the alleyway.
"They were down here, sir, I swear," one of the officers said while catching his breath.
"Either they disappeared into thin air or they slipped into one of the buildings. Either way, we have more important things to take care of," another voice remarked.
"Won't be the last we see of them, I imagine. They always end up coming back," one added.
The riot officers left the alleyway in collective indifference. They had a growing crowd of evacuees to contend with who grew more unruly by the day with their additional numbers.
"So why were you runnin' from the cops?" the man asked them.
He walked out from the shadows and into a single ray of light that beamed from a small yellow-stained window above. He looked to be in his sixties, or possibly older. His white buttoned dress shirt and black slacks had been rendered torn and ragged by weeks of possible neglect. He had a thin but scraggly beard, poorly groomed. His brown thinning hair stuck out in all directions.
"I believe I asked you a question," he repeated.
Paul gained his composure and attempted to provide an answer.
"They've got parts of the city blocked off. I don't know why, but they do. My daughter and I are trying to get somewhere and I guess we wandered in a restricted zone."
The man studied them suspiciously, then he looked to Julie.
"Is he telling the truth?" the man said, pointing at Paul.
"That's what happened," she said in a matter-of-fact tone.
"Always trust kids, they say. Kids don't lie. But as soon as they can think for themselves, they realize that you can just make shit up, and then they ain’t so trustworthy," the man said with a laugh.
“ I’m telling the truth,” Julie said.
"I want to thank you for helping us. Is there a way out of the building you can show us?" Paul asked.
"Now wait just a minute, Paul , we're not through here," the man said, cutting him off.
Paul felt a tad nervous. He didn't know if they were any safer in the building with the stranger or outside with the police.
"You from the Denver area?" the man asked.
"No, we're from," Paul said, pausing. "We're from out-of-state."
"Well if you're not from the area, you probably don't recognize me. Here, follow me," the man said beckoning them down the hall.
They were led into a large cluttered room acting as a recording studio. In the middle of the room was a table and chair; in the center of the table hung a professional microphone. Under the microphone was a perfectly square shaped electronic switchboard. The room was split by a panel of glass where, on the other side rested an intricate mixing board. Several old tube-televisions sat stacked along the wall, each one displaying color bars. Newspapers littered the ground, their headlines similar in apocalyptic language:
Nuke Strikes U.S.!
Worst Attack in History!
The End of America!
Millions Perish in Nuclear Holocaust!
Paul was eager to read every paper in view at the hope of gaining some insight through tangible reporting. The man sat on his chair, leaned back and plopped his feet on the table. Next to him was a mobile reel-to-reel audio recording unit. He casually pressed the record button on the unit, sending the audio reels spinning in a clockwise fashion.
"Welcome to the Arthur Williams Radio Show. I'm your host, Arthur Williams, and today we'll be talking about the current status of the once beautiful city of Denver and the current hellhole it is now. But before we get into the meat of everything, to include the sudden availability of power after three weeks, I would like to introduce my two guests from out of town."
Arthur looked up from his microphone and signaled Paul and Julie over.
"Why don't you come closer to the mic and say hi to everyone?" he asked.
Paul and Julie were hesitant to move anywhere near the man. He took notice and laughed.
"Relax. This isn't going live. Couldn't broadcast live if I wanted to. I've been making tapes for posterity. Last man standing. End of the world.
"They were down here, sir, I swear," one of the officers said while catching his breath.
"Either they disappeared into thin air or they slipped into one of the buildings. Either way, we have more important things to take care of," another voice remarked.
"Won't be the last we see of them, I imagine. They always end up coming back," one added.
The riot officers left the alleyway in collective indifference. They had a growing crowd of evacuees to contend with who grew more unruly by the day with their additional numbers.
"So why were you runnin' from the cops?" the man asked them.
He walked out from the shadows and into a single ray of light that beamed from a small yellow-stained window above. He looked to be in his sixties, or possibly older. His white buttoned dress shirt and black slacks had been rendered torn and ragged by weeks of possible neglect. He had a thin but scraggly beard, poorly groomed. His brown thinning hair stuck out in all directions.
"I believe I asked you a question," he repeated.
Paul gained his composure and attempted to provide an answer.
"They've got parts of the city blocked off. I don't know why, but they do. My daughter and I are trying to get somewhere and I guess we wandered in a restricted zone."
The man studied them suspiciously, then he looked to Julie.
"Is he telling the truth?" the man said, pointing at Paul.
"That's what happened," she said in a matter-of-fact tone.
"Always trust kids, they say. Kids don't lie. But as soon as they can think for themselves, they realize that you can just make shit up, and then they ain’t so trustworthy," the man said with a laugh.
“ I’m telling the truth,” Julie said.
"I want to thank you for helping us. Is there a way out of the building you can show us?" Paul asked.
"Now wait just a minute, Paul , we're not through here," the man said, cutting him off.
Paul felt a tad nervous. He didn't know if they were any safer in the building with the stranger or outside with the police.
"You from the Denver area?" the man asked.
"No, we're from," Paul said, pausing. "We're from out-of-state."
"Well if you're not from the area, you probably don't recognize me. Here, follow me," the man said beckoning them down the hall.
They were led into a large cluttered room acting as a recording studio. In the middle of the room was a table and chair; in the center of the table hung a professional microphone. Under the microphone was a perfectly square shaped electronic switchboard. The room was split by a panel of glass where, on the other side rested an intricate mixing board. Several old tube-televisions sat stacked along the wall, each one displaying color bars. Newspapers littered the ground, their headlines similar in apocalyptic language:
Nuke Strikes U.S.!
Worst Attack in History!
The End of America!
Millions Perish in Nuclear Holocaust!
Paul was eager to read every paper in view at the hope of gaining some insight through tangible reporting. The man sat on his chair, leaned back and plopped his feet on the table. Next to him was a mobile reel-to-reel audio recording unit. He casually pressed the record button on the unit, sending the audio reels spinning in a clockwise fashion.
"Welcome to the Arthur Williams Radio Show. I'm your host, Arthur Williams, and today we'll be talking about the current status of the once beautiful city of Denver and the current hellhole it is now. But before we get into the meat of everything, to include the sudden availability of power after three weeks, I would like to introduce my two guests from out of town."
Arthur looked up from his microphone and signaled Paul and Julie over.
"Why don't you come closer to the mic and say hi to everyone?" he asked.
Paul and Julie were hesitant to move anywhere near the man. He took notice and laughed.
"Relax. This isn't going live. Couldn't broadcast live if I wanted to. I've been making tapes for posterity. Last man standing. End of the world.
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