Completely Safe
Episode 38 - Yellow Helicopters
She bakes the pie on her own, in the beginning of a lonely day that comes after many others. Her house and her voice are the same kind of empty — the kind that roars and quivers, that draws waves of static in the morning breeze.
She bakes in between all that is and isn't real, swinging the pastry in the middle like her old grandfather clock. The rhythm is steady and experienced, more than time itself; it rings clear under her wrinkled hands, carved by many years of lavender and cinnamon.
It is the twentieth pie without the Angels, and the twentieth chance they miss to return. Josie used to believe — no matter when, or how far — the smell would be always enough to bring them back. She no longer believes, but she does hope.
She starts checking on her windows when she sees a green moon flicker in the horizon. On the counter, under her cloudy gaze, the apples shimmer like rubies and pale emeralds.
It is a sign of heavenly light, when it isn't a tornado.
But the air resounds clear in the distance, and unfamiliar helicopters start to trace new lines against the blue. In the moment they swarm against the sun, she decides it is time to place a call.
The oven is chanting sleepily when Josie sits in the living room, twirling the phone cord on clean fingers. The armchair accompanies her shape in lace and soft padding, and touching it has to be enough — there is no light outside the windows, no chance to see the truth, inside or outside.
In the cycle of years and time lapses spent in Night Vale, nobody and nothing has learnt to read the sky better than her. Josie stares, and the black blob of smoke that has filled the window stares back with a growl. It had never happened before — it seems to cover a difficult fate, or to carry a heavy burden. Still, she hides her worries from Cecil, whispering quiet words in a restless day.
The darkness of Night Vale had never been painted in this hue. She does not want to scare him; however, and this is for sure, there is no telling. It could be a shower, or the greatest threat ever seen in this universe, or both.
But it's not the growl, nor the onyx eyes lost in the middle of the clouds. It is all about the helicopters. She takes a deep breath, just to find in herself more than one divine suspect.
The angels never told her that much about the end of the world — they would rather go for other activities, like scanning for the best tomato sauce, carrying her bags, or pouring fresh water in her evening glass. They are sweet and friendly when they are bored, that is almost all the time. She holds no memory of the other times, except for today.
Her voice stays soft and patient, a wise echo in Cecil's ears. And the crust is golden and the smell ripe and fresh, and the silver bells of the timer come to claim her back — the sky tears open so fast, right in front of her doorstep, her phone can do nothing but forget about the call.
She is greeted by the sight of black wings without an end; they grow wider, a shield against the yellow helicopters, and write a powerful alphabet to erase the serpentine row of their symbols. It is with joy that she greets the sight of the Angels; but with profound sorrow she reads their expressions, so unusually absent and neutral, like the cruel heart of the gods.
It is in haste that they speak to her, and in no time they take her in their arms. She listens in a blur, with a burning pie between her hands, and follows the directions of invites she cannot understand.
The Angels march on, but do not need to explain; they lcarry her in silence, according to plans nobody has disclosed yet. They ask Josie to come along, to the time and place where she belongs — because the Night Vale she needs, and needs her above all, is neither here nor now.
In the faint scent of cinnamon, she lets them lead her to wherever the future is.