We Do Not Forget
by Wolfwhistle
"We are many. We are one. We have seen what has become of this world, and who is responsible. We demand punishment. We demand repayment. We do not forget."
On March 30th, the world's record players sprang to attention; roused from their untold slumber behind glass panes in museums, forgotten summer baches, and crumbling apartment buildings. In perfect synchronization, their needles dropped down onto empty space and the message played. Beethoven followed it, intruding on the silence. The message replayed on top of it.
The voice, deep and mechanical, woke Sandridge. He shot up from his rest, nearly hitting his head on the top bunk. The noise raised the hairs on his knuckles and neck; even the insides of his ears shuddered to attention.
Without moving, he glanced toward its source. The message repeated, this time with haunting classical music behind it. In the corner of his abode, on a backdrop of dark wood and siberian pony pelts, stood a teak record player. In all of its years, it had been silent. He stared into the gloom like a goat searching for the eyes of a wolf.
"We do not forget." It intoned again. Then the needle lifted into the air and silence reclaimed the room.
He shuddered. The feeling clenched between his shoulder blades didn't budge.
"Did you hear that, Shelly?" His voice rasped, as he lit a candle.
Shelly blinked passively.
Next to the record player, a taxidermy King penguin stood to attention. Its glass eyes glinted in the dim light, staring lifelessly at the outdated map of Antarctica on the wall.
Sandridge took a steadying breath. The familiarity of mildew, salt, and old animal furs embraced his lungs. He reached for his beanie, and coughed.
A comfortable silence had barely resettled, when the message played again. This time, multiple voices joined the chorus.
"We are many. We are one-"
Shoving his feet into boots, he hobbled across the room and dropped to his knees in front of the player. He waved his wrinkled hand through the empty space a record should have occupied. The sound played uninterrupted.
Perhaps he had finally lost it, like the others. He checked his temperature, but didn't feel any worse than usual.
Down the corridor, his pigeons flapped and cooed in distress. Sandridge shuffled to check on them, passing empty fish tanks and aquamarine walls. He shovelled insects into their feeder to settle them. The voices must have startled them too; here, they reverberated through speakers in the ceilings. This refuge been an aquarium of some sort once, built into a coastal cliff. He'd spent hard months emptying tanks of what you could only call 'dead fish slurry'. Even the memory of it watered his eyes and yanked at his tonsils. But it was safe here, despite the lack of power. He squinted at the speakers, checked the perimeter, and returned to Shelly.
Her eyes were glued wordlessly to the player as it intoned again: "We demand payment. We do not forget."
"Who's demanding payment? Who hasn't forgotten?" Sandridge muttered. "Dramatic fuckwads."
Then something new, in multiple eerie tones: "Come outside."
He hadn't survived this long by listening to possessed record players. Perhaps it was a ploy to steal his birds, his food supply, or his shelter.
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