27 September 2012
The air is always stuffy in a radiation suit. Sweat drips from my armpits and puddles in my boots. The fog inside my faceplate can not be wiped away. So the few of us can live, it's the price I have to pay.
I make my rounds, tending to the systems we installed, Making sure the vents are clear, no damage to the walls, The solar cells are sound and clean, the windmill greased and true. Then finally, I come back in, strip off this rancid suit.
Once again, we gather close for exercise futile, Fire up the radio and cast across the dial. Initially, we heard a lot, and broadcast some ourselves, Until, aghast, we heard the raid, the hopeless pleas for help.
Now we cant tell if the others are still alive at all, Or if, like us, they're too afraid to sound a beacon call. So somberly, we wait in vain, and hear the static play, And all pretend there is a point in living one more day.
Radio Silence • Opuss № I