Horrific Shorts: Zombie Edition

The tower loomed like a black tooth against the blood-colored sky.

Once used to broadcast weather alerts and civilian news, the Siren Tower now pulsed with something older… and hungry.

Riley stood at its base, flashlight wrapped in red cellophane to avoid drawing attention. The streets around her were silent—unnaturally so. Even the infected avoided this place. They said the tower called to them.

And if you listened long enough… it called to you too.

She had to see it for herself.

From a rooftop a few blocks away, her new companion Juno—hoarse from her last transmission—watched through binoculars, tapping nervously on the radio strapped to her chest.

"Don't get close," she warned. "That's not just a signal booster anymore. It's something else."

Riley ignored her.

Each step toward the Siren Tower felt heavier, like the gravity around it had shifted. The air buzzed—not with static, but with voices—faint whispers layered beneath a frequency you could feel in your bones.

The gates were broken.

She climbed over.

The courtyard was lined with shattered speakers, their wires snaking into the earth like veins. An old emergency speaker near the door sparked, then clicked to life.

"Welcome back, Operator Marlowe," it said in a cold, artificial voice. "Would you like to initiate another cleansing broadcast?"

Riley froze.

That was her father's name.

He had worked at the tower. Disappeared during the first week of the outbreak.

"Who's saying that?" she asked aloud.

The speaker replied:

"We are."

The tower door creaked open by itself.

Inside: darkness lit by red auxiliary lights, like veins pulsing through steel. Machinery lined the walls—some high-tech, others clearly repurposed from medical equipment. Monitors blinked erratically, showing aerial views of the city and biometric scans of unknown subjects.

One screen showed her.

Live.

Juno's voice crackled in her ear. "Riley, you need to get out. That place is broadcasting on organic frequencies. That means it's syncing with neural patterns. It can influence thoughts."

Too late.

The hum in the air rose to a scream—but only in Riley's mind. She fell to her knees, clutching her skull.

The monitors began playing memories—her memories. Her father, telling her to "always listen to the signal." Her school. Her first safehouse.

Each memory layered with static, warped and reprocessed.

They weren't being remembered.

They were being recorded.

The tower wasn't broadcasting anymore. It was receiving.

Riley crawled to the main console. A message blinked:

[NEW HOST CONNECTED — SYNCING COMPLETE]

Her hands moved without her command, typing something into the interface.

Outside, in the city, every siren came online.

They screamed in unison.

Windows shattered. Infected howled. Survivors screamed.

And then…

Silence.

Riley stood, eyes blank, face slack.

The speaker welcomed her again.

"Thank you, Operator Marlowe. Your broadcast has been heard."