Corrections (+companion fic)

EDIT: Click here for a link to the Tumblr post. Sorry, shoulda had this here sooner

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“And now, corrections.”

Cecil paused in his broadcasting with a grunt, straining to force closed the door into his soundproof studio against the mass of rotting flesh on the other side. A hand managed to sneak through a crack in the door—Intern Joel’s hand, he thought—and without a second thought, Cecil smashed it with the butt end of his microphone. An unholy shriek of pain from the other side made Cecil wince, but he used his moment of advantage to slam the door shut, bolting it quickly. Clearing his throat, he pushed his glasses back up the bridge of his nose and spoke once more into the microphone that he’d stretched across the room.

“As you may recall, dear listeners, the City Council decided several months ago to make death a meritocracy. At the time, we at this radio station supported the measure, believing that death was something to be earned, not simply handed out. It is now my unfortunate duty to report that we were terribly, terribly mistaken in our opinion, and we apologize for the error.”

A dull thud shook the door on its hinges. Then another, and another. Cecil was beginning to regret delaying his petition to Station Management for building renovations, as he had no way of knowing how old this building was and could only guess at how long the door would hold up under assault. Still, he supposed, that was life: you live, and you learn. And then you die. Anyway, it wouldn’t matter much in the long run, as it was only a matter of time before the undead interns remembered that there was a window.

“You see, Night Vale, as sometimes happens with these things, we didn’t pause to consider all the consequences of our actions. Sure, it’s easy to argue the morality of denying another person their death in an abstract, theoretical setting. But once you put it into practical application, you begin to realize, ‘hey, there are a loooot of things we didn’t anticipate here.’ Like, for instance, what we would do with all of those undead citizens forced to live on despite their injured, diseased bodies. Or how a person stuck in that state would even function. And,” he continued, wincing as a particularly loud thump resulted in a thin line spidering across the door, “it should also be noted that we ought to have more clearly defined what it meant to ‘earn’ one’s death, and provided extra provisions for our younger members of society who haven’t had the time necessary to earn their own death, but who still, on occasion, die.”

A barricade. That was what he needed. The room was unfortunately sparse, but he managed to drag his heavy desk away from the wall, pushing it against the door just as another loud thump widened the crack in the old wooden structure.

“The violent protests of our town’s undead have prompted many vocal citizens to protest the City Council’s decision, calling for a return to the previous arrangement of universal death, or at the very least requesting a system wherein the undead could still be given the opportunity to earn death, rather than forever barring them from whatever afterlife may or may not exist. So far these requests have gone unanswered, most likely because the entire City Council has either been killed or become undead themselves, depending on individual circumstances. Elections for a new City Council are set to be held in several months, by which time Night Vale as we know it may have ceased to exist.”

The constant, almost rhythmic banging against the door suddenly ceased, and Cecil allowed himself a moment of brief relief before the horrid, rotting face of Intern Joel appeared in the window into his recording booth. Ah. His relief had been mistimed then, as relief often was—another life lesson. He considered sharing it with his listeners, but it didn’t seem to fit in with his current vein of speech, so instead he continued:

“There are, however, rumors of a ‘safe zone’ that exists somewhere in Night Vale. I’m hesitant to speak too much on the matter, as I have not yet determined how intelligent our newly undead residents are, or whether they listen to the radio. However, I am happy to confirm its existence! Carlos—sweet, beautiful Carlos the Scientist—has sent me multiple messages affirming this. He also claims that he is hard at work on an antidote to the situation, looking to ‘fix this once and for all.’ In fact,” he added, as his phone began to buzz once more, “he just sent me another message. It reads: ‘Cecil! I just picked up on your broadcast. Are you insane?? You need to get out of there, now!’ Ah, poor Carlos, would that I could!” Cecil sighed, closing his eyes and ignoring the disturbing crunch of flesh on glass that had replaced the rhythmic thuds. “But I am a radio professional, and if I lose my life this day, I will be only one among the many who have given their lives to the cause of community radio. However, to all of those listening out there who are not bound by similar constraints, I wish you good luck in finding the fabled safe zone. Unless, of course, you are among my violent, undead listeners, in which case I hope you never find that safe zone, you vile, vile miscreant.”

With a shattering tinkle that was both horrific and musical, Intern Joel managed to break through the glass with his shredded, sluggishly bleeding fist. Once more, Cecil smashed the hand with his microphone, and the intern let out another unearthly howl, but even as he drew back, two more interns shambled up to begin their own assault on the window. Cecil’s heart sank.

“Listeners, I must be frank in admitting to you that I have not been completely forthcoming regarding my own situation, in an attempt to spare you from any further pain on this uncommonly painful day. However, things here at the radio station have deteriorated to the point that I feel that I must, finally, be entirely honest in my report. I have been cornered in my recording booth by several interns who, as it turns out, are not as dead as I originally believed them to be. On a related note: to the families and loved ones of Interns Joel, Faith, and Clarissa, I withdraw my previous sentiments of comfort and well-wishing, because I am rather cross with them at the moment, and because they’re not even dead, so it seems a little unfitting to mourn their passing, don’t you think?” An insistent buzzing from his phone and the first few notes of The Entertainer caught Cecil’s attention. “Listeners, Carlos has ceased texting me and has started to call me. As this may be my last chance to hear his melodious voice, I am going to answer it. As I do so, I take you now—once again, possibly for the last time, Night Vale—to the weather.”

Stephanie Mabey - The Zombie Song

“Night Vale,” Cecil whispered from his favorite hiding spot under the desk, “since I left you to the weather, things have grown both exponentially better… and worse. The interns have breached the window and are now wandering the recording booth in search of me. I do not know what senses they use to track people, but if it is by either sound or smell, I am most certainly lost. Even a reliance on sight only buys me a limited amount of time, as I have secreted myself under the desk and could easily be found if any of them bother to kneel down and look.” One of the interns let out a frustrated shriek, and Cecil winced, curling in on himself and lowering his voice further. “However, the news from Carlos was great! Fantastic, even! For you see, through the use of science that is far too complex for my limited understanding, Carlos has discovered a way to usher these unfortunate souls to their final death! He has assured me that he is on his way now to the radio station, antidote in hand, but I fear that he may arrive too late.”

Shambling footsteps, coming closer and closer. Cecil sucked in a breath, speaking so quietly now that he wasn’t sure his microphone could even pick up on it.

“However, I am reassured in these final moments that I have had a good life. I have loved, and lost, and lived to love again, and now I am blessed with the opportunity to die a noble death for a cause greater than myself. Of course, nobility in death is nothing but a myth, dear listeners—death for me will be nothing but bleeding and screaming and pain and, eventually, a descent into that final void of nothing—but it is a myth that brings me comfort. Is it really so awful, my dearest listeners, to believe in something that is not true?”

Loud, frantic footsteps from outside the room, followed by a desperate bang against the barricaded door. Much closer, right beside him, a slow rattling of breath.

“I pray that I have worked sufficiently to earn my death. I pray that my fate is not to become like these creatures which have surrounded me. I pray that Carlos is on time—but if not, I pray that he loves, and loses, and loves again.”

A rotting face, in front of his own. A smash of wood. Cecil closed his eyes.

“Good night, Night Vale. Good night.”