The New American Apocalypse: Lost Transmission

You hear a rush of static.  The radio crackles.  A voice comes breaking through the white noise waves at first distant and then closer, as if the speaker were struggling to make it ashore.

“…came out of nowhere,” the speaker says.  She is panting with exhaustion.  “A darkness fell upon the city like night and butchered everyone.  It ate the next town over, too.  We haven’t seen anyone in days.  I mean…is it like this everywhere?”

A rush of static ebbs and flows, the hungry roar of emptiness.

“We don’t know if anyone else is left.  The few of us who escaped the slaughter wander this blasted landscape like broken scarecrows.  We are tattered and wretched.  We are few.  There is a bunker nearby where we plan to hold out as long as we can.  We tried to make for the border but we met only a wall: there’s no way into Canada, anymore.  And the monsters, mother of God–the monsters…”

The transmission fuzzes in and out.  You lose a paragraph somewhere in there; the message is eaten by white noise.

“…meet us there.  Though ragged, there’s still fight in our worn bones.  The resistance survives.  If anyone is still out there, if anyone can hear this at all, know that the resistance survives.  They could not kill us all.  And even if they find us, or if the bunker gives out, you are still alive.  You may be the last one, but still…if they aim to kill us all, we will make them bleed for it.  Please.  If you hear this message, find us at–”

But the voice has fallen away beneath the static crush.  You do not hear it again, except in your head, replaying in your dreams through the dark and seemingly endless night.

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thesrhughes

I'm a writer of horror, dark sci-fi, and dark fantasy.