“Day 7,367. This is an emergency broadcast. My coordinates to anyone receiving this signal are thirty-eight degrees, one minute, forty-five seconds North. Seventy-eight degrees, twenty-eight minutes, thirty-six seconds West. Old– old…” Abraham’s guttural voice trailed off over the radio, his vocal cords settling back into place like the final steps of someone dragging their feet through gravel. He leaned back and ran his fingers through his beard, sighing, either because the damn thing itched like hell or because he was forgetting his script after all these years. After a beat, he continued.

“Old pavilion. Charlottesville, Virginia. 115 miles southwest of D.C. This is an emergency broadcast. Supplies are low. Repeat, this is an emergency broadcast. If anyone can hear me, then…” He stopped again, his voice replaced by a faint gliding sound. Nine clicks. Three short, three long, and another three short. Abraham's palm rested over the fading “Radcom” logo of the telegraph key as he continued to click the same message, ten, fifteen, twenty times until his ears had enough of the radio silence. He leaned back once again in his old task chair, the pivot points creaking loudly in response to the change of angle. A new kind of silence enveloped the room like a weighted blanket, the only sound daring to make itself known being the slight crackle of electricity from the overhead light, growing dimmer with each passing day. Dim enough to mask the rows of corpses in the far room of the vault, but bright enough so that he could continue sending signals. He felt confident that even as the light goes out, plunging the room into darkness, the touch of his fingers would maintain their memory. But as loyal as these senses remained, his smell betrayed him. His nose wrinkled and scrunched, left and right, as if trying to push the odor out. Futile, but in time the smell would relieve itself, this he knew for sure. He brought his hands to his face and brushed his fingers roughly upwards, pulling his skin back as his dirtied fingernails—he gave up on picking them clean—pushed his hair out of his face. God, if his wife could see him now. ‘You look like you just ran across America for 1,170 days and 16 hours.’ She’d tease, and he’d pretend to be annoyed and watch the movie again with her for the thousandth time later in the day. He picked his head up from his hands and grasped the radio microphone once more. He hesitated, his breath hitching as he prepared to speak. Upon his exhale, he began once more.

“That day is the only thing I can remember in great detail. Camila, my wife. I remember her too, but sometimes my mind plays tricks on me. Her lips, at times, become unnaturally full; other times, her eyes wide and haunting, like a goddamn cat, stalking me in my dreams. It’s almost as if I’m losing her all over again, piece by piece,” he spoke as if he were in disbelief of what he was saying, then redirected his focus. “They told us they had it under control. Not to believe those damn ‘propagandists’ and ‘hippies’ saying World War 3 was imminent, but then they had Radcom send out care packages. Radios, telegraph keys, walkies, rations... soap! It's not enough to sustain one person for a lifetime, but–an entire family–an entire fucking family? As if this shit was going to help once the whole of the United States was obliterated anyway. No. The real fucking aid you had to buy. Fuckers may as well have advertised ‘Sell your soul for a vault. Pay to live.’ Maybe more people would’ve been accepting of their death. But those who were lucky enough, the not-so-rich fuckers like myself and my wife, made a community effort to build our own vault. And for a while, it held. I mean, it’s still fucking holding, but the people–…My wife and I, the crowds of people separated us, all trying to get into the vault they had no part in fucking building like the selfish pricks they are. I would’ve never… never locked myself in this damned vault if I didn't think she was behind me. But she’s strong, I know she is. There were other places and,” he stumbled, knowing what he was saying was probably untrue. “Now, I– it's just me. Up until a month ago, we were down to three, a big fucking difference from the hundreds of people that were here from day one but… like I said, those Radcom packages, they weren't…” He paused, his eyes glazing over, making them appear glossy under the subdued lighting. “Some left, some in groups, some alone, thinking the radiation would’ve cleared to a safe level. But after a few years… people started getting sick, probably because this place is a damn biohazard. The bodies–the radiation from opening and closing the door–I can feel the sand under my feet when I get up from this chair– blew in after the last group left. It’s my only reminder something’s still up there. I can’t even fucking lift the door anymore!” He lost his temper for a moment, but after a quick breath he continued. “Others starved. I’ll probably fall into that group. I made it this long without getting sick.” He stopped abruptly, a single tear dropping from his eye, not bothering to roll off his cheek. “You– let me ask you guys something. Have you spent the past five years becoming comfortable with the smell of decomposition? Do you know what it's like to be constantly nauseous–I mean–the smell so goddamn irritating that it no longer matters if your stomach is full or not, if it wants to come up, it will. Do you know what it’s like to watch the flesh burn off people? Melt from their goddamn bones until they’re nothing but a pile of slop. Anyone? You rich fucks! You don't fucking know! You listen to this broadcast, sit back, and fucking laugh because at least it’s not you! Waiting for the day I shut the hell up. Well, today is the fucking day. Congratulations! You can wash your hands of all the fucking blood on them because there will no longer be anyone here to remind you. They’re all fucking dead! But if you do know my wife–Camila–Camila Laurier, tell her I love her.” He lifted his finger from the radio for a moment. “Here's your fucking song of the day,” he said finally. He willed his arm across the desk and put the needle of a record player to the black disc, the tune of “Can't Hardly Stand It” skipping and cutting out from all the scratches. He waited for a moment. Radio silence, again. His lip snarled and he sucked in a breath that sounded like a dog growling.

“Fuck!” He screamed at the top of his lungs, that guttural voice now becoming gut-wrenching as it echoed off the walls of the vault, bouncing between the souls of those who came here seeking welfare. All. Fucking. Dead. In one fell motion, he stood up, ripped the radio from the desk, and slammed it against the wall behind his chair, the tears pouring from his eyes like a faucet, the salty snot seeping past the doors of his mouth. Little damage was done to the radio, the frame was slightly ajar, but it could be snapped back into place.

“I'm sorry. I'm sorry!” He cried out, hoping Camila’s ghost was here with him. Coupled with his sobs, the sound of radio static began to flip and jump. “I’m so fucking sorry! I love you. Will you still have me? Wherever you are?” He spoke over it. His questioning turned into begging. He walked to the other side of the room and dragged a long line of sheets he had tied together into a makeshift noose off of his bed and across the concrete flooring. “I’ll make it up to you, I swear to GOD. I will. I will,” he continued to speak frantically as he hiked the noose up over an iron support on the ceiling. He pulled that same task chair from the desk and centered it under the support, the wheels masking the sound of “One-Thirt– Sec…” emitting from the radio. He stood tall, stabilizing himself as the chair threatened to move from beneath him before he was ready. He wrapped the sheets around his neck. “I love you,” he spoke once more, whispering this time.

“Char– Virginia. I– peat. One-West?” Came from the radio once more, this time catching Abraham's attention. His head shot to the left towards the wall, the movement so chaotic, so uncontrolled that the chair, which had threatened him once before, had enough. The wheels slipped forward, and his body fell backward. When he thought he had somehow caught his fall, the strangulation began.

“I th– correct?” The radio asked a final time.