I don't remember the last time I heard real silence.
Not the kind that's just a lack of noise, but the kind that lives in your chest—where your heartbeat is the loudest thing for miles. That kind of silence is extinct now. Replaced by the low hum of dread. The ever-present awareness that something is watching. Listening. Waiting.
I moved the radio tower three times this week. Too much signal bleed in the last location. I think they're learning. Each night they get closer. Last night, I watched one of them stand in the surf for six hours. Just... standing. Staring at the lighthouse. The tide came and went. It didn't move. Didn't blink. At dawn, it turned and walked into the sea.
I haven't slept since.
The resistance is smaller than ever. Just whispers now. Maybe a dozen of us scattered across the country, maybe less. We don't talk names anymore. Just voices. Codename: Echo. Codename: Hollow. I'm still Sky. If I change it, I'll forget who I was.
Sometimes I wonder if I already have.
The infection doesn't hit like a sickness. It's not blood or air. It's not in the water. It's in everything else. Light. Sound. Frequency. That's what makes it so perfect. So inescapable. You can't stab it or shoot it. You can only run, and even that's temporary.
I've taken to wrapping the windows in blackout fabric. No light escapes. No screens. Only analog equipment. Paper logs. Hand-cranked tools. I build traps from old tech—tape players, magnetic coils, copper wire from car batteries. I'm not an engineer. But desperation makes you clever.
Two nights ago, I heard a song.
Not from my radio. Not from any tape I own. It came from outside. Soft. Familiar. My mother's voice.
"Hush now, baby, don't you cry..."
I nearly opened the door. I had my hand on the knob. Tears in my eyes. I hadn't thought of that lullaby in years. She used to sing it when the world still made sense. When monsters were only on TV.
It wasn't her. Of course it wasn't. But I wanted it to be. God, I needed it to be. That's how they get you. They don't break you with fear. They break you with hope.
I punched a hole in the wall to stop myself.
My hand's still bleeding.
I caught a fox in one of the perimeter snares this morning. Its eyes were wrong. Glossy, but bright. Like a person was inside. It didn't growl or flinch. Just stared up at me and... smiled. I didn't know foxes could do that. I let it go. I shouldn't have. I know it'll come back. I know it'll bring others.
I keep telling myself I'm prepared. That if they come, I'll fight. That I'll win. But the truth is, I don't think this ends with victory. I think it ends with a choice:
Resist until the end...
Or let the static in.
Every day I choose resistance. But every day, the signal gets louder.
If this is the last thing I ever write—
Don't trust your memories. Don't trust their voices.
And if you hear someone singing outside your door...
Don't open it.
– Sky