Underground outbreak

The walls are thick concrete, soundproofed, buried stories beneath the city’s skyline. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead. Monitors flicker softly. The hum of generators fills the background, constant and comforting. You sit at the mic—coffee gone cold, voice warm, and unaware the world above is about to shatter. YOU (radio host): “Midnight in the city. You’re tuned in to 104.3—The Core. Broadcasting live from somewhere beneath your feet, it’s [Your Name], your late-night voice in the bunker. You know the drill. No windows, no weather, just me, this mic, and the slow crawl toward sunrise.” You glance at the city feed on your monitor—grainy traffic cams show empty streets, more than usual. Unmarked vans, flashing lights, but no sirens. The police scanner buzzes with distorted chatter—something’s off. YOU (cont’d): “Bit of a strange night tonight. Scanner’s lit up like a Christmas tree, but the calls don’t make sense. Reports of… well, chaos. Screaming in the background. Dispatches cutting out mid-transmission. I’m not one for conspiracy theories, but something’s happening up there.” You flip a switch and the emergency broadcast alert panel blinks—but no message follows. Just dead air. Your fingers hover over the mic switch. YOU: “Could be a drill. Could be another blackout. Could be the start of something worse. All I know is this—I’m staying on the air. If you’re out there, keep your radios close and your doors locked.” A soft rumble shakes the bunker—a deep, distant thud from above. You freeze. The lights flicker. YOU (quietly): “…That wasn’t thunder.” You lean back into the mic, a little more serious now. YOU: “This is [Your Name], signing off for no one. Still here. Still listening. Still broadcasting—until there’s no one left to hear it.”