damn it.”

Lance looks unhappily down at the turntable, at the record there upon it. The last thing that Martin Pines played before he was… brought into protective custody. It clearly meant a lot to him, but he’d left it behind.

He keeps telling himself that the government is different now. That it can be trusted.

Gently he takes the record from the turntable and slides it into its sleeve, stepping over to the milk crate of records that had been drawn out and putting it back in its place. He runs his fingers over the records, fingering through them, a faint smile on his lips as he admires the older records. The old man always teased him and Lene about having such modern tastes.

Sometimes I think I don't belong,

I lose the words, can't find the song.

We all make a choice in life,

I pray that I'm wrong.

There was a sense of finality to the old man’s words over the radio. Like he knew what his fate was, and was ready to have it all over with and done, and that… struck Lance hard. He’d heard people talk like that as a child. They were at peace with what they were about to do.

And they never came back again.

“I should’ve talked to him more,” he says quietly, regretfully to himself as he sinks into the chair in front of the broadcasting station, “I bet he had a million, million stories that I never got to hear.”

Lance shakes his head, then, reaching over for the headset to listen in on the current music being played over at WRAY. He could sit here and drown in his regrets all day, but he had work to do.

Martin would want him to continue.

As the current song finished, he flicked the switch to turn off the repeater signal and go live here at the station. The call button is depressed, and he speaks in a voice that’s become familiar to listeners here in the Safe Zone.

“You’re listening to WSZR, the free radio of the Safe Zone, and this is DJ Lancelot,” he says into the microphone, “And I’m here to remind you that none of us are alone out there. If you’re just tuning in, this is the six o’clock Lighthouse Broadcast. If you hear your name, or know these people, call us here at the station. We’ll bring you home.”

I can search the endless sky

For a reason to survive

We all get lost inside

Our broken minds

The letters and papers near the microphone are picked up, and he starts to read off it.

“Cody Bowers, twenty-six years of age. Your mother has been looking for you since March 2018.”

“Stacy Poole, twenty-three years of age. A tactile telepath. Your parents have been looking for you since September 2019.”

“Gustavo Rodriguez, sixty-three years of age. Your daughter has been looking for you since November of 2011.”

“Marvin Roy, thirty-six years of age. A heat generator. Your son has been looking for you since January 2019.”

“Jordan Bradley, twelve years of age. Your mother has been looking for you since July 2019.”

“Kyle Carr, twenty-two years of age. Your parents have been looking for you since 2013.”

“Rachel Wright, nineteen. Your sister’s been looking for you since October 2019.”

“Thomas Henderson, twenty-eight. Your wife’s been looking for you since 2016.”

“Kelley Thornton, twenty-two. Your mother’s been looking for you since July 2019.”

“Candace Dean, twenty-seven. Your husband’s been looking for you since 2017.”

“Melinda Gross, sixty-two. Your grandson’s been looking for you since May 2019.”

“Rolando Jimenez, thirty-two. You have night vision. Your sister’s been looking for you since 2017.”

“Angelica Jenkins, twenty-six. Your sister’s been looking for you since June 2019.”

“Gerald Gerken. Your children are alive and looking for you.”

We stand up tall

Even in the dark

Never forget we are a lighthouse burning all

They can't hold us back

Never forget we are a lighthouse burning all

“If you lost track of someone - family, a friend - during the war, or even in more recent years, and you want to let them know that you’re alive, that you remember them, just drop off a letter in the box outside the station,” he says, “We’ll keep that light burning to show them the way home.”

“This has been your six o’clock Lighthouse Broadcast, and now we’ll return you to your music. Have a good evening, remind your family you love them, and wherever you are - thank you, Martin Pines.”

We will shine on

To bring us back home

“For everything.”

When he leaves that night, the milk crates go with him, along with all those old records.

Something to remember the old man by. He remembered everyone else, after all.

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