The Last Broadcast PART2

Sarah killed the radio and held her breath. The familiar crunch of gravel under slow, dragging footsteps filtered through the basement's tiny window. She pulled Emma closer, the child's sleeping form warm against her chest. The farmhouse had been secure for nearly two weeks, but nothing stayed safe for long anymore.

The ham radio had been her mother's bizarre hobby—one that Sarah had mocked gently during holiday visits. Now it was their lifeline, their only connection to whatever remained of the world outside. For three nights, she'd heard Ellis's broadcasts, each one more desperate than the last. Tonight's had ended with gunshots.

"Mommy?" Emma stirred against her, voice thick with sleep. "Was that Daddy?"

Sarah forced a smile. "Yes, baby. Daddy's still at work. He's helping people."

"When's he coming home?"

Sarah's throat tightened. "Soon," she whispered, smoothing Emma's tangled hair. "Very soon."

The footsteps outside multiplied. Three sets, maybe four. Sarah reached for the shotgun propped against the wall—her mother's, like most things here. The old woman had taught her to shoot when she was twelve, lessons Sarah had dismissed as backwoods paranoia. Now she silently thanked her mother's foresight, even as she mourned the old woman's absence. She'd gone into town for medicine two days ago. Hadn't returned.

"I need you to be very quiet now," Sarah whispered, guiding Emma into the small pantry that doubled as their hiding place. "Like we practiced, remember? No matter what you hear."

Emma nodded solemnly, clutching the ragged stuffed rabbit she hadn't let go of since they'd fled Cincinnati. Sarah kissed her forehead and closed the pantry door, sliding the bolt into place from the outside.

Upstairs, glass shattered. The kitchen window.

Sarah checked the shotgun's chamber by feel in the darkness, then positioned herself at the bottom of the basement stairs. If they got in, this was the only way down. She'd make her stand here.

Heavy, uneven footsteps crossed the kitchen floor above. A door opened. Closed. They were searching room by room.

Sarah's hands trembled on the shotgun. She thought of Ellis in that radio station, alone and surrounded. Had he made it? Had those been victory shots she'd heard, or his last stand?

The basement door creaked open.

Sarah raised the shotgun, sighting along the barrel toward the rectangle of dim light at the top of the stairs. A figure appeared—a dark silhouette, head cocked at an unnatural angle.

Her finger tightened on the trigger.

"Sarah?"

The voice was ragged, barely recognizable, but unmistakably human. Unmistakably his.

"Ellis?" she called, lowering the gun slightly. "Ellis, is that you?"

"Sarah..." The figure took a halting step down the stairs. Another. Something was wrong with his gait. "Sarah, don't... don't come up here."

"Ellis, thank God." Tears spilled down her cheeks. "How did you—"

"STAY DOWN THERE!" His voice cracked with desperation. "I'm not... I didn't make it clean. The broadcast... after I signed off... they got to me, Sarah."

Horror crawled up her spine as Ellis descended another step, moonlight from the kitchen window illuminating his face. His eyes—his beautiful green eyes—were clouded with a milky film. Blood stained his shirt in a spreading blossom around his abdomen.

"Ellis..." she whispered, raising the shotgun again.

"I followed our plan," he said, voice breaking. "Made it to Mom's. Saw the lights. Knew you were here." He stopped, swaying on the steps. "But I can't... I can't stop it, Sarah. It's happening fast. Twenty minutes, maybe less."

Sarah's arms shook as she aimed. "The others outside?"

"I took care of them." Ellis grimaced. "Old Richards from next door. Some strangers. Mom."

Sarah choked back a sob. Ellis took another step down. Only five steps separated them now.

"Where's Emma?" he asked.

"Safe," Sarah replied, not lowering the gun. "Where you can't see her."

Ellis nodded, something like relief crossing his ravaged face. "Good. That's good." He looked down at his trembling hands. "I don't have much time, Sarah. Already feeling it. The hunger."

He reached into his pocket and withdrew a set of car keys. He tossed them down the stairs where they clattered at Sarah's feet.

"Humvee. Half mile east. Military. Full tank. Got supplies too. Enough to get you to the safe zone in Tennessee." He grimaced again, doubling over momentarily. "They're setting up quarantine there. Real walls. Real soldiers."

Sarah picked up the keys with one hand, keeping the shotgun trained on her husband with the other. "How do you know?"

"Picked up their broadcast after... after mine ended." Ellis sank to his knees on the stairs, clutching the railing. "Sarah, you need to do it now. I can feel it taking over. Please."

Sarah raised the shotgun, tears streaming down her face. "I love you."

"Tell Emma..." Ellis's voice hitched. "Tell her I made it home."

Sarah squeezed the trigger.

---

Dawn broke over the farmhouse as Sarah loaded the last of their supplies into the Humvee. Emma sat in the passenger seat, still clutching her rabbit, watching her mother with solemn eyes.

"Is Daddy in heaven now?" she asked as Sarah climbed behind the wheel.

Sarah started the engine, the military-grade motor purring to life. "Yes, baby. Daddy made it home, and now he's in heaven."

"Did he finish his broadcast?"

Sarah reached across and squeezed her daughter's hand. "He did. And someone heard it. Someone who told us how to get somewhere safe."

As they pulled away from the farmhouse, Sarah switched on the Humvee's radio, scanning through static until she found a clear signal—a woman's voice, steady and certain, giving coordinates, describing supplies, listing survivors.

"This is Captain Gloria Chen broadcasting from Tennessee Safe Zone Alpha. If anyone can hear this, we have food, medicine, shelter. We can help. I repeat, we can help."

Sarah drove toward the rising sun, the broadcast guiding them forward, a beacon in the darkness that remained.