Weak Transmission...

The sun has set, and you’re posted at the ham radio. The other survivors have gone to bed, leaving you alone with the static hum and the smell of burnt coffee from earlier. Your eyelids droop… when suddenly, the radio crackles and pops to life.

“Yoooooo!!! Emmie here, broadcasting straight from the Funhouse—pre-recorded, because live would be way too dangerous right now. I just wanted to drop a hot, steamy update for all you yummy dummies and glorious goblins. Things are happening! Mo-Mo’s currently wrestling day-old marshmallow fluff out of the shag carpeting in the lounge. Meanwhile, I’ve launched emmiedoom.com—it’s still a little naked, but don’t worry, I’ll dress it up in chaos and glitter real soon. We’ve got fresh social media setups, tunes brewing on YouTube, and the first batch of Candy Violence shirts from Doom Designs ready to wreak fashion havoc. And trust me, the shenanigans are just getting started. Stay tuned, you wonderful weirdos. (kissy sounds)”

The transmission cuts out. For a moment, all is quiet—until you hear the wet slap of rotten flesh on bone pounding against the walls of the compound. Distant moans rise like a storm on the horizon. And then, the sirens begin to wail.