Chapter 11
The heavy steel door of the walk-in storage room slammed shut behind Chloe with a dull, echoing thud that signaled absolute isolation from the rest of the world. She threw the massive deadbolt into place, sliding the secondary security latch until it clicked securely into its housing. Leaning her back against the cool steel, she slid down to the concrete floor, pulling her knees up to her chest and sucking in ragged, trembling breaths of chilled air.
The room was illuminated only by the dim, yellow glow of an overhead safety bulb, casting long shadows across the metal shelving stocked with boxes of dry goods and old diner supplies. In the far corner sat her father’s pride and joy—an antique military-surplus CB radio resting on a sturdy wooden crate, a tangled coil of antenna wire snaking up toward a small exhaust vent in the ceiling.
Chloe forced herself back to her feet, her scraped palms stinging sharply as she gripped the edge of the radio’s metal casing. She flicked the toggle switch upward. The unit let out a loud, buzzing hiss of static that filled the small room, cutting through the silence like a saw blade. She grabbed the heavy microphone, holding it close to her mouth.
"Breaker, breaker, this is Diner Nine-Zero on Route 9. Do you copy? Emergency, over," she whispered into the mic, her voice cracking with suppressed panic.
Only a harsh wall of white noise answered her. The storm outside was generating too much atmospheric interference, scrambling the radio waves before they could clear the ridge. She adjusted the frequency dial frantically, turning the knob a fraction of an inch to the left, then back to the right.
"Come on, please," she begged the silent machine, her tears finally spilling over her lashes and tracking warm paths through the dirt and sweat on her cheeks. "State police barracks, northern relay, anyone... please copy."
Through the thick steel door, muffled thuds and shouts echoed faintly from the main diner. The sounds were distant, distorted by the insulation, but they carried a terrifying clarity: the struggle was still raging, and Julian was fighting alone against overwhelming odds. Every second she spent fiddling with the dials was a second Julian was taking blows meant to protect her and the secret drive resting in her apron pocket.
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She pressed the transmit button again, her thumb turning white with pressure. "This is Diner Nine-Zero! We have an armed assault, injured civilian, urgent assistance required on Route 9 mile marker forty-two. Do you copy? Over!"
For a long, agonizing moment, nothing answered except the relentless hiss of static. Then, through the wall of white noise, a faint, broken voice crackled across the speaker.
