The static of hundreds of homestead radios played through abandoned suburban streets. A broken-voice warning of the emergency Broadcast System, only this was not a test. The skies were lilac and cranberry from carpet bombings so close to home. I nailed my bunker door shut from the inside, and curled myself around tattered nostalgic magazines to weather me through. I left the banging, and shouts for help at the outside entrance, unanswered. Instead I lowered the glow of my kerosene lantern and slept fitfully.
10:22 p.m. - 2016-04-14
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