DEAD HORIZON — CHAPTER 20: NO SIGNAL
The janitor locked the SEARS employee lounge with a deadbolt.
Click.
First sound in hours that didn’t mean danger. It meant closed.
The room smelled like stale coffee and dust. Vending machines, unplugged. A microwave from 2009. Lockers with no locks. A couch with the stuffing coming out. Calendar on the wall: MARCH 2024. Someone had written QUIT across it in red marker.
It wasn’t safe. But it was safer.
Arthur collapsed. He didn’t choose to. His back hit the lockers and his legs gave out. Hands shaking. Not from the run. From the after.
Mark’s eye in the door crack. Lena pulled the wrong way. The propane hiss. Derek. The stairwell. The girl. The parking lot.
Too much. Too fast.
Sophia sat near the couch, watching Derek. The janitor didn’t sit. He checked the door. Checked the vent. Checked the window — painted shut, barred. Then he started opening lockers. One by one. Not looting. Inventory.
Derek was bad. His arm was purple to the shoulder. Black lines crossed his collarbone and crawled up his neck like veins filled with ink. Sweating. Teeth chattering. “C-c-cold,” he said. “So cold.”
Sophia knelt. Didn’t touch the arm. Touched his forehead. “Hey. Derek. Look at me.” Low. Not student council. Not General Evans. Just tired. “You worked at Bubble Tea King, right?”
Derek nodded. Eyes unfocused. “Y-yeah. Shift lead. I close on Tuesdays.”
“Okay, shift lead,” Sophia said. “You just rest. We got it.”
She didn’t say you’re going to be okay. She didn’t lie.
Arthur watched. Realized something cold and final: Some people are already lost.
Mei Lini Zhang sat on the floor by the mini-fridge. Not curled up. Not crying. Just still. Lynwood Heights hoodie too big for her. Sleeves over her hands. Staring at a stain on the tile.
She was processing. Shut down.
She was a survivor. Not a sister. Not a sidekick. Just a girl who made it this far.
Arthur pulled his phone. 11%.
No service. One bar, then none. SOS Only.
He opened texts.
Mom [7:12 AM]: Baby don’t forget, I have that double shift today. Don’t eat only cereal. Love you.
Mom [2:14 PM]: Arthur there’s a lockdown at the hospital. Patients acting crazy. Security called.
Mom [2:31 PM]: Baby are you at the mall? Stay away from crowds.
Mom [2:47 PM]: I love you.
Nothing after 2:47.
Sarah Johnson. Nurse. She was inside a hospital when it started.
Arthur’s breath caught.
He scrolled.
Maggie [1:58 PM]: museum is boringggg. Can u pick me up early?? Dads gonna be mad but idc
Maggie [2:02 PM]: ARTHUR ANSWER ME
Maggie [2:09 PM]: There’s screaming outside.
Maggie [2:10 PM]: Arthur???
Maggie Wilson. 17. Best friend. Museum arc location. Trapped. Not safe. Not with him. Not protected.
He scrolled again.
Penny [8:03 AM]: Arthur can u pick me up from school? Ms. Tate said early dismissal
Penny [2:11 PM]: Arthur they locked the doors
Penny [2:18 PM]: Arthur I’m scared
Penny [2:22 PM]: Arthur???
Penny Johnson. 10. Sister. Missing.
Arthur’s breathing broke.
Mom = medical chaos.
Dad = electrician, out in the field, unreachable.
Maggie = outside survival thread.
Penny = family missing mystery.
This was the emotional core. Family loss + survival.
Sophia spoke. Quiet.
“My parents…” She stopped. Swallowed. “They’re in Dubai. Business thing. They do that. A lot.” She picked at a thread on her jeans. “They said they’d be home next week. Said to text if I needed anything.” Dead laugh. “I didn’t text back. I was mad. They missed my debate finals. My birthday.”
She looked at Arthur. “They probably don’t even know yet. Time difference. Probably at dinner. Or asleep.” Eyes too dry. “I keep thinking… if I’d answered, would that be the last time? You know?”
Arthur didn’t answer.
Lini. Barely a whisper.
“My mom works at Macy’s. Alterations. She texts me on breaks.” She pulled her knees up. “Last one was 2:51. She said she was hiding in the back. With two other ladies. Then nothing.” She looked at Sophia. “My dad drives bus. City bus. He wouldn’t leave her.” Pause. “My brother’s ten.”
Ten. Like Penny.
Arthur’s chest hurt.
Arthur stood. Legs shook but held.
Not heroic. Automatic.
Check exits: sealed.
Vents: ceiling corner. Small. Screws rusted. Reachable if he stood on the counter.
Water: sink. Brown two seconds, then clear. Let it run.
Food: vending machines. Unplugged. He took the tire iron from the janitor. Didn’t ask. Janitor nodded. Arthur pried one open. Granola bars. Chips. Water bottles.
He passed them out. Three to Sophia. Two to Lini. One to Derek — didn’t take it. One for himself. Set two aside. For the janitor.
The janitor watched him. Then looked at the others. They were watching Arthur too.
Arthur didn’t like it.
Wi-Fi flickered. SEARS_EMPLOYEE. Password protected.
SEARS123. Failed. password. Failed.
Then signal jumped. One bar of 5G. Three seconds.
Twitter loaded. Broken.
#lynwood trending.
Video: Parking lot. Not the mall. People running. Jerky. Cop shooting. Cop gets tackled.
Video: News chopper. Downtown. Smoke. “…National Guard has been deployed to major metropolitan…” Cut.
Video: Girl, 14, crying into phone. “Mom? Mom are you there? Please…” 4.2M views. 30 minutes ago.
Video: Empty freeway. “I-5 NORTH. 10 AM vs 3 PM.” Traffic vs cars abandoned. Doors open. One car on fire.
Then: NO SERVICE.
Arthur lowered the phone. “It’s outside,” he said. To the room. “It’s not just here.”
Derek mumbled. “Procedure… says… wait for…”
“There is no procedure,” Sophia said. Soft.
Arthur looked at the vent. Door. Window. “We can’t stay,” he said. “Not forever. Derek needs a hospital. We need…” He stopped. We need out. Didn’t say it yet. Looked at Sophia. “Where do you live?”
Sophia blinked. “What?”
“Your house,” Arthur said. “Is it… is it big?”
She stared. Understood. Laughed. No humor. “Yeah. It’s big. Stupid big. Gated. Mom’s an architect. Dad’s finance. Built it like a fortress because… because they could.” She picked at her jeans. “Three floors. Basement. Panic room. Generator. Walls. Crestview.”
“Could we…” Arthur didn’t finish.
“Maybe,” Sophia said. “If we got there. If it’s still…” She didn’t say standing. “It’s got supplies. Freezer. Water. Meds. Mom’s a prepper-lite. Earthquakes, you know?”
The janitor nodded. “Good enough plan.”
Lini looked up. “My house is two bedrooms. One bathroom. My brother sleeps on the couch.” Flat. Not jealous. Fact.
Arthur thought about Maggie. About Penny. About his mom in the hospital. About his dad unreachable.
“I need to get home,” he said. “After. But first we get out of the mall.”
He said it. Out loud. It became real.
The lights flickered. Once.
Mini-fridge hummed, died.
Arthur’s phone lit up. Emergency Alert.
EMERGENCY BROADCAST SYSTEM
THIS IS NOT A TEST
CIVIL AUTHORITIES HAVE LOST CONTAINMENT IN LYNWOOD, RIVERSIDE, OAKDALE SECTORS
SHELTER IN PLACE. DO NOT APPROACH INFECTED INDIVIDUALS
AVOID MAJOR ROADWAYS. AVOID HOSPITALS
FURTHER INFORMATION…
Screen went black.
No Service.
0%.
Phone died.
Red emergency light. Dim.
Outside, far off: Whup. Whup. Whup.
Helicopter.
Then gunfire. City.
Arthur thought about home.
Not zombies. Not Mark. Not the mall.
Maggie. Penny. Mom. Dad.
They are not safe anywhere.
Arthur looked at Sophia. Then Lini. Then Derek — dying. Then the janitor.
“We go to your house,” he said. “Then we leave this mall.”
But internal: get out alive then find family.
