S.O.S.
“—anyone out there? This is not a drill. Repeat, this is not a drill.”
“I see your light.”
The voice was young, terrified, and impossibly clear.
The Last Frequency
With a trembling finger, KayWily tapped out a reply. Not words. Just a rhythm. Three short, three long, three short.
KayWily’s hand hovered over the transmitter key. Hope was a dangerous thing; it had a shelf life of about three seconds after you last ate. But the voice kept coming, naming coordinates that were only two blocks away. KayWily
A pause. Then, through the hiss of a dying world:
For the first time in a decade, someone smiled. — A piece by KayWily. KayWily