The Omission Index, Ch 3- Static Harvest Pt. 3

Static Harvest concludes: Hale tracks Gary's psychic killer to the Union Hall. A final, devastating mental assault forces a deadly choice to end the nightmare.

May 20, 2025

As far as plans went, it was far from the best Hale had made over the years. But it would have to do.

There were two pickup trucks with large speakers mounted in the beds waiting a few blocks away from the Gary Works steel mill parking lot. Hale hadn’t brought them closer initially, concerned Miloscz might have eyes out and get spooked.

He was there now, at the sprawling parking lot, along with Kwan and Lula. Reid and Knopff were coordinating remotely, liaising with a local FCC team trying to triangulate the pirate broadcast using ground-wave detection finders.

It was 3 PM, shift change still two hours away. Hale finished his sandwich, bought earlier at a local deli. Lula tackled a burger and fries from a nearby diner, while Kwan methodically ate a BLT.

"You look like you served," Lula remarked to Kwan between bites.

"I did," Kwan confirmed evenly. "Vietnam. Shipped out '65. Saw the Tet Offensive. Discharged '72."

Lula nodded slowly.

"How could you tell?" Kwan asked, curious.

"Your eyes," Lula replied simply. "Got that same look my dad had. His army buddies too."

"Where did he serve?"

"Korea. Stayed in the Reserves after. He was National Guard during the Chosin Reservoir fight."

"My distant uncle fought there too," Kwan said quietly. "On the ROK side. Small world."

"You ever visit Korea?"

Kwan shook his head. "I've had my fill of war-torn countries."

"Fair enough," Lula conceded.

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Hale finished his sandwich, crumpled the wrapper, and tossed it into a rusty bin nearby. He checked his watch again.

"Should've arrived later," Kwan observed, wiping his mouth with a napkin. "Four maybe. Less waiting."

Hale shrugged. "Needed to get the lay of the land. Be ready. We have no idea what Miloscz might try."

"True," Kwan acknowledged.

As 5 PM approached, the parking lot began to fill with tired workers clocking out, heading towards their cars. The scent of hot asphalt and distant smelting hung in the air. Hale, Kwan, and Lula positioned themselves near the main exit lanes, scanning faces, looking for any sign of awareness, any hint of Miloscz's presence.

They saw nothing unusual. Workers unlocked car doors, started engines, eager to get home. No one paid the trio any mind. Miloscz wouldn't be here physically, Hale reasoned. He'd be at his broadcast point, wherever that was. Hale just hoped the plan to pinpoint the location worked, even as he dreaded the potential cost to the people here.

Hale signaled, and the two pickup trucks drove closer, parking unobtrusively just a block away, engines idling. He waited, senses on edge, trying to project calm.

They began walking patrol patterns up and down the rows of parked cars – mostly American-made sedans and coupes, with a few pickups mixed in. Hale felt a knot tighten in his gut. Something was coming.

A few seconds after 5 PM, Kwan hissed Hale’s name, pointing urgently towards a nearby car, an old Ford Maverick.

Hale ran over. Even through the closed window, he could hear the radio – Niemen's haunting Polish vocals blaring loudly. The driver, a young man in his late twenties with thick brown hair, sat bolt upright behind the wheel, door slightly ajar, staring straight ahead, utterly transfixed, eyes vacant. He seemed completely unaware of their presence. The psychic signature washing off the car was faint but sickeningly familiar.

Hale tried the door handle while Kwan urgently radioed for the sound trucks. Unlocked. Hale eased the door open just an inch, careful not to expose himself directly to the full blast of the audio or the psychic wave riding it. He knew trying to just turn off the radio was likely futile; Miloscz probably had a way to keep the signal locked, just like at his house.

Kwan moved in. He widened the door opening just enough to place his hand firmly on the entranced man's shoulder. Kwan visibly concentrated, gritting his teeth, a tremor running through his arm as the veins stood out starkly under his skin.

The driver’s rigid posture softened slightly, his eyes drooping as if suddenly exhausted.

"Is Kwan... absorbing it?" Lula asked, voice hushed.

Hale nodded grimly. "The psychic component, the induced despair. The broadcast itself is strong; Miloscz must be pushing hard to keep him awake, make him receptive."

The two pickup trucks roared around the corner and skidded to a halt at the end of the row. One was a dark green 1975 Chevrolet C10, the other an old 1974 red Ford F-100. Both had large PA speakers bolted into the beds, wired to powerful amps and tape decks in the cabs.

A recording of a local high school marching band playing Sousa, overlaid with crowd cheers from the 1959 Gary Victory Day parade—amplified to a deafening volume—erupted from both trucks simultaneously.

The man in the Maverick finally slumped sideways, unconscious. Kwan carefully pulled him from the car and laid him gently on the asphalt. He stood up, swaying for a moment, then straightened, his face pale.

The Polish broadcast from the Maverick’s radio was still audible but seemed quieter now, less focused, partially drowned out by the counter-noise.

"Think it's working?" Hale yelled over the din.

Kwan just shrugged, looking strained.

"Seems to be!" Lula shouted back, relief flickering in her eyes.

Hale nodded, turning to Kwan, noticing the grimace, the fine tremor in his hands. "You alright?"

Kwan nodded tightly. "Yeah. Headache," he admitted. "Getting worse, though."

"The pain you absorbed?"

Another nod. "It's... a lot."

Hale keyed his radio. "Reid? Status on the DF fix?"

"Almost there," Reid's voice crackled back. "Signal's strong but bouncing. Give us ten minutes, maybe less. How's your end?"

"Contained one victim," Hale reported. "But it's early."

"Good. Stay sharp. No telling how wide he's casting this net."

"Will do."

Hale didn't have to wait ten minutes. Scarcely three had passed when a dozen car radios near them suddenly burst to life, all tuned to 1370 AM, the same mournful Polish tune blaring. Workers walking nearby stopped, heads tilting, expressions going slack as they became ensnared. Some slumped against cars, others stood frozen, staring into nothing.

"Nie bój się, córeczko. Będzie dobrze," Hale heard echo from multiple sources, the phrase layering sickeningly. "Nie bój się, moja mała. Będzie dobrze." Don't be scared, my little daughter... don't be scared, my little one...

Hale felt the psychic undertow pull at him, a wave of manufactured despair. He shook it off, turning to his partners. "Get those trucks closer! Center of the lot!"

Lula and Kwan ran, shouting and waving at the truck drivers, who responded quickly, maneuvering the pickups into the middle aisles, the cacophony of the marching band intensifying.

It helped. The counter-broadcast seemed to disrupt the focused effect of Miloscz's signal. But then another wave hit – two dozen more car radios flickered on, farther out, drawing more victims like moths to a psychic flame. They walked zombie-like towards the nearest broadcasting car.

"Damn it!" Hale yelled. "We need more trucks! Can we get any more?"

"No!" Lula shouted back, frustration clear in her voice. "These were the only two suitable ones I could commandeer on short notice!"

Hale cursed again.

"I'll try to shield who I can," Kwan said grimly, moving towards a cluster of newly affected workers near a sedan. He placed his hands on their shoulders, his body tensing with obvious effort. One by one, they crumpled to the asphalt, unconscious, spared the full effect but knocked out by the psychic intervention.

"This isn't sustainable," Hale muttered, watching Kwan sway. "We need to stop the source." He radioed Reid again. "Miloscz is escalating! We need that location now!"

"Almost got it! Locking sequence initiated! Two minutes!" Reid replied, sounding strained himself.

Hale ran towards a nearby car, a late-model sedan with the Polish music blaring. The doors were locked. No time for finesse. Hale stepped back and drove his boot heel into the driver's side window. It shattered inwards. Reaching through cautiously, careful not to linger in the direct path of the speaker, he unlocked the door, pulled it open, drew his sidearm, and fired twice into the dashboard radio. Silence from that car.

He stepped back, breathing hard. Even that brief exposure left him feeling shaky, a cold sweat prickling his skin. The song's residue – fear, anxiety, hopelessness – clung to him, fainter than Lula's experience, perhaps due to prior exposure or his own defenses, but undeniably present.

He moved to the next car, a brown Ford Mustang II, kicked in the window, unlocked the door, shot the radio. Then a red Chevy Camaro, same procedure. It felt futile – dozens, maybe a hundred cars in the lot – but it was something. Each destroyed radio lessened the overall psychic noise, bought Kwan precious seconds.

Lula caught on quickly and started doing the same on the other side of the aisle, shattering windows, firing methodically. Hale glanced her way, worried, but saw her focused determination. He had to trust her.

His own gun clicked empty. He ejected the magazine, slammed in a spare, and kept going. His nerves were raw; the edge of the psychic influence felt like sandpaper on his brain. He saw Kwan still working, moving slower now, shaking visibly, his face a mask of pain.

"Got him!" Reid's voice suddenly blasted over the radio, sharp with triumph. "Signal source locked! US Steel Union Hall, Brickyard Street, about a mile north-east of your position! Knopff's en route now! Advise you proceed there immediately!"

"Acknowledged!" Hale replied. "Notify Gary PD! We need backup here for the affected, cordon off the lot!"

He could almost hear Reid's sigh at the added complication. "Will do, Hale. Good luck."

Hale looked around. Maybe twenty radios still played the haunting tune. Dozens of people lay unconscious or stood catatonic. But many others were stumbling away, confused but seemingly unaffected, thanks to the counter-broadcast and their frantic efforts. They’d saved some. It had to be enough for now.

He ran to Lula, grabbing her arm as she lined up a shot on another radio. "Reid found him! Union Hall! We gotta go!"

She nodded, pushing sweat-matted hair from her forehead, looking utterly exhausted but resolute. "Let's get Kwan."

They helped a pale, unsteady Kwan into Hale's sedan. Lula slumped into the passenger seat, resting her forehead against the cool window glass as Hale peeled out of the lot, heading for the Union Hall.

"How you holding up, Kwan?" Hale asked, glancing in the rearview mirror.

"Seen worse," Kwan managed, his voice thin but steady.

"Lula?"

"Fine," she said, though her voice was weary, drained.

"You can both wait outside the Hall," Hale offered. "I can handle Miloscz."

"No," Lula said immediately. "You'll need backup."

"Not letting you go in alone," Kwan added from the back, his voice regaining some strength.

Hale felt a familiar surge of gratitude for his unconventional team, quickly suppressed. "Alright, then. Let's finish this."

They pulled up outside the US Steel Union Hall, an old, imposing brick building showing its age. Knopff's nondescript government sedan was already parked near the entrance. Hale parked beside it. Getting out, he noticed Lula favoring one leg slightly, and Kwan’s hands still held a tremor.

"Let's do this," Hale said grimly.

They entered the building cautiously, weapons drawn. The air inside was stale, thick with the smell of dust and old cigarette smoke. Hale radioed Reid quietly.

"Reid, inside the Union Hall. Any idea where he'd set up?"

"Checking blueprints," Reid replied after a moment. "Third floor has a couple of rooms that look like old offices or lounges, big enough for transmitter gear based on the signal strength we tracked. That's your best bet."

"Thanks." Hale nodded to Kwan and Lula. "Third floor."

"Hope he's still there," Lula muttered.

***

The first room on the third floor was just a dilapidated office – old desk, filing cabinets spilling papers, a forgotten typewriter. Empty.

The second room, however, had soundproofing panels crudely attached to the walls. Inside, a makeshift broadcast booth. A man sat hunched over a console, his back to them. A large radio transmitter hummed nearby, connected to a turntable spinning a vinyl record. Even in the summer heat, the man wore a thick winter coat. The haunting Polish melody filled the small space. On the floor near the console, Knopff lay unconscious, breathing shallowly.

They moved in silently, guns leveled. Hale felt the song's dread clawing at him again, his hands tightening on his pistol.

"Stop the broadcast," Hale commanded, his voice tight. "Turn off the record player."

Miloscz Korbacz didn't react.

"Turn it off now, or we shoot!" Lula snapped.

Miloscz slowly stopped the turntable, the music cutting off abruptly. He turned in his chair, revealing a pale, exhausted face framed by a scruffy beard and messy hair. His eyes were wide, almost feverish.

"Are you going to shoot me?" Miloscz asked, his voice surprisingly calm.

Hale ignored the question. "Turn off the transmitter."

"Are you going to kill me?" Miloscz repeated.

Still no answer from Hale.

"Please," Miloscz whispered. "Just tell me. I hope you will. It'd be... kind. This is hell. Living like this. Feeding on their misery just to keep my own demons quiet for a few hours. So kill me. Or leave me to my work."

"Miloscz, you're only twenty-five," Lula said, her voice softening slightly. "You have your life ahead of you."

"No. Not after this," Miloscz said, shaking his head. "Everyone will know. Dad won't understand. No one helps people like me. The world wants us to suffer. I just... recycle the suffering."

Hale had no patience for the self-pitying monologue. Was he stalling? "Turn off the transmitter, Miloscz. Now."

"I can't," he said, his voice cracking. "I need it. The fear, the pain out there... it's the only thing strong enough to push back what's inside me. I need it to live."

Hale took a step forward. Miloscz suddenly pulled a handgun from inside his coat, holding it loosely, almost forgetting it was in his hand.

"Don't make me keep it on," he pleaded, eyes darting between them. "Please."

"Put the gun down, Miloscz," Hale said, his voice low and steady. "We can talk."

Miloscz hesitated, then seemed to deflate. He nodded shakily. "Okay. Okay. I'll turn it off. You win."

He turned back towards the humming transmitter console. Hale advanced cautiously. Miloscz reached for the main power switch. As his hand slammed down on the console, hitting the switch, a final, defiant pulse—an immense wave of raw psychic suffering, amplified and focused—erupted from the equipment, washing through the room.

Miloscz slumped in his chair like a puppet with cut strings. Hale felt the wave hit him like a physical blow, pure agony and terror, dropping him to his knees. He heard Lula and Kwan cry out behind him, heard his own strangled gasp. It was an ocean of pain, drowning him, filling his lungs, paralyzing him. His heart hammered, then felt like it was slowing, his vision tunneling. Just let go... so tired...

The wave lessened fractionally. Through blurring vision, Hale saw Kwan also on his knees, desperately reaching for Miloscz, trying to absorb the psychic fallout but clearly overwhelmed, slipping under himself. Lula lay curled on the floor, unresponsive.

Hale was barely conscious, arms leaden. He tried to crawl, to move. He needed to end the source. One shot. Through the crushing weight, years of training screamed for action. He forced his arm up, gripping his pistol, the metal cold against his palm. He leveled it shakily at Miloscz’s slumped form. Took a gasping breath. Pulled the trigger.

The gunshot cracked through the psychic din. Miloscz's head snapped back, exploding in a horrific spray. Kwan immediately collapsed sideways, unconscious. The oppressive wave of suffering lessened dramatically, receding, leaving behind a throbbing psychic echo. Hale could breathe again. Strength slowly seeped back into his limbs.

He pushed himself unsteadily to his feet, looking around the devastated room. Lula was on the floor, still out but breathing. Kwan too. Knopff hadn't moved. He glanced at Miloscz's body, then walked deliberately to the still-humming transmitter and flipped the main breaker off. Complete silence fell, except for his own ragged breathing. Relief washed over him, cold and thin. It was over.

He looked back at Miloscz. Felt a surge of anger, quickly followed by weariness. Why'd you make me do it, kid? He almost imagined a faint smile on the ruined face.

A low groan came from the floor. Lula stirred.

"Lula," Hale said, kneeling beside her. "You okay?"

"Yeah," she rasped, sitting up slowly. "Shaken."

He helped her to her feet; she leaned on him heavily. "You killed him," she stated, looking at the body.

"Yeah."

"I wish..." she started, then stopped. "Wish it didn't have to end like that."

"Me too," Hale admitted quietly.

"He wanted it, didn't he?"

"I think so," Hale said. "The pain... he couldn't live with it."

"Poor bastard."

"Yeah."

Kwan began to stir nearby, groaning as he pushed himself up. "Headache," he muttered, blinking. "What happened?"

"I shot him," Hale said.

Kwan looked towards the chair, his expression grim. "Poor kid. Tried to absorb some... but he was a geyser. At least... he's not suffering now."

Knopff was groaning too. Lula went to help him sit up. Hale walked out of the room, needing air, needing distance from the smell of blood and ozone and psychic despair. He keyed his radio.

"Reid. We need cleanup at the Union Hall. And medical for Kwan, Lula, and Knopff. Situation resolved."

***

The Omission Index, Ch 3- Static Harvest Pt. 3

Static Harvest concludes: Hale tracks Gary's psychic killer to the Union Hall. A final, devastating mental assault forces a deadly choice to end the nightmare.

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