The Prophecy

Celie awoke with a start. She had had an epiphany, a dream of an echoing sound so familiar she was sure she'd been hearing it her whole life. A sound that made her want to listen closely. For a moment she forgot where she was and stood, mystified as she reached for the journal on her nightstand.

In the darkness, Kingsley's wide open eye reflected the moonish half-light, his body tensed and taut. He watched her for a moment and, sure that there was no cause for alarm, sank back onto his jacket, his arms cradled around his ruined eye. Past him, a narrow column of tobacco smoke and a barely-arched eyebrow insinuated that the Kark was awake. The cigarette shifted momentarily, and he nodded. The eyebrow uncreased and his chin tucked slowly to his chest. 

Celie sat then, alone in darkness, trying to recapture the sound. A deep two-note followed by a pause beat over a wavering, dull whistle. She pulled her transceiver from her bag and sat with it in her lap, the antenna extended. Slowly, she turned the dial and held the headset to her ear, surfing through a universe of garbled hums, broken signals and useless noise. She clicked through the higher broadcasting frequencies, although of course there was nothing to hear. There wouldn't have been, even if she'd been on the other side of the mountain; the broadcasters had only recently begun building towers even in Kinsbourne. She dipped into the communication channels, but the towers in the camp were incomplete and most of the crew had died back in the mine. There would be no chatter on local communication frequencies until they could be replaced with new conscripts in Kinsbourne.

She signed, turning finally to the command frequencies that necromancers used to control their zombie charges, scrolling through them. Squeals and clicks parted the static, but nothing