“Where did you even learn to use one of those?” I askedbecause I needed to think about anything other than those things down there.
“Marines,” he said simply, without looking up.
“You were a Marine?”
“Four years.” He twisted another knob, adjusting the gain. “Before I figured out I wasn’t cut out for following idiots into pointless fights.”
The speaker burst with sharper static.
He leaned closer, listening.
“In the Corps, we trained with field radios. Different equipment, same principles. Frequencies, signal strength, line of sight.” His finger tapped the dial. “Marine radios are simpler.”
He flipped a switch.
“Channel sixteen is the international distress channel. If anything is still operating out there—Coast Guard, cargo ships, fishing boats—this is where they’ll be.”
My chest tightened.
“And if no one answers?”
He didn’t respond.
Instead, he pressed the transmit button. The radio chirped softly, and he leaned toward the microphone.
“This is the Bay City Aquarium. Any station monitoring Channel Sixteen, come back.”
He released the button.
Static filled the air.
The wind moved across the roof. Below us, that awful collective groan drifted up from the parking lot—low and constant, like the building itself was sick.
We waited.
Five seconds.
Ten.
Nothing.
Callan adjusted the frequency drift, his face tight with concentration.
“Come on,” he murmured.
Then the radio crackled sharply—a different sound, cutting through the white noise like a knife.
We both froze.
A voice tried to push through the static.
“…—any survivors—repeat,”
Callan’s head snapped toward the speaker. His hand tightened around the radio so hard that his knuckles turned white.
“Holy shit,” he breathed.
“Someone’s out there.”