The grandfather clock in the hallway struck two in the morning, a hollow, resonant chime that seemed to mock the silence of the house. Thomas Briggs didn't hear it. He was suspended in a state of hyper-fixated exhaustion, sitting on the edge of his bed with his head buried in his calloused hands.
Beside him, on the nightstand, sat the single recorder—the small, black plastic device he had bullied out of Oreson Blinkon's trembling hands. It felt heavier than its weight suggested, like a lead weight pulling at the gravity of the room. He reached out and picked it up, his thumb hovering over the play button. He had been through this cycle four times already, but the compulsion to hear it one more time was an itch he couldn't stop scratching.
He stood up, his joints popping like dry kindling. His bedroom felt too small, the air thick with the ghost of the Aurora Engine's ozone. He carried the recorder into the living room, where his worn leather sofa stood like a silent sentinel in front of the dark television screen. He set the device down on the coffee table and drifted into the kitchen.
The ritual of coffee was the only thing keeping his mind from fracturing. He measured the grounds with trembling precision—strong, black, and bitter. As the machine hissed and gurgled, Briggs stared out the kitchen window. The Redwood forest loomed in the distance, a jagged black wall against the starlit sky. Somewhere out there, the ruins of the lab were still smoldering, and somewhere in his head, that voice was still speaking.
He poured the coffee into a chipped ceramic mug and retreated to the sofa. He sat heavily, the springs groaning under his weight. He took a sip, the scalding liquid searing his throat, and reached for the recorder.
Click.
Buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
The sound was a physical presence. It wasn't just white noise; it was a layered, rhythmic pulsing that seemed to vibrate the very molecules of the room. He listened to the rise and fall of the frequency, the way it mimicked a heartbeat struggling through layers of lead and time.
"Be... careful..."
The words were a thread of silk in a storm of static. Briggs played it again. And again. He closed his eyes, trying to strip away the mechanical roar of the engine to hear the inflection. Was it a threat? A plea? Or was it, as he had hallucinated in his sleep, a personal address?
His head lolled back against the cushions. The coffee, despite its strength, couldn't fight the sheer cognitive load of the last twenty-four hours. The buzzing of the recorder became a lullaby, a digital hum that synchronized with his own pulse.
CRRRR-ING!
A sharp, rhythmic alarm shattered his consciousness.
Briggs jolted awake, his heart racing. He wiped a string of drool from the corner of his mouth and squinted at the sunlight streaming through the blinds. The television was still dark, but the room was bathed in the pale, dusty gold of a Redwood morning. The recorder was still on the table, emitting a faint, dying hiss of static.
"Oh my god," he muttered, rubbing his gritty eyes. "Did I seriously fall asleep to that noise?"
He checked the device; it was still on, the tape or digital reel having reached its end and looping back into a low-level hum. He clicked it off, the sudden silence of the room feeling deafening. He stood up, his back screaming in protest from the awkward sleeping position, and shuffled back to the bedroom. He tucked the recorder into his bedside table drawer, sliding it shut with a firm thud.
He spent the next twenty minutes scrubbing the sleep from his face and brushing his teeth until his gums ached. He donned his tan Sheriff's uniform, pinned his star to his chest, and adjusted his belt. He looked at himself in the mirror—he looked like a man who had seen too much and slept too little.
He walked outside to his driveway where his Chevrolet Caprice sat idling. It was a beast of a car, a heavy-framed, government-issued cruiser with a rumbling V8 engine that felt like the only stable thing in his life. He slid into the vinyl seat, the smell of old coffee and upholstery cleaner familiar and grounding. He put the car in gear and headed toward the more affluent side of town.
The Halliston residence was a two-story colonial at the end of a quiet, tree-lined street. Briggs pulled the Caprice to the curb and stepped out. He walked up the porch and rang the bell.
The door opened to reveal a man with neatly combed blonde hair and sharp blue eyes hidden behind contact lenses. This was George Halliston, a biological scientist at the Redwood Lab and the father of Logan.
"Briggs?" George said, a surprised but warm smile breaking across his face. "Hey! Man, how are you?"
"Nothing special, George. Just another day on the clock," Briggs grunted, though he couldn't help but feel a bit of the tension leave his shoulders. "Can I come in?"
"Of course, come in. We were just sitting down."
Briggs stepped into the warmth of the Halliston home. The sounds of a busy family morning filled the air. In the dining room, the three children were already at the table. Suvi, seventeen and possessing a sharp, observant gaze; Edward, the ten-year-old fireball of energy; and Logan, the middle child who always seemed to be looking for a puzzle to solve.
Alexa Halliston, George's wife, looked up from the table with a humorous glint in her eyes. "The Sheriff is so busy protecting the people, I'm surprised he has time to visit us mere mortals."
Briggs laughed, the sound feeling rusty. "It's nothing like that, Alexa. I just had some... late-night work regarding the incident at the lab."
"Good morning, Sheriff Briggs!" the kids chimed. "Thanks for protecting us from the villains," Edward added with a grin.
Briggs chuckled, ruffling Edward's hair as he sat down. "Oh, my heroes and heroines are very good today. You're going to make a simple Sheriff blush."
As they began their breakfast of eggs and toast, George leaned in, his scientific curiosity piqued. "So, Thomas. Why haven't you been around? Is the work at the lab really that consuming?"
Briggs took a slow sip of coffee and recounted the chaos of the previous day—the screaming machines, the white screens, the fire, and the narrow escape. He kept the blackmail of Oreson and Collin to himself, but he described the strange frequency readings in detail.
Logan stopped eating, his fork suspended in mid-air. "Uncle Briggs? Do you still have the recorder? From the lab?"
Briggs nodded with a slight, tired smile. "What do you need it for, kiddo?"
"Could you give it to me?" Logan asked, his voice hushed with excitement. "Can I hear what's on it? I want to know if the frequency was modulated or if it was just raw interference."
Briggs' smile faded slightly. "I can't right now, Logan. I have to submit it to my superior, Freddy Alliston. It's part of the official investigation."
Logan's face fell. The light of curiosity in his eyes vanished, replaced by a deep, heavy disappointment. He looked down at his eggs, his shoulders slumping.
Briggs looked at the boy, then at George and Alexa. He couldn't stand seeing the kid that discouraged. "Listen, Logan. Uncle Briggs can do anything his favorite hero asks for. Tell you what... before I give it to Freddy, I'm going to let you listen to it. But you have to promise me—after you hear it, it comes straight back to me. No keeping it, no copying it. Right?"
Logan's head snapped up, his face transforming into a mask of pure joy. He thrust out his hand, his little finger extended. "Promise!"
Briggs leaned forward, hooking his own thick, scarred little finger around Logan's small one. "Promise."
The morning sun was beginning to bake the dew off the grass as the Halliston children headed out for the day. George left for the Redwood Lab to begin his biological research, while the kids headed toward Redwood Academy.
As they reached the iron gates of the academy, Logan spotted a boy with a mess of dark hair and a backpack in black color.
"Adison! Here, here!"
Adison turned, hisace lighting up as he waited for him. Logan began to run toward him, his mind racing with the news of the recorder. He didn't see the foot that shot out from behind a stone pillar.
Richard, a tall blonde bully with a cruel streak, watched with a smirk as Logan tripped. Logan slammed into the gravel path, his books flying in every direction. Laughter erupted from the surrounding students.
Adison hurried over, helping Logan to his feet. Richard stepped forward, looking down his nose at them. "Nerd," he sneered, pointing a finger at Adison. "You two are the same. Pathetic."
Logan wiped the dirt from his palms, his face burning. "Hey, Richard. What you're doing is not correct. Say sorry to both of us."
Richard barked a laugh. "If I don't say sorry, what are you gonna do? Cry? Or maybe you'll piss yourself in front of everyone like a little baby?"
The laughter redoubled. Logan felt the familiar sting of embarrassment, but before he could retreat, a new presence entered the circle.
Jamie, a quiet but physically imposing boy in a white shirt and brown pants, stepped between them. He held his bag loosely over one shoulder. "What's happening here?" he asked, his voice low and dangerous. "Did you bully my friends again, Richard?"
Richard's smirk faltered. He took a half-step back. "No... we're just... doing some pranks."
Jamie didn't wait for a further explanation. With a sudden, explosive movement, he punched Richard squarely in the stomach. The air left Richard's lungs in a sickening whump. He collapsed to the ground, gasping for breath as the immediate pain echoed through his body.
Jamie didn't look back. He nodded to Adison and Logan. "Let's go."
The four of them—Logan, Adison, Jamie, and soon Lyra, who met them in the hallway—entered their classroom and took their seats. They sat in a row, a small island of intelligence in a sea of high school chaos.
Logan leaned in, his voice a vibrating whisper that barely carried past their circle. "Guys. This is a Dead Frequency meeting. Meet at the science lab after lunch is over. I have something important to tell you all."