The Sound

by James Sperl

  “CQ, CQ, this is KA7BTB, kilo, alpha, seven, bravo, tango, bravo, is anyone using this frequency?”

  Another round of silence pummeled the room. Jon inhaled and shifted in his chair.

  “CQ, CQ, calling CQ, this is KA7BTB, kilo, alpha, seven, bravo, tango, bravo, calling CQ, CQ, CQ. Hello CQ, CQ, CQ, this is KA7BTB, kilo, alpha, seven, bravo, tango, bravo, calling CQ, CQ, CQ.”

  “That's a lot of CQs,” Clarissa said, once Jon finished, his head angled in anticipation of a reply.

  “I know. I'm not sure I'm calling it exactly like you're supposed to—I've never been much of a ham radio enthusiast—but I think I've got the gist of it.”

  Clarissa leaned onto the desk to look at him. “Even if you didn't, do you really think it matters now?”

  Jon thought a moment before responding, “I'd like to think it still does.” He edged toward the microphone again and repeated the string of CQs.

  Clarissa thought if static had a color, it would be black.

  Jon shook his head in disappointment. “Let's try a different cha—”

  “Hello! Hello! He here! He have me! Hello! HELLO..!”

  The speakers squawked with disapproval, as the decibel level peaked. Clarissa nearly lost her balance pushing back from the desk. Jon scrambled to sit as front and center to the mic as possible. He grabbed it with both hands.

  “Hello?” he said. “Who is this?”

  “Help me! He have me! You hear me?! HEY! He have me...”

  The female voice continued to plead incoherently, her thickly accented words coming at a machine-gun pace.

  Clarissa held herself, the panic in the woman's voice unnerving her.

  “Spanish?” she said to Jon.

  “Very Spanish. Likely out of Central America somewhere. Nicaragua. Panama.”

  “Or maybe she's just an immigrant from L.A.”

  Jon bugged his eyes in agreement. “Good point.”

  “Can we talk to her?”

  “If she'll stop talking long enough for us to respond. I didn't hear a click, which means she's probably using a VOX instead of PTT.”

  Clarissa lowered her gaze. “Jon. English please.”

  “Sorry. VOX stands for voice-operated switch, which means the transmitting and receiving of signals, i.e., a person's voice, is automatically detected by the microphone. When you talk, the mic transmits. When you're quiet, it switches to receive mode. PTT, on the other hand, which stands for push-to-talk, means you have to manually transmit your voice by pushing a button on the mic. Push it, you're live. Do nothing, and you're receiving. Usually, there's an audible click when using PTT. I don't hear one with her.”

  Clarissa bobbed her head in understanding, as the woman continued to chatter. “So if this woman is using VOX or whatever, she won't hear us talking to her until she's quiet and can receive us?”

  “Precisely.”

  “...have here!” the woman babbled. “You help me! Come here help me! He coming...!” The woman sobbed audibly between bouts of pleading.

  “Jesus, Jon,” Clarissa said, hugging herself, “she sounds like she's in real trouble. Like, right now.”

  Jon nodded furiously. “I know, I know. Ma'am?” he said into the microphone. “Ma'am, can you hear me? You need to be quiet—”

  “...here! He coming NOW! Dio, help me! He here...!”

  “Ma'am!” Jon called. “You need to...ma'am...stop talking...!” He huffed in aggravation. “Ma'am!”

  A loud thump crackled the speakers and was followed immediately by a soul-chilling scream. The frequency cut to dead air.

  Clarissa's eyes bulged. Jon fingered the clarifier in kept-breath panic.

  “Ma'am?” he said. “Ma'am, are you there?”

  The disquieting hiss of empty static filled the room.

  “Ma'am? If you can hear me, make a noise. Any noise. Do you understand? Hit something, throw something. Just let me know you're there.”

  The lulling drone of nothingness seemed to intensify. Jon looked at Clarissa, a pall of guilt hanging over him like an invisible cloud.

  “You couldn't have done anything for her,” she said.

  “No, I know. Still...”

  “I know.”

  Jon pushed back from the desk. “I think that's enough for one—”

  “Try again.” He was halfway out of his chair when Clarissa's words pinned him in air. “You're right. If you have to leave, you need to know as much as you can. There's got to be somebody out there who knows something.” Jon lowered himself back into the seat. He contemplated in reverent silence then looked up at her. “Okay,” was all he said before he sighed and resumed control of the tuner.

  It took him almost a minute to find another signal.

  “...me then you [inaudible] to go to Ashland and find Rosenstein Biotechnologies. You won't find it on any map, but trust [inaudible], it's there...”

  Jon shot up bolt straight at the sound of the voice. It was unquestionably male. Though tinged with urgency, it was free from outright terror like the previous transmission. Clarissa dropped to a knee beside Jon, her face a burgeoning mask of encouragement. Both listened intently to the frequency, which was pockmarked with bursts of crunchy static.

  “...are DARPA funded under the division of the BTO. We're talking shadow corps [inaudible]. A black ops research facility operating under the cover [inaudible] a legitimate science lab. Rosenstein's not [inaudible]-sted on any triple B fact sheet. It's a ghost in the wind. But it's real...”

  Clarissa barely breathed. It wasn't that she couldn't; she plain didn't want to for fear of missing a single word. Though Andrew's warnings regarding the scatter-shot theories plaguing ham radio rang in her head, the man speaking sure sounded sincere. She would decide later if what he said was bunk or not.

  “...the only ones who think they know what's going. Anyone listening, get to Ashland [inaudible] as soon as you can. Rosenstein are the only ones [inaudible] can help...”

  A jolt of panic goosed Clarissa's insides. “Ashland?” she said to Jon. “Which one? I can think of at least three off the top of my head.”

  Jon swallowed noticeably as if the idea of multiple cities with the same name hadn't occurred to him. He gripped the microphone with one-handed intensity.

  “This is KA7BTB, kilo, alpha, seven, bravo, tango, bravo. Please repeat. Which Ashland location?”

  But the transmission continued unabated.

  “...to explain. Best to travel to Ashland asap. Our only chance for survi-[inaudible] may depend [inaudible] it...” Several seconds of empty hiss followed, then: “To anyone who's listening, I have an urgent message...”

  Jon shoved the microphone away, exasperated. “Damn it.”

  Clarissa frowned. “What?”

  “It's prerecorded on a loop. There's no one to talk to.”

  Clarissa cocked her head and focused; Jon was right. “Okay, so we listen again and find out which Ashland he means.”

  Jon nodded reluctantly as if this weren't satisfactory enough.

  “I wanted to ask questions. Talk to someone. Something. Not just listen to a taped message that can't be challenged.”

  “Well, that's what we've got,” Clarissa said sternly. She summoned a teacherly air. “So if you're done complaining, let's listen to what this guy's saying already.”

  Jon recoiled with mock offense. “Well, somebody didn't get her coffee this morning.”

  Clarissa pinched off a smile then focused on the broadcast.

  “...they're not telling you in the media, what's [inaudible] of it anyway. They thought they [inaudible] get it under control, or maybe they hoped it would just go away, but it won't go away. Not now. Too [inaudible] has already happened. [inaudible] here now. They know how to find us. But there may be a solu-[inaudible]. Listen carefully: if you can hear [inaudible] voice—”

  “Clarissa! Clarissa!”

  Rachel crashed into the open doorway. Clarissa turned with a start, Jon jumping to his feet. Rachel panted, her eyes
saucers of fear.

  “Rach?” Clarissa said, crossing to her friend in two giant strides. “What is it?”

  Rachel swallowed a lungful of air. “I think he's back.”

  CHAPTER 28

  Clarissa crept into the living room with Jon and Rachel. Everyone hid, each person either standing beside or crouching below the front windows. Cesare put a finger to his lips then flat-palmed the air with emphatic, downward swats.

  Jon raced to the window nearest the front door. He sneaked up on it as if the window itself were the alleged offender. He eased an eyeball around the casing and glared into the yard.

  “What've we got?” he whispered to anyone who would answer.

  “I count four so far,” Cesare responded. “They're cutting between the trees and trying to stay hidden. No telling how many more could be circling around back.”

  Jon glared with steely-eyed awareness into the yard. He held his breath, his heart beating a response to the sudden infusion of adrenaline when a figure dashed among the trees. He ran to the nearest one that could conceal him and flattened himself up against the trunk before leaning out to peek at the house. Two more persons darted covertly from spot to spot, each taking refuge behind a trunk of insufficient girth. Jon recognized an advance when he saw one.

  “They're setting up for an attack,” he said. “It's a good bet more are taking up position on our blind side.”

  Valentina let out an involuntary yelp. “You mean we're being surrounded?”

  “That'd be my guess.”

  A collective moan rose up from the group.

  “What do they want?” said Elenora.

  “Everything,” replied Clarissa.

  “Dad?” Evan said from beneath Sean's protective arm.

  “It's all right,” said Sean, pulling his son closer and meeting Jon's worrisome eye.

  Jon looked at his son and felt the type of fear only those with children understood. “We'll be okay, Ev,” he said with as much conviction as he could conjure. “Just stay calm and hang in there. We'll get through this.” Evan nodded, but it was a pathetic attempt. “Clarissa, am I right in assuming these are the same people you were telling us about?”

  Clarissa nodded and blinked rapidly. “I can't imagine who else it could be, but if it is Travis, I don't understand why he'd come during the day. Why wouldn't he sneak up on us when it was dark? I'm sure he knows we knew he'd be back.”

  “Because he's smart.”

  “Why does this make him smart?”

  “Because you didn't expect it.”

  Jon stole another glance out the window and saw a pair of black-hooded people reach the treeline where it met cleared land. He spun around and found Clarissa again.

  “Andrew had a rifle the other night. Do you know where it is?”

  Clarissa thrust a finger at the gun locker off the dining room. “It's in there, but it's a magnetic lock, and Andrew has the key. I have a pistol Andrew gave me, though. It's just a Colt Mustang, but it's loaded.”

  Valentina frowned. “I thought Andrew took that.”

  “He did. But he gave it back,” Clarissa whispered. “Said he had second thoughts about me using it when Travis showed up. Guess he changed his mind.”

  “Lot of that going around,” Sean quipped.

  “The Colt will have to do,” said Jon. “Can you get it?”

  “Sure.”

  “Funny. I never figured you for a gun woman.”

  “I'm not,” Clarissa said, dropping to a crouch and angling for the stairs. “I'm quite happy never to touch one.”

  “You may want to revisit that line of thinking.”

  She nodded dolefully then ran for the stairs that led to the second floor. She bounded up them, taking steps two at a time.

  Rachel stared at her in confusion. “Where're you going?” she whispered loudly.

  Clarissa stopped at the top of the stairs. “To get the gun.”

  “Why's it up there?” Valentina said behind a curious scowl.

  Clarissa regarded her friends. “Because that's where I hid it. I knew it made you guys uncomfortable, so I moved it.”

  “Doesn't do you much good up there when you need it,” Valentina sneered. “You know, like now.”

  “I guess I just hoped I never would. Silly me.”

  Jon grew impatient. “Clarissa.”

  With a flurry of nods, Clarissa charged down the hall and out of sight.

  Jon focused on the movement in the trees. Cesare's count looked accurate. Jon tracked at least four people, but more were likely closing in on their flanks. They were amateurs with no experience on how to stage an assault. Even with low squad numbers there were protocols and tactics, as any well-trained soldier such as himself knew. The individuals floundering about in the woods were barely a fire team and a disorganized one at that. From Jon's vantage point, their line of sight with one another looked obscured—a big no-no. It was a fatal combination of densely packed trees and overspreading. Such scattered advancement was a recipe for failure, but their compromised visibility with one another could give Jon and the others a leg up on defense.

  But that was being hopeful.

  By all accounts, this Travis character was bright. He'd already proven himself adept at utilizing the element of surprise, and Jon didn't believe his crew suffered from a lack of communication. The people in the woods were talking to one another somehow. Even so, an untrained and barely cohesive unit could only do so much. And although their advancement was atrocious, it was the untold numbers circling the rear that had Jon's hand itching for a weapon.

  A figure sprinted from a hiding place but tripped over something that sent him sprawling. He scrabbled back to his feet and stumbled clumsily to the nearest fat tree.

  “These guys are definitely not pros,” Jon said.

  Valentina chuckled. “If it's Travis, the only things he and his dipshit friends are pros at are making drugs and thinking they're OGs.”

  Clarissa raced down the stairs, her footfalls thumping noisily on the treads. She held the Colt. Bending low as if skirting chopper blades, she hurried over to Jon to hand him the weapon and a meager handful of extra rounds.

  Sean shifted uncomfortably, as Jon took the gun. The two exchanged a look that would have taken volumes to express. Clarissa suspected they'd had more than one heated talk regarding the object in Jon's hand.

  Sean caught Clarissa glancing at him. He straightened. “Maybe we can...I don't know, talk to him first. You know, good old-fashioned diplomacy?”

  “There is no talking to this guy,” Clarissa whispered. She took a position at the window opposite Jon. “He'll pretend to listen to you then do whatever the hell he wants. He's a cold, unfeeling piece of...” Clarissa glanced at Evan and stopped herself from finishing. “There is no negotiating. We've got to be ready.” Clarissa conjured a weak smile for Sean. “At least you're in good company.”

  “How's that?” said Sean.

  “You're not the only one forced to realign his morals.”

  Sean tried to grin, but it required too much effort. Clarissa peeled back the edge of a sun-faded drape and glimpsed outside. “Dammit, where the hell's Andrew? Has anyone seen him?”

  Heads shook in dispirited union.

  “Does this mean we go for the truck then?” Rachel said.

  Jon tipped his head. “Truck?”

  “It's Andrew's backup plan,” Clarissa said. “The day after Travis first arrived, we loaded up his flatbed trailer and truck with as much food and supplies as it would hold. The plan was, Travis shows up, we get to the truck and hightail it out of here under cover of darkness. It sounded right at the time. I don't think anyone thought Travis was bold enough to attack us during the day.”

  “Hold up, hold up,” said Cesare in astonishment. “Andrew's got enough food and supplies to fill a truck bed and a trailer?”

  “You don't know the half of it,” declared Valentina. “Andrew's a walking reality show. I mean, don't get me wrong, I'm glad I'm here
and not out there, but my man's got some serious paranoia issues.”

  Jon caught Clarissa's gaze. “That true about the food?”

  Clarissa nodded without hesitation. “He's been readying himself for something big up here for a long time. I just don't think he ever thought it was going to be this.”

  “Seems our friend is a little more than just some country bumpkin.”

  “Yeah,” Clarissa said nervously, “just a little.”

  “Helloooo Clariiiice...”

  The bullhorn-amplified voice that hijacked the whispered silence turned everyone to stone. Wide eyes searched the air. Jon pried back the curtains to stare into the yard but could see no one.

  “Have the lambs stopped screaming?”

  Clarissa closed her eyes and shook her head from fear-gripping realization.

  Travis was here.

  Jon looked over at her, bewildered. “Do you know this guy? I mean, know him.”

  The room thrummed from the weight of the question.

  “Yeah...” Clarissa sputtered. “We all do. It's just that some of us...”

  The sentence hung in space. Something about Clarissa's voice and the way her eyes suddenly appeared shadowed and deep-set informed Jon of a terrible history between the two. It wouldn't take him two guesses to figure out what that was. If only there were time to console her. He was no stranger to trauma. The dusty alleyways and hostile backstreets of Fallujah had seen fit to harden him against the worst the world had to offer. No one should have to face the aftermath of such loathsome human behavior on her own.

  “As promised,” Travis's disembodied voice continued, “we're baaaaaaccck.” He chuckled a sadist's laugh. “You see what I did there? Two classic lines from two iconic films in two sentences. Can you guess which ones?”

  The living room swam in silence thick as oil. No one moved.

  “You probably can. But knowing you, Clarissa, you can't be bothered to answer.”

  Looks of concern drifted Clarissa's way, but Clarissa was oblivious to them. She combed the front yard in search of Travis and his tin-canned voice, her jaw clenching involuntarily.