Safe zones are gone. The last radio broadcast came from a bunker in Nevada: “They’ve started building towers . Tower of Pimps. Made of scrap metal and human bones. They’re guarding them with modified Nerf guns that fire bullets.”
I’m writing this in a drained swimming pool. Outside, the sky is green like a bad greenscreen. A horde walks past. Their leader is wearing a fedora and a trench coat made of Dorito bags. He’s screaming, “M’lady,” at a fire hydrant.
One of them spots me. He pulls out a foam finger. The finger is on fire.