Chapter 78
The second transmission came through clearer than the first. Charlotte heard it from her position against the barn wall, the CB’s distinctive warble cutting through the evening air with the particular authority of technology that had been declared obsolete decades before it became, abruptly, the most advanced communication system still functioning in North America.
Helen stood in the barn doorway, one hand on the frame and her attention directed toward the main house, where the radio sat on a kitchen table.
“Any casualties?” asked one of the elderly men.
“Not specified. The transmission mentioned it had been secured with minimal losses, which means whatever they consider minimal these days.”
Helen’s expression didn’t change, but something in her posture had shifted from the vigilance of three hours earlier to the focused assessment of someone processing information that changed the arithmetic.
“They’ve established aid stations at the river crossing. Medical supplies are coming in from storage facilities west of Frederick. The SNA has air assets in the sector, but they’re being met with ground fire from positions the Guard set up along the ridge roads.”
The third transmission arrived before she had finished speaking. The radio buzzed, the static built and receded, and a new voice came through with the particular cadence of someone reading from notes rather than speaking extemporaneously.
“This is Mountain Home Relay, transmitting on behalf of Settlement Bravo at the junction of Route 15 and 340. Be advised, SNA ground units have been observed moving south along the 340 corridor toward the river. Estimate company strength, light vehicles, and possible air support. American forces are engaging at Grid Tango-November-Four. Civilian evacuations from the eastern sector are ongoing. If you can hear this transmission, relay to all settlements within range. Mountain Home Relay, out.”
The static resumed, then cut to silence.
Charlotte sat against the barn wall with her empty plate beside her and her lungs burning behind the mask, and what she heard in that transmission wasn’t the tactical details but the larger fact that communication was happening at all.
A CB radio in a farmhouse in West Virginia was receiving real-time intelligence from a settlement that had appointed itself a relay station, and that intelligence was being delivered to people eating beans by lantern light who would have been operating on guesswork twelve hours earlier.
The old world was not coming back. That was clear enough from the bodies in the garden bed on Ridge Road, the collapsed bridge at Shepherdstown, and the warm metallic taste Charlotte had been coughing into her mask since the community center outside Tuckerton.
Still, something was emerging in its place.
It wasn’t a replacement, not a reconstruction, but the patchwork that forms when people are stripped of every system they built and respond by building new systems from whatever the destruction left intact.
People had moved to the barn doors. Not everyone.
The family with young children remained in the northeast corner, the parents speaking to their children in low voices so that the radio didn’t interrupt.
Enough had gathered that the lantern light concentrated near the entrance where Helen stood, relaying each transmission as it arrived.
The fourth transmission contradicted the third.
“The situation is unclear. Reports of SNA units on Route 340 conflict with aerial reconnaissance from Guard assets. Be advised, the situation east of the river is fluid. Civilian evacuations continue at Point of Rocks. The ferry is operational, but capacity is limited. If you have people who need extraction, coordinate through the relay at Grid Sierra-November-Seven. Out.”
Fluid was a military term that often described the unsettling uncertainty of a situation; it meant that, while nobody knew exactly what was happening, something important was in motion.
In times like that, it was wise to approach with caution, understanding that no single report could convey the whole story.
As Charlotte listened, she began to piece together the fragments of information.
The corridor had indeed been established; American forces had regrouped.
While the SNA was challenging the eastern approach, it hadn’t yet broken through, offering some hope of stability.
The ongoing civilian evacuations offered a glimmer of relief, and the ferry at Point of Rocks continued to operate, providing a vital lifeline.
However, she knew that the landscape between where they were and there held dangers that hadn’t been there when she crossed the ford at dawn.
Next to her, Mason had finally succumbed to sleep.
His small body had tilted gently against Charlotte’s arm, a testament to his exhaustion.
His mask was slightly askew, yet still secure, and his breathing was calm and steady behind the plastic.
The weight of the day had drained him, using up every ounce of energy his eight-year-old frame could muster.
In that moment of sleep, he exhibited the instinctive wisdom of a child who understood that rest wasn’t just a need but a vital resource in a world filled with uncertainty.
The dog hadn’t moved from beneath the table.
Its ears remained forward, tracking the radio transmissions.
She knew the dog didn’t understand a thing that was going on, but she was intrigued by the fact that it appeared to be trying.
Still, she knew enough for both of them. Things could either go right or wrong.