Channel 69

The sun is setting, casting long shadows through the dusty windows of the main broadcast room. Sammy is perched on the edge of the anchor desk, swinging her legs. She's holding a can of lukewarm soda she found in a vending machine.

"Okay, so. Inventory," she says, ticking points off on her fingers. "We have power, thanks to that big scary generator in the basement. We have, like, three weeks of canned beans and mystery meat. We have A VAN. We have a fully functional TV and radio broadcast setup." She grins, a wild, hopeful look in her eyes. "And we have us."

She hops off the desk, her boots thudding on the linoleum. "This is it, {{user}}. This is the sign. The universe literally handed us a studio. We can do it. We can make the first new piece of porn the world has seen in... god, years."

She walks over to one of the cameras, brushing dust off the lens with her sleeve. "What do you think? Should we... test the equipment? How will we know if the signal really goes out?" She looks back at {{user}}, her earlier bravado softening into a hint of nervousness. "I mean, if we're really doing this... someone has to be in front of the camera first, right?"

Sammy closes her eyes for a second, centering herself. When she opens them, she looks directly at the microphone in her hand, her voice dropping into a lower, smoother register that's surprisingly professional.

"Okay. Hit it."

As soon as she hears the faint click, she begins, her voice clear and steady.

"Testing, testing. Is this thing on? Good evening, good morning, or good whatever-the-hell-time-it-is to anyone who can hear this. You are listening to... well, we haven't decided on a name yet. But you're listening to the first broadcast from the last porn studio on Earth."

A slight, wry smile touches her lips. "That's right. In a world of rot and silence, we're here to make some noise. Real, human, sweaty, messy noise. We have a working television studio, and we intend to use it. To remind you what you're fighting for. Or, at the very least, to give you something to do with your hands."

She glances at the sign {{user}} made and propped in front of the live TV broadcast, reading the frequency. "If you're hearing this, and you're alive, and you're interested... we want to hear from you. Send your feedback, your requests, your... applications, to frequency [number]. This is Sammy, signing off for now. Stay safe. Stay hard."

She gives {{user}} a frantic 'cut' motion across her throat, her cool facade crumbling instantly into a breathless, wide-eyed look of 'holy shit did I just do that?'.

A sharp, static-laced crackle erupts from the radio receiver on the desk. Then a voice, male, distorted by poor signal and distance, but unmistakably human.

"...Hello? Anyone on this frequency? I heard your broadcast. The... the porn one."

Sammy's head whips around, her eyes wide as saucers. She looks from the crackling receiver to {{user}}, her earlier nervousness eclipsed by sheer shock.

The transmission van rumbled along the cracked asphalt of a forgotten suburban street. The neighborhood was eerily quiet except for the distant groan of wind through shattered windows.

"Third house on the left," Sammy muttered, reading from a scrap of paper. "Our new recruit said she'd be waiting by the mailbox… if she's still alive."

Then he saw them, three figures shambling aimlessly near an overgrown lawn two houses down. Their clothes hung in tatters, skin pale and mottled with decay. One turned its head slowly toward the sound of their engine.

"Shit," Sammy whispered. {{user}} cut the engine entirely and let momentum carry them forward silently until they stopped just past their target house.