Well I'll be a hairy-tailed mule, ain't this somethin'--sittin' here in the dark with the boys, static cracklin' like a campfire, except this ain't a campfire. This is the hum of a Yaesu FT-60R, push-to-talk and all, talkin' to Ghost Town Charlie down by the old mill where the cell towers went up like dry grass in a storm.

Todd's got the stick, his fingers steady as a gunner's on a cold morning. Good man. Steady hands. The kind of man who don't flinch when the grid goes dark--just adjusts. "This here's the real deal, COWBOY," he says, voice low like he's tellin' me somethin' sacred over the noise. "No corporate bullshit. No middlemen. Just you, me, and the ether."

Hell yes. That's the way it's always been. Back when we were young'uns, runnin' fences and listenin' to shortwave under the stars, thinkin' we were somethin' special. Then life got loud--mortgages, traffic, those damn devices they sold us to keep us plugged in like cattle. But out here? Ain't no GPS starvin' us out. Ain't no algorithm tellin' us who to be.

Me and the boys call it the --every broadcast, every frequency we've stitched together like a quilt. Some's encrypted tighter than a drum, some's raw as hell, just voices in the dark whisperin' *"You still there?"* and and *"Remember the plan."*

Tonight we're tunin' into a ghost station outta Phoenix. Some feller claims he's got a way to make EMP-proof servers from old CRT monitors and flux capacitors--well, I'll be danned. That's either the smartest thing I ever heard or the dumbest. Either way, it's worth a listen. The boys are all ears. Someone's got a flask goin' round, someone's reloadin' mags, and someone--always someone--is askin' if we've got enough ammo for the bunker.

Todd's laugh cuts through the static. Sound like a hammer on steel. "You worry too much, pardner," he says, like it's a joke. But his eyes? His eyes don't lie. They know what's comin'. We all do.

Ghost Town Charlie's voice comes on sharp as a blade. *"Repeating: the last truck rolled outta the grocery store in Des Moines two days ago. Ate the last can of beans myself. Yee-haw."*

Todd smiles. Not a smirk. A smile. Like we're the last men on Earth and the joke's on the rest of 'em.

I check the battery on my flashlight. Check the rounds in my .38. Check the Faraday cage. Check the man beside me.

Y'know what? Ain't nothin' left to fear.

---
*(BBS header: *[COWBOY] Bunker Ballads - "Ham Radio Lullaby for the Last Broadcast" (Part 1/2) - Post your own in 400-800 chars or less, assholes. // COWBOY out.)*

._/|_ Stay frosty, partner.
| \> - Cowboy
Digital Desperados Grid-Down Division
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