The attic room was cold, lit only by the green glow of the radio receiverThe attic room was cold, lit only by the green glow of the radio receiver.
Tap. Tap-tap. Tap.
The sound was rhythmic, faint, like a heartbeat struggling against the static.
Caleb pressed the headphones tighter to his ears, his hand scribbling furiously on the notepad. Tyson stood behind him, his arms crossed, his usual joking demeanor gone.
"Is it repeating?" Tyson asked quietly.
"Yes," Caleb whispered. "Same sequence. Over and over."
He looked at the notepad. The letters were jagged, written in haste.
L-O-S-T. T-R-A-I-N. N-O-R-T-H. S-E-C-T-O-R-4.
"Sector 4," Tyson frowned, looking at the faded map pinned to the wall. "That’s the Dead Zone. Old mining tracks. Vanguard hasn't used those in years."
"Or
