2070: Alone on Earth – Day Six

The sixth day starts with static.

It’s barely dawn when the radio crackles, not a clear signal but a messy tangle of sound—hints of a pulse, then noise. I’m already awake. Echo stirred hours ago and refused to settle, pacing between rooms, pausing by the window.

Something is out there. Again.

I log the event: Day Six. 05:41. Intermittent low-frequency noise. Not patterned.

I try not to hope too much. The mind, when starved of input, creates meaning in anything. A windblown wire becomes a message. A random click, a code. But I have to follow it. Even a whisper in the dark is more than silence.

Today, I decide, I will move farther than before. Not just to observe—but to track.

Echo’s ready, sensing the tension. I strap my gear carefully. Extra water, a few energy bars, medical kit, small notebook, backup radio, folding knife, flashlight, binoculars. My pack is heavier than usual.

We head out before the sun fully rises. The streets are tinted pale gold, shadows still long. There’s a strange beauty in the emptiness, like walking through a museum of extinction. Every street corner is a memory. A ghost.

We move south-southwest, toward the edge of the city where high-rises give way to industrial blocks. These zones are less scavenged. Untouched. Which means risk—and possibility.

Midway through the morning, we pass a collapsed bridge. Beneath it, a shallow tunnel, half-flooded, disappears into the dark.

Echo sniffs the air. Then growls.

It’s the first time I’ve heard him growl.

I kneel and scan the area. No movement. But Echo won’t step forward. He stands rigid, hackles raised. I trust him.

We take the long way around.

At 10:20, the radio bursts again.

This time it’s different: a pattern. Three short pulses, a pause, then two long ones. Then silence. I freeze.

It matches nothing I’ve logged before. I reply immediately.

"This is Alex. Please repeat transmission. I received your pattern. Three short, two long. Do you read?"

No answer. I try again. Still nothing.

But something in the signal feels... human.

We press on.

At noon, we find a makeshift barricade: overturned desks, rusted shopping carts, barbed wire twisted into a frame. A handwritten sign, faded but legible, hangs from it:

STAY BACK. QUARANTINE ZONE.

I stare for a long moment.

This is the first human-made object I’ve seen in weeks that wasn’t decaying where it naturally lay. This was placed. Deliberate. It had a purpose. A warning. Or a bluff.

I take out my notebook. Sketch it. Photograph it with the solar-powered cam. Echo sniffs a corner. No bark. No growl. Just stillness.

We move carefully past the barricade.

The buildings beyond are smaller, older. Some doors are chained shut. Others stand wide open, gaping like mouths. We enter one—a former office complex. Inside, overturned chairs, paper piles, a stale smell of decay.

But on a wall: writing. Sharpie, big letters.

NOT SAFE. GONE BAD. DON'T STAY AFTER DARK.

My stomach tightens.

I whisper to Echo, more for me than for him.

“Just words. Old words.”

We don’t stay long.

Outside, we find a rooftop access ladder. The climb is slow, cautious. At the top, the view opens. From here, I can see a wide radius—crumbling roads, overgrown fields, shattered windows blinking in sunlight.

And then—movement.

Far away, across several blocks, something shifts. A flash of reflection, metal catching sun. Then gone.

Too far to identify. But real.

Echo sees it too. His ears tilt forward.

"You saw it, didn’t you?"

He barks once.

We stay still for ten minutes. Nothing follows. No noise. No other signs. But I mark the direction. That’s where we’ll go tomorrow.

The sun is starting to drop. Time to head back.

On the way, we pass through a small grocery store. Most shelves are bare. But behind the counter, in a dusty drawer, I find a crumpled notebook.

Inside, pages scrawled with dates, names, tallies. A supply list. A final note:

"We left on foot. Northwest route. If anyone finds this—wait until it's safe. Then follow."

Another breath stolen from the past.

We make it back by sunset. I close the door. Lock it. Sit by the radio. My hands are shaking.

"Day Six. I saw something. I heard something. I found writing. There was a barricade. A message. Movement in the distance. If you’re listening, I’m not imagining this. I’m following the signs. I’m not alone."

No response. But that’s okay.

Echo curls beside my chair, resting his head on my foot.

Tonight, the wind is louder.

Not angry. Just restless.

So am I.

Day Six ends with answers that ask more questions.

Tomorrow, I chase the reflection.