In the ashes of Jericho, survival is not just about food and water. It is about what you are willing to keep alive when the world says let it die. Richard carries the weight of his fever-ridden sister and his mutated mother while hunter gangs stalk the ruins, chanting for the “Broodmother.” What follows is part horror, part love story, and all nightmare.

“If you’re out there,” Mickey said, voice cracking through the static, “this is 98.7 The Blaze. The airwaves are still open. I’m still here. You’re not alone.”

The studio smelled like mildew and old vinyl. His only listener was a dog named Joplin, and maybe—just maybe—the cowboy with burning eyes who kept showing up in his dreams.

Outside, the crows circled over Gainesville. The I-75 was a graveyard of cars and silence. But Mickey?

He kept talking.

Because someone had to.

In the waning light of a Civil War field hospital, an eighteen-year-old steward with no medical training is thrust into the heart of suffering. But as night falls, it’s not just the dying who fill the tent. Figures begin to appear—quiet, familiar, impossible. Some are mothers. Others are brothers. Grandparents. Friends. All long dead. All come searching for the ones they lost. And only he can see them.

A haunting, human ghost story about death, duty, and the quiet mercy of not dying alone.