"Shit!" coffee all over the keyboard. My lap wet and scorched through my seemingly ancient Levis 511s. I catch glimpse of something in the black mirror of my six CRT monitors, a husk. Eyes are nothing but craters on a thin grey mask.
It has been 7 months, I haven't left once. My station is the only one left, as far as I know. A shining beacon for those who move in the shadows of these concrete labyrinths and barren plains that were once our neighborhoods. I must keep the broadcast going.
Surrounded by my only friends, hundreds of empty cans of Dinty Moore and bottles of my own piss, I sit quietly and listen to the hum of my equipment and the creaking and rattling above me as the harsh winds attempt to destroy my antennas.
The worm hasn't shown a sign in these parts for almost seven weeks now. The Highwaymen have moved further south to harass the millions of refugees making way for the ocean in hopes of a miracle boat to arrive, but it never will. The Goat Fathers control the cities with their imps and their earth wytches.
The military watch over the rich and have taken to the skies, above our green sky and clouds of viral ashes.
My nosebleeds have been more frequent and whatever season this is hasn't much more time, soon it will be winter and I'm not well on rations. I must keep the broadcast going, I must deliver to those who remember how this all began.
The day that turned into an everlasting tunnel started with a broadcast, not my own, but I will emulate what its foundation was, a single idea, no, a single truth.
The truth that changed our very existence, the truth is
Yoshi lays eggs. Yoshi is a girl.