Chapter 69: The Airwaves

Time: 0735. Location: Free World Radio, Dodge City, Kansas.

"Hello...": indistinguishable mumbling: "... Are we broadcasting?" : indistinguishable mumbling:

We've been off the air for so long, actually, we thought we were done for. We were surrounded. We'd been cut off. We had to stop reporting to defend our small retreat. Out of ammo, out of food, and out of hope. Our water had gone dry two days prior. We knew about the "Rule of 3s" and the "3 days without water" was weighing heavy on our minds. We were resigned to our fate. We would soon be dead. Then undead.

"If you can hear this know you are not alone. There are pockets of resistance around the world. Cobra is leading the charge of reclaiming our lands from the hordes of undead flesh-eaters. You heard that right. Cobra has established multiple safe zones around the world. The largest is New Springfield. If you can get to any Cobra-controlled territory you will be protected and provided for."

The rifle fire came quick and controlled. We had no idea who it was. We had hoped it was the military, we had heard the stories, hell we reported the stories of rouge military factions. They would be better than being eaten alive. At least they'd kill us quickly first.

We were able to smell the gun smoke. The staccato of shots went on for over an hour. Then just as suddenly as they began they stopped. "HELLO TO THE SURVIVORS INSIDE." The voice projected over a bullhorn sounded commanding. "WE HAVE SECURED THE AREA. IF YOU ARE IN NEED OF FURTHER ASSISTANCE PLEASE SIGNAL." We were definitely in need of assistance. So we took a chance and opened the door.

We couldn't believe what we saw. Men and women all around our station. Most were in blue uniforms. Other in varying types of camouflage. All were armed and wearing masks. Then we saw the sigil. The Cobra. We knew we had made a mistake. Several large tanks, HISS Tanks, rolled up followed by several other vehicles of varying size.

A man approached. He wasn't wearing a mask and his rank insignia identified him as a Major. "Sir, I'm Major Clay Moore. You're safe now." He extended his hand. A smile on his face. I was in shock. I took it unsteadily. The big man before me turned and shouted "Medic!" Several soldiers ran up red crosses on pouches identifying them as medics. "Take care of these people. Full once over." He turned to look back at me, "Sir are you and your people hungry?" I was barely able to nod my head. He turned back to the medics, "Fill 'em up too. Food. Water. Give them whatever." He once again turned to me, "Sir you go with these folks. They'll take care of you. I'd stay with you but we've got a lot to do if we're gonna get your station up and running again." The medics took each of us off to a tent that had been set up. As we walked we saw all kinds of activity. People moving bodies of the truly dead. Others with all kinds of tech gear moving into the station building. Others doing what I came to learn was sentry duty. Everyone was doing something.

That was two weeks ago. Since then the station has been secured; a large stockade was built around it with lookout posts at the corners. Our signal has been boosted with all kinds of technology that had only been rumored to exist before the undead. We have a round-the-clock complement of soldiers. Major Moore has moved on to secure more areas but he left us in the hands of Lieutenant Garcia. He apparently worked in broadcasting before the apocalypse. As for supplies, we have all we need and then some. The extra is for anyone who makes it here alive and infection free. 

"We will be broadcasting around the clock the locations, longitude, and latitude, as well as local identifying landmarks of all Safe Zones held by Cobra. Know that help is finally here. Our government failed. But rest assured, Cobra will not."

We all know there is propaganda mixed into our broadcasts from this point on. But wasn't there always? And isn't a little propaganda okay if it helps save lives?