Dead Air

Chapter One: Salvage

A beam of bright orange light cut through the entrance to a dark, dilapidated room, dust and broken tile scattering the floor. The rusted double doors shifted open with a deafening metallic creak as two odd figures emerged from the orange wall of light. Both dressed in kevlar, robes, and makeshift protective gear, one unusually tall and lanky, while the other one was shorter, bearing a more feminine shape. Together, they stepped into the darkness of the condemned building.

The tall one spoke first, cutting on his flashlight as they scanned the hallway they had entered. "Are you sure this is a good place, Sayn?" The beam of light from the flashlight glided across the ghostly quiet hallways, revealing cracked, bland drywall with sagging cream wallpaper coating each surface, stained with dust. "It doesn't look like there's much here." The man spoke with a light drawl to his voice, stepping forwards onto a crackling mound of fallen ceiling tiles and support beams. He shone his flashlight into the open ceiling, revealing nothing but rusted vents bringing in nothing but still air.

The shorter one, Sayn, closed the old door behind them, flakes of rust falling off each hinge as the seemingly ancient door was forced back into place, cutting the two off from the outside world, at least for a little bit. She replied in an equal accent: "It better be. Did you see all that dried fencing? It's gotta be government, Nyle. It's gotta be." She took a deep breath through the spray-painted white hazard mask obscuring her face, a circular air filter attached to the side of the helmet spinning and whining with each gruff breath. She neglected to turn her flashlight on, keeping it for reserve. They didn't have enough batteries for that luxury.

The duo of scavengers moved further into the small building, each crunching step echoing down the round hall ahead of them. Glass windows lined the outer rim of the hall, darkness inside obscuring old, deserted offices. Loose paper scattered the floor like leaves, sliding around as the two made their way towards the first office door. Nyle spoke up, testing the door handle. It was locked, what a surprise. "Could this be one of those... net places the old man kept talking about?" Nyle forcefully pressed his weight against the door, plastic shoulder pad wedged firmly against it. After a few attempts, the door gave way, the rusted handle breaking off with a loud clang.

"If you paid attention to him for something other than hunting, you'd know what you're talkin' about," Sayn retorted. Inside they found a desk, and a few filing cabinets, most of which were flung open with nothing but a few unkempt files. Nyle started rummaging through the many drawers of the disheveled metal desk, looking for anything valuable. Sayn did the same, shifting through little desk toys and collectibles left standing on the cabinets. "Pop called it the internet. Something the minister used to keep everyone linked." Sayn saw it out of the corner of her eye, a blue calculator stashed under a stack of files. She quickly ripped the casing open, looking for the batteries. Nothing, not even a solar cell. She threw the calculator down in disgust.

"Hey. Jackpot." Nyle held up a small packet of batteries, AA size. Giving them a little shake like a stack of cash, he threw them to Sayn. "Thank god, we're running dry." Sayn pocketed the valuable goods in a pocket of her ripped trench coat, keeping them next to her heart, for luck. Nyle commented on the find as they returned to the round hallway. "They ripped all the hardware, but at least someone was clumsy enough to leave those behind." Sayn looked around, confident enough to turn on her own flashlight now. "There ain't much more here, damn stations are too small..."

The two skimmed the hall of the station, footsteps echoing bluntly on the tile before they stopped to find themselves in front of a heavy metal door. The door had a larger lock then the last who stood in their way. "Bigger the door, bigger the fun." Nyle coughed up a dry statement at his own joke, before sliding a small metal crowbar out of his backpack, jamming it into the side of the door. Each tug cast a deep metallic groan out of the aged lock. Sayn read the small sign to the right of the door, shining gold off of the flashlight beam. "Radia broadcast studio 12. These slickers can't even spell radio right." With one last groan, the latched door popped open, squealing as its hinges moved in what seemed like forever. "Not like you can, either."