Jack Marlowe had traded the roar of the stadium
for the hum of suburbia.
The trophy sat dusty on his mantel, next to a ph
oto of his wife, Lila, and their golden retrieve
r, Duke.
“Jack, dinner’s getting cold.”
Lila’s voice floated from the kitchen, soft and
patient.
He didn’t answer.
The radio had started talking again.
“—repeat, this is WXLF out of New York, broadcas
ting live from the ruins of Times Square.”
Static crackled. A man coughed. “The dead are wa
lking. Repeat, the dead are walking.”
Jack stared at the old Zenith.
It had belonged to his father. Never worked befo
re. Not like this.
“Jack?”
He turned. Lila stood in the doorway, brow furro
wed.
“Did you tune into something weird?”
“No,” he lied.
That night, the broadcast played on.
A woman’s voice, urgent and clear.
“They’re using the signal to cross. You have to
shut it down before the switch.”
“What switch?” Jack whispered.
Silence.
Then a hiss.
“Your world is next.”
He woke to Duke barking.
The clock read 3:07 a.m.
The radio was on again.
This time, it wasn’t voices. It was footsteps.
Slow. Wet.
Coming closer.
Jack got up, bare feet on the hardwood.
He opened the garage door.
Duke was gone.
But the car wasn’t.
He backed out into the empty street.
No stars. No moon. Just the hum of power lines a
nd the buzz in his ears.
The voice came back.
“You’re close, Jack. You can see it now, can’t y
ou?”
He blinked.
The world flickered.
Suddenly, he wasn’t on his street anymore.
Cars rusted in the gutters. Homes were burnedout
shells.
And in the distance—
Figures. Moving. Not quite human.
He slammed on the brakes.
The world snapped back.
But something had changed.
His hands were bleeding.
He called the station the next morning.
No record of WXLF. Not since the war.
“Jack, you’re not making sense,” Lila said.
“I’m trying to keep you alive,” he snapped.
That night, the signal returned.
Louder. Clearer.
“We’re running out of time. They’re using the ri
ft to feed. You have to break the loop.”
“How?”
A pause.
“Sacrifice.”
Jack stared at the radio.
“Who?”
A laugh. Cold and sharp.
“The one who opened the door.”
He remembered the night he found the radio.
The night he’d brought it home, like it was call
ing him.
Lila walked in.
“Jack, what’s wrong?”
He looked at her.
At the life they’d built.
Then at the garage.
Where Duke used to sleep.
“I have to go,” he said.
“No,” she said. “You’re scaring me.”
He kissed her forehead.
“I love you.”
He drove to the edge of town.
Past the last stop sign. Past the rusted fence.
The signal pulled him in.
Stronger now.
He parked.
Stepped out.
The air was wrong.
Like static before a storm.
The radio sat on the hood of his car.
He turned the dial.
The voice came through, clear as day.
“You’re ready.”
“Tell me what to do.”
A pause.
“Walk through the door. Close it behind you.”
Jack closed his eyes.
He stepped forward.
Darkness.
Then silence.
Back at home, the radio blinked off.
Duke barked from the porch.
Lila looked up.
The sky was clear. The sun was shining.
And the world—
Felt safe again.
