Minerva’s drones drifted in a tighter formation than usual — an early warning, even if nothing had happened yet.
Tom trudged beside me toward the tower, clutching a mug of something sugary. “I slept like garbage.”
“That’s understandable,” I said.
“No, not because of cosmic angst. Greg snores like he swallowed a motorcycle muffler.”
“Then don’t sleep next to Greg.”
“He told me I’d ‘feel safer.’ And he was right. But at what cost?”
Before I could respond, a crackling sound tore through the air.
Not resonance.
Not an anomaly.
Static.
Minerva’s drones shifted in the sky, circling a single point.
Helen rushed up behind us. “Is that… radio static?”
“Analog static,” I said. “Minerva?”
A drone projected a fuzzy waveform at our feet.
“Analog signal detected,” Minerva confirmed. “Weak. Directional. Human-made.”
Tom blinked. “Wait — another town is calling us?!”
“Quiet,” Helen said. “Let it play.”
The tower’s coils vibrated, tuning to the incoming frequency.
And then—
A voice broke through the static, ragged and exhausted.
The entire ridge went silent.
Tom clutched my arm. “Dude. We’re not alone. There’s actual people out there with radios!”
“No modern radios would survive the Reset,” I said. “They must be using a scavenged vacuum-tube rig. Pure analog. No transistors.”
Helen’s eyes widened. “They built that?”
“Or rebuilt it,” I said. “Old ham radios, rewound induction coils, saltwater batteries — all primitive tech. Analog is immune to the Reset’s damage.”
Tom shook his head. “So they MacGyvered a radio out of noodles and trauma.”
“Essentially.”
Minerva replayed the message at clearer resolution.
A man’s voice, half-yelling over the sound of something metallic breaking.
Static devoured the final word.
Greg arrived at a jog, boots crunching gravel. “What happened now?”
Helen replayed the message.
Greg’s jaw tightened. “They need help.”
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
“Probably,” I said. “But we need to know more.”
Minerva cut in.
“New transmission incoming.”
A second voice — younger, frantic, background noise of screaming and something slamming metal-on-metal.
“Militia?” Tom asked. “Like… with tanks?”
“They wouldn’t have tanks,” I said. “Nothing electronic works. Their ‘machines’ would be old mechanical farm tractors, carts, manual rigs. Guns, yes — firearms still work. But nothing modern.”
Greg nodded grimly. “So they’re armed.”
“But not advanced,” I said. “No radios, no vehicles with ECUs, no powered tools. Just desperation and what they scavenged.”
Minerva projected another map — pulse layers radiating outward from the Second Anchor.
Springfield had taken the brunt.
Ava hovered near the projection. “Their region is destabilizing. They’re closer to the epicenter than we are.”
Helen’s voice went soft. “So… what do we do?”
The answer came from Springfield before I could speak.
A final burst — a terrified whisper into the mic.
Silence again.
Tom swallowed audibly. “So… that was horrifying.”
“Yes,” I said simply.
Inside the workshop, Minerva dissected the transmission.
“Origin: approximately sixty-three miles east,” Minerva said. “Broadcast from a water tower or elevated point. Low-tech crank-generator. Vacuum tubes intact.”
“Vacuum tubes?” Tom said. “Like out of a museum?”
“More like a scrapyard,” I said. “They’re the only electronic devices that survived. No solid-state components to fry.”
Ava drifted beside the map. “Their people are clever. But ingenuity doesn’t stop anomalies.”
Minerva pulsed again.
“Background audio indicates:
? scraping metal
? structural collapse
? multiple human distress calls
? one unidentified harmonic source.”
Greg frowned. “Militia?”
“No firearms produce that sound,” Minerva said.
Ava dimmed. “No creature should, either.”
Tom paled. “Nope. Nope. I don’t want to go anymore.”
“You’re on comms,” Greg said.
“That’s worse!”
The cafeteria filled fast.
Helen addressed the crowd.
“We received a transmission from Springfield. They’re alive. Hurt. Under threat from anomalies and internal conflict.”
Murmurs spread.
Someone called out, “How did they even contact us if electronics are dead?”
I answered:
“They’re using primitive radio tech — vacuum tubes, coils, batteries made from metal and saltwater. Nothing digital. Nothing modern. That’s why it works.”
People absorbed that.
Some relieved.
Some unnerved.
Greg projected the Springfield region map.
“They’re struggling. No stabilizers. No defenses. Possibly hostile factions. But they reached out. And we have a chance to help — carefully.”
A middle-aged woman stood. “What about guns? Do they have guns?”
“Yes,” I said. “Firearms survive the Reset. Expect small arms. Limited ammo.”
A man near the back raised his hand. “And what about that… shrieking sound we heard in the recording?”
Ava answered quietly:
“That wasn’t a voice. That was resonance warping something biological.”
The room went cold.
“We’ll do this in stages,” I said. “We aren’t rushing into a trap.”
-
Improve signal clarity – Minerva is already refining Springfield’s transmission.
-
Send a controlled reply – Gather names, numbers, and immediate needs.
-
Scout route with drones – Avoid anomalies, militia clusters, collapsed infrastructure.
-
Prepare a convoy – Hard armor, resonance dampeners, medical supplies.
-
ART reconnaissance – Greg leads. No direct engagement unless necessary.
-
Extract survivors – If Springfield is salvageable.
-
Avoid resonance corruption – That unidentified harmonic is dangerous.
Tom whispered loudly, “Can’t we just, like… mail them a ‘Sorry we’re full’ letter?”
“No,” Helen said.
He sighed dramatically. “Democracy sucks.”
At the communications tower, I sent:
“Springfield.
We hear you clearly.
Report condition.
—Valley Node.”
Minerva pushed the signal.
The reply was immediate—
Screaming.
Metal collapsing.
A woman crying.
Then silence.
Minerva’s drones lit up.
A new harmonic signature pulsed across the regional map.
Chaotic.
Wrong.
Like an anomaly trying to imitate a heartbeat.
Ava whispered:
“That isn’t natural. Something woke up near them.”
I closed my eyes.
“Greg,” I said. “Prepare the team. Dawn departure.”
He nodded once, jaw set like steel.
Up on the ridge, under the starlit sky, the Second Anchor’s distant pulse vibrated faintly through the air.
Ava hovered at my side.
“You’re thinking too loudly,” she said.
“I’m thinking about Springfield.”
“And the thing stalking them.”
“Yes.”
“And whether we’re ready.”
I looked north.
Lights flickered faintly in the distance — not actual light, but resonance reflection.
“No,” I said. “We’re not ready.”
Ava floated closer.
“But we go anyway,” she whispered.
“Yes.”
Because if we didn’t go…
Springfield would cease to exist.