July 4, 2023
Dear Journal,
We decided this morning.
We're going to South Station.
No more second-guessing. No more what-ifs. Clara's fever spiked last night. Nora barely got any sleep, and we've already used up the last of the children's meds we found in Whitfield's pharmacy. The baby's chest rattles with every breath now—each inhale like a countdown we can't see the end of.
So we're doing it.
At dawn, Marcus and Naomi headed to the garage where they'd found the truck. I stayed behind to watch Clara and review the tapes from the sealed box. I'm not sure if I was hoping for a warning or a confirmation. What I got was… something else.
The first tape started with static.
Then a voice: male, hoarse, anxious.
"Day 119. Signal's been repeating for days now. Still haven't seen anyone else. Maybe I'm the last. Maybe the others were smarter."
The camera shakes, then cuts to shots of an empty Whitfield street. The man—barely visible—walks past Gilda's Market. Then the camera lingers on something across the street: a large, shadowy figure standing on a rooftop.
Not moving. Not reacting.
Just… watching.
"It doesn't eat. Doesn't chase. Just stares. If you look too long, you start to hear things—voices that sound like people you knew. Dead people."
He ends the recording with one last warning.
"The signal isn't what you think. South Station is real. But the message? It didn't come from us. Something else hijacked the signal."
Then he screams.
And the tape ends.
I didn't play the second one.
Not yet.
I told Naomi about it when she returned.
She listened in silence, then said, "If it's a trap, it's a damn convincing one. But maybe that means it's both."
"Both?" I asked.
She nodded. "A trap—and a chance. Maybe it's been repurposed. Maybe there was a real shelter there once, and now… it's something else."
She didn't elaborate. She didn't need to.
Marcus, on the other hand, had good news.
"I got the truck running," he said. "Hotwired it with parts from an old mower and the shop's battery. Took a while, but it turned over. It's loud, though. No muffler."
Noise like that'll draw them in. Fast.
So, we revised our plan. Tonight, we sleep early. At dawn, we move.
Fast.
The truck has room for five—barely. We'll pack essentials only. Food, medicine, blankets, and weapons. No room for sentiment.
I already burned most of the letters I wrote in the early weeks. No one's left to read them anyway.
There's one last complication.
That same figure from the tape?
I think I saw it today.
We were standing outside the hardware store, loading supplies into duffel bags, when I glanced up at the rooftops across the street.
There it was.
Tall. Slouched. Human-shaped but… not.
No face. Or maybe a blur where the face should be. Like my eyes wouldn't focus on it. I blinked once, twice.
Gone.
I didn't tell the others.
I'm not sure if it was real.
But Marcus seemed on edge, too. He kept glancing over his shoulder the entire walk back. Naomi hasn't said a word in hours. She just keeps re-checking her gear like we're heading into war.
Maybe we are.
I checked on Clara before writing this. She's sleeping. But it's shallow. Nora laid a damp cloth on her forehead, muttering lullabies through clenched teeth. She doesn't believe in miracles—but she's begging for one now.
We're packed. We're ready.
Tomorrow, we leave Whitfield behind.
If this is the end, I want it written down.
We tried.
We really tried.
Yours in resolve,
J.K.