Leo stared at the words. The static from the CP1300 suddenly felt less like emptiness and more like a held breath.
His rational mind fought back. It’s a joke. Dad had a dark sense of humor. A prank for me to find after he was gone.
Leo smiled. Bears. Classic Dad.
The radio on the workbench looked like a brick. A scuffed, olive-drab brick with a stubby antenna and a keypad worn smooth by a thousand thumbs. It was a Motorola CP1300, a relic from an era when “portable communication” meant a five-pound anchor on your belt. motorola cp1300 frequency list
But his father’s handwriting screamed from the page: DO NOT USE.
Ch 11: 162.550 – NOAA Weather (Boring until it isn’t) Ch 12: 155.340 – Hospital Link (Ambulance to ER. Never happy news.) Ch 13: 159.900 – State Police Tac-3 (Don’t transmit. Just listen. They don’t like listeners.)
Now the old man was gone, and the radio was Leo’s inheritance. He’d plugged it in, charged the dead battery overnight, and clicked the rotary knob. Static. Pure, beautiful, empty static. The radio worked, but without a frequency list, it was just a white-noise machine. Leo stared at the words
But his fingers moved anyway. He picked up the radio. The battery was full. He clicked the rotary knob to Channel 21.
He scrolled further down. The list became stranger.
But on page twelve, the handwriting changed. It grew smaller, more deliberate. It’s a joke
Ch 20: 151.925 – The Heron’s Nest (Bar & Grill. Order the chili. Ask for Jimmy.)
He never heard the screaming his father wrote about. Only the thumping.
He clicked the knob back to Channel 1. The static returned to its innocent hum. He closed the notebook and set the Motorola CP1300 back on the workbench.
His father’s call sign. A lump formed in Leo’s throat. He hadn’t known.