The night is long and cold, filled with trips to the coffee machine and regular visits to the heater where I stand in front of it and rub my chilly hands together, praying the generators don't give out.
It's eleven pm and my face is leaning on my hand, my cheek pulled too far to the side in a manner I'm sure looks super attractive.
I'm half-asleep, a dribble of drool on the corner of my mouth, listening to the melody of a quiet song I obviously made a mistake in choosing when a loud ringing fills the radio room. I jump awake and blink in confusion at the phone buzzing in front of me.
It's a caller. Someone's dialing into the station.
I let the song finish, then stab my finger on the button.
“It appears we have a caller.” I say, trying to make my voice sound as clear as possible. I snatch up the phone and click record. “Obie Tower Radio Station. Who am I speaking with?”
“Abigail. Abigail Taylor.” An older woman's voice replies.
Don't know her. Our towns small, but not so small I'm familiar with everybody by name.
“Hey Abigail. I'm Moira. Have you got a song to request?”
“No, no, I was just wondering if you had heard anything from Goldview Police Station?”
“Uh... “ I lean forward on the desk. “No, no I haven't. Why Abigail? What's the problem?”
“It's just... I've been calling and calling all day but no ones picking up.”
“What's wrong?” I wish the woman would just spit it out.
“My neighbor she's... she's in her front yard screaming. I don't think she's hurt - she's walking around. And there are others out on the street, too. I'm... I'm scared.”
I'm silent for a moment. This grown woman has called the station because she's afraid. She needs help. I'm sixteen - what am I supposed to say to make her feel better?
“Listen, Abigail, every things going to be –“
And then the call drops out.
ESTÀS LLEGINT
To Whoevers Listening
Novel·la juvenilA sixteen year old girl named Moira Chance, a radio station in the snowy mountains, and the zombie apocalypse. Lets hope there's somebody listening.
