Read Chapter 6: The Radio

The stairwell smelled of smoke and damp plaster. Camille coughed into her sleeve as Julien led the way up to the second floor, his flashlight beam cutting through the gray haze that hung in the air. The fire had been contained to the Lefèvre apartment—a faulty candle tipped into a curtain, according to the couple themselves—but it had left behind the acrid ghost of itself, clinging to every surface.

"Anyone else on this floor with breathing issues?" Julien asked, his voice muffled by the bandana he'd tied over his mouth and nose.

"Not that my census showed." Camille paused at the landing, checking the pulse of a middle-aged man who'd emerged from his door to watch. "But I'll do a follow-up. The smoke will linger for days without ventilation."

Julien nodded, then stopped. He was staring at the fire extinguisher mounted on the wall between two doors. The glass front was intact, the red cylinder untouched. "That's wrong."

"What is?"

"The extinguisher. It's clean." He ran a gloved finger along the top edge, holding it up to show the faint film of dust on his fingertip. "The one in the stairwell on the third floor had a thin layer of grey residue. This one's been wiped down recently."

Camille moved closer, studying the metal. "You think someone deliberately disabled the extinguisher on the third floor?"

"I'm saying someone wanted to make sure a fire on the third floor would spread. This one"—he tapped the glass—"is fine. The fire was on the second. Maybe that's not a coincidence."

Before Camille could respond, a clattering sound echoed from above. Julien's hand went to his belt, but it was only Léa, descending the stairs with an armful of wires and what looked like an old radio chassis.

"I found it," she said, slightly breathless. "In the super's storage closet. It's a Grundig crank radio from like, the 1980s. The coils look intact." She held it out to Julien. "You're the one who fixes things, right?"

Julien took the radio, turning it over in his hands. "I can try. Give me an hour and some space."

"Your apartment," Camille said. "It's the brightest. The windows face south, and you still have some of that morning light."

"Fine. Léa, you're with me. Camille—" He paused. "You should get back to your supplies. If the smoke's this bad, people are going to start showing up with coughs and headaches by noon."

She wanted to argue, to stay close to whatever the radio might reveal. But he was right. She was the healer. The role had chosen her twelve hours ago, and it wasn't going to release her just because her curiosity burned.

"Come find me the moment you hear something," she said.

---

Camille was distributing damp cloth masks from a bundle of old t-shirts when Julien appeared at the courtyard gate two hours later. The radio was clutched under his arm, its dented metal casing polished to a dull gleam. Behind him, Léa was practically vibrating with impatience.

"We got the antenna extended and we're picking up the state frequency," Julien said, keeping his voice low. "The signal's weak, but we can get it in bursts."

They retreated to the stairwell alcove beneath the first-floor landing—the one spot in the building where sound didn't carry. Léa crouched by the radio, tuning the dial with careful precision. A crackle of static, then a voice broke through.

"...repeat, this is the national emergency broadcast system. The Paris grid failure has been traced to a rupture in the main gas distribution network. Investigators believe a pressure surge compromised multiple junction points, causing a cascading failure across the city's electrical infrastructure. This was a singular industrial accident. There is no wider threat. Citizens are advised to remain in their homes and await instructions. Rationing protocols will be announced..."

Julien's jaw tightened. Camille felt a knot twist in her stomach.

"A gas leak," Léa said flatly. She killed the sound with a flick of her finger. "A singular industrial accident."

"You don't believe it," Camille said. It wasn't a question.

"Every mobile network is down. Every single one—cell, landline, even the wire-based systems that don't depend on the power grid for their main feed." Léa's eyes were sharp. "A gas leak taking out the electricity? I could buy that for part of the city. But the communications blackout is total. That's not physics. That's intent."

"The military could be jamming civilian frequencies to prevent panic," Julien offered.

"Or to control the narrative." Léa tapped the radio. "They keep telling us it's safe. They're not telling us anything we can verify. No specifics about where the rupture was, what caused it, or when power would be restored. Have you noticed that? They don't give a timeline. Because they don't have one."

Camille thought of Sylvie's message, the plea from across the river. Systemic shortage. Military logistics prioritized. "What about the NATO transmission you intercepted? Does it say anything about this?"

Léa's face flickered. "I only cracked a fragment. Something about a 'containment protocol' and a codeword—'Aurelius.' I don't know what it means yet. But it existed eleven minutes before the grid failed. A leak that erupts in the French capital minutes after NATO sends an encrypted message from a residential building?" She shook her head. "That's not coincidence. That's foreshadowing."

The silence stretched thick between them.

"We need information," Julien said finally. "Real information. From people who aren't reading a script."

"The fire station." Camille looked at him. "Your station. You know the dispatchers, the battalion chiefs. They'd know if this was truly just a gas leak, or if there's something else going on."

Julien's mouth pressed into a hard line. "The station's about eight kilometers from here. Easy run on a normal day. With the streets clogged, blocked, maybe dangerous—" He checked his watch. "I can be there and back before dusk if I leave now."

"Take Léa's radio with you. Leave her a wire from the receiver—she can build a secondary setup." Camille pulled off her emergency pouch from her belt, pressing it into his hands. "The kit's got bandages, antiseptic wipes, two glucose tablets, and a roll of euros. The euros won't buy anything anymore, but the rest might."

Julien took the pouch. For a moment, his fingers closed around hers. "If the station has nothing—if this is all legit, just bad luck and a rotten gas main—then what?"

"Then we get you back here before dark, and we find another way to get answers." Camille held his gaze. "But I don't believe in that rotten gas main any more than Léa does."

He nodded once. Then he ascended the stairs toward his apartment to prepare, his footsteps echoing in the silence of the stairwell.

Camille stood at the base, watching him go. The radio sat silent on the step beside her, its antenna still extended toward the sky. Somewhere beyond that sky, at the edges of this blacked-out city, someone knew the truth about what had happened. And now, for the first time since the lights had died, they had a plan to find that someone.

The second-floor smoke had begun to dissipate. But something else had taken its place—a question none of them could shake, with an answer none of them trusted.

Hours until sunset. Hours until Julien reached the station. Camille pressed her palm flat against the cool stone of the stairwell wall and breathed.

They would find out what the state was hiding. Whatever it cost them.