July 3, 2023
Dear Journal,
We picked up a signal today.
It came through the emergency radio tucked behind the counter at Gilda's Market—same one we passed yesterday. Naomi insisted we go back, said it was bugging her that we hadn't checked the electronics section. We figured it was a waste of time. We were wrong.
The radio crackled to life just before noon.
It wasn't clear at first—just static and the occasional hum, like something humming underwater. We twisted the dial slowly, every turn a new burst of hiss and pop, until we hit a single narrow band that buzzed differently. Faint. But there.
Then a voice. Garbled. Breaking up.
"—…repeating…signal—South Station…we have…shelter…safe…repeat…"
We all froze. Even the baby stopped fussing, as if the sound reached her, too.
We let it loop three times before Marcus snatched the notepad from the counter and jotted down what we could make out.
"South Station. Shelter. Repeat. Safe. Evac point active."
Naomi stared at the radio like it had grown a mouth. "It's a beacon," she whispered. "Someone's broadcasting from a stronghold."
Marcus, always the skeptic, shook his head. "Could be bait. Raiders. Cults. You've seen what people turn into."
But even he didn't sound convinced.
We carried the radio back to the hardware store, using a car battery Naomi scavenged to keep it powered. We've been listening to it on repeat for hours now. The message loops every ten minutes. Same fragmented phrases. Same hope wrapped in static.
South Station. Shelter. Safe.
That's the first time in six months I've heard the word safe and almost believed it.
We gathered around the store's table and laid out every map we had—old road atlases, a hand-drawn sketch Naomi made during our hike from the ranger station. It took a while, but we found it: South Station was once a train terminal in the city twenty miles west. If the signal is real, that's where it's coming from.
Naomi wants to head there. So does Nora. Even Marcus, grudgingly, admitted it might be our best shot at something better than constant fear.
But the risk…
Twenty miles on foot through ruined towns, undead hotspots, and whatever the hell's been stalking us through Whitfield?
Still, staying here is no better. Last night, Naomi heard someone whispering outside again. Just a few feet from the boarded-up window.
She said the voice didn't sound quite… human.
We need to leave before whatever it is decides it's done playing games.
But there's another problem.
The baby—Clara—we think she's sick.
Not just the usual coughing from cold nights or poor nutrition. It started last night. Wheezing. Fever. Rash under her chin. Nora says it might be a respiratory infection. Without proper medicine, it could turn into pneumonia.
And that would be a death sentence.
So now, more than ever, we need that safe haven.
We split tasks after lunch.
Naomi and Marcus scouted the roads leading west. I stayed behind with Nora and the baby. While they were gone, I started going through the shelves in the hardware store again, just to make sure we hadn't missed anything.
That's when I found it.
A box. Sealed tight. Tucked behind a false panel in the back room.
Inside: an old camcorder. Two tapes. A journal, written in tight, cramped handwriting. And a polaroid photo.
The photo showed a man in a bloodstained coat standing in front of the same hardware store. His eyes were scratched out. Behind him, scrawled on the wall in something that looked like charcoal—or dried blood—were the words:
"DON'T FOLLOW THE SIGNAL."
I didn't tell Nora.
Not yet.
I need to read more of the journal. Watch the tapes. But a part of me is terrified of what they'll reveal.
Naomi and Marcus returned around dusk.
They found a working truck.
No keys, but it's intact. Half a tank of gas. Tires look usable. It's in a garage three blocks down, behind a mechanic's shop.
If we can hotwire it, we can make it to South Station in two days—maybe less.
But that photo…
That message.
It's gnawing at me.
Why would someone warn people not to follow the very thing we're pinning our hopes on?
Unless…
Unless the signal is a trap.
But what if it's not?
What if it really is salvation?
Clara is breathing heavier tonight. Nora's pacing again. Naomi keeps sharpening her blade in silence. Marcus is asleep, but not resting—his fists are clenched, jaw tight, even in dreams.
I'm the only one still awake.
And I keep looking at that photo.
The words are starting to blur, like they're sinking into my mind.
DON'T FOLLOW THE SIGNAL.
Too late.
We've already started.
Yours in doubt,
J.K.