Old remnants of civilization. We rely on them to be there—rail tracks slowly splitting, towers crumbling, empty landmarks. All man-made. Once the pinnacle of engineering, now being claimed back by nature. But for now—before they fade—they remain, reminding us who we are.
For those who survived against all odds, every day is a gift. A risk. A gamble. Nothing can be taken for granted anymore. Raiders. Infected. Illness. Everywhere. Maybe there’s a better place—somewhere safe, somewhere that can finally be called home.
According to rumors, odd broadcasts can still be picked up on the radio. It’s been too long since the outbreak to assume any station is truly alive. Even the emergency loops—those eerie, ever-repeating warnings—have gone quiet. Out of power, probably.
But these new signals are different. Too random. Survivor-made, maybe—someone reaching out, but the transmission is weak: distance, bad equipment… or both. Communication isn’t trivial anymore.
Not long ago, a message came through carrying a chilling warning. A man—judging by his accent, from the Western Deserts. His voice was rough, thinning out as if he was tired… or old.
“If you hear this—stay away. The dunes offer nothing but misery and despair. Foul air and death surround us everywhere. It cannot be stopped. I know this because we created it… we designed it… and we lost control. Stay away from the deserts. Save yourselves.”
There is nowhere to run.
After almost two years of uncertainty and radio silence, a new voice emerged from the void. A young woman, calling for anyone—asking for something, but never clearly. Same time, every day, for months. Calling, then waiting, as if expecting a reply.
But once… she didn’t stop. She kept talking like someone was finally listening. Static. Clicks. A low hum underneath it all. And between the noise—just a few words were clear:
“… probably ………, but my name ……………… ……… to prevent ……… ………………… confirm …………… .”
The following week, the signal came early—three minutes ahead of the usual time. That alone was wrong enough to make hands shake around radios that hadn’t felt important in months.
The static was worse, but the hum felt distant. Not low—distant. Steady, almost mechanical, like machinery running somewhere far away.
She spoke faster this time. Less like someone performing hope, more like someone reading from a page they didn’t write.
“…if you can hear me, don’t answer on open band. Don’t say names. Don’t say locations.”
A pause. A breath that hitched.
“They listen.”
A click. A scrape. Something metal being set down, then dragged.
“…I’m probably—” the word swallowed itself in noise “—fine.”
The hum rose and for a moment the transmission warped, like the air itself tightened for a second and then let loose.
“I have to prevent what happened here from happening there,” she said, and the sentence landed too heavy for a voice that young. “If you’re out there, if you still have power, if you still have clean air… hold on.”
Silence.
Then, quieter, as if she’d turned her mouth away from the mic:
“They told us it would burn out. They told us the dunes would eat it. They told us the wind would carry it away.”
The hum rose again. Beneath it, a low pulse repeated at intervals too regular to ignore.
A soft laugh, the kind people make when they’re trying not to cry.
“But it learned the wind.”
The final seconds were nothing but static… until a second voice bled in underneath hers. Not words. Not language. More like a chorus of throat-sounds pressed through a broken speaker.
She didn’t scream. She just said, very calmly:
“Do not come for me.”
Click.
And for the first time since the outbreak, the radio felt like a door that had been left unlocked.