Chapter Text
You're in it for the long haul.
At least you're a lot better set up than most. Generators? You've got em. There's a ton of the fuckers around because they're needed on set to run the enormous night-as-day lights. You have a huge, remotely-locked gate controlled by a buzzer, twenty-five foot cement walls topped with barbed wire, a security camera perimeter, and a gun cabinet for fucks sake.
You also have a great big ham radio setup.
"Party of nine on the four-forty five. Some wounded. Tail looks medium rare. You read? Over."
"We read you, Hollywood. Timestamp on first visual contact? Over." You're honestly shocked they don't call you Texas or some shit, your drawl isn't exactly considered usual in California.
"Timestamp is now, base. Will begin broadcast at 1800 hours. Do not know communications status." You take your finger off the button. "Uh. Over." Oops. You never claimed you weren't a shitty relay station.
"Do one now, then every hour starting at 1800. Over."
You roll your eyes. They're not fucking listening right now, they're busy trying not to die, but okay. You broadcast every night from that time anyways. God these bastards are lucky you did some radio communications before you dropped out of college. "If you insist. Hollywood over and out."
You fiddle with a few dials. Wow, this was really not the skill you'd expect to end up using in life. You change the frequency to your broadcast, taking a deep breath. "If you're alive out there, you're not alone. I'm call sign Hollywood, and you can find me on 3.475.5. If you're not on the wire, head to Compton and Lakewood and somebody there will look after you. Stay safe. Over and out."
With a heavy sigh, you flip back to the frequency you usually sit on. You wish you could chat with the sweet old broad the next relay over, if only to relieve your crushing boredom. Check ins with base are the only time you hear another human voice - you're supposed to stay off the line as much as possible so people can contact you.
Maybe it's the fact that you were a hermit most of the time even before shit went to hell that staves off your depression. You feel like a lot of other people would've offed themselves after not seeing another human face as long as you have. You spend a lot of time writing, a hell of a lot more time than when it was your fucking job.
You also spend a lot of time masturbating. If Rosie were here, she'd probably go on about how you're compensating for a total lack of physical contact.
Rosie is dead. You don't know it for sure, but you know it. You'll never see her again.
You tell brain-Rosie that you're just bored. If she had a dick, she'd understand. It's just something to do. It's empty and stupid and totally devoid of pleasure; literally just a distraction. Getting out the tissues and hand lotion makes you feel thirteen, even though you're nearly forty and your libido can barely keep up with the amount of distraction you want.
Your orgasm feels more like a sneeze you can't get out than a building of pleasure. Is this how it feels to be asexual? You wonder if you are asexual.
Or you're just getting old and you jerk off too much.
There's a little relief when you're done; it makes a little of your tension go. For a minute. That's it.
You clean your hand methodically and button your pants. You suppose you have shit to do.
By shit to do you mean target practice.
You leave the storage container. It's cooler outside, if only because of the sun beating on the big curved metal piece of shit you usually live in. As soon as you're outside you can hear the moans, many of them far and faint, but regardless an ever present background noise. You're supposed to stay near the radio, but honestly fuck that. As much of a hermit as you might be, even you get restless in that stuffy fucking metal tube.
Scrambling up the side of the container in the west most corner is much easier since you bolted one of the really big ladders to the side. You're not a handy guy, but you can do some basics now out of necessity. You climb up to your shitty little crows nest, taking your long distance rifle from under the tarp it's wrapped in.
You're a total tool with a gun - any enthusiast would probably cry if they saw how you kept the things. You don't know how to clean one or unjam one. You're crappy and slow at loading. You drop a lot of shells.
Your aim is improving, though.
Squinting down through the sight, you take careful aim for a headshot on one of the small shambling forms. Breathe out and squeeze the trigger.
You're a little low, but you must have hit the jugular because blood spurts out in a pathetic little jet, and the fucker doesn't go down. Okay. You cock the gun again, letting out a soft breath through your teeth as you depress the trigger once more.
The form drops, and you smile humourlessly.
At least it's something to do.
As soon as the sky starts to grey, you don't even bother to keep trying. Any drop in visibility makes this pretty fucking futile; plus your ass is sore as hell from sitting on a ridged aluminum tube. You wrap up the gun, reaching up your arms to stretch and groaning as your back pops. Shit you're old as hell. You slide stiffly to the ladder, letting yourself be slow because why not. It isn't as though you have anything to do other than speak a prewritten message into the abyss, then sit there vegetating while waiting for an answer that rarely comes. Wash rinse repeat.
You tell yourself it's impressive you haven't blown your brains out, but sometimes the fucking futility of this so-called job makes you really think about it. You talk to yourself a lot and sometimes you think that in and of itself is pretty sad, but when you contemplate the fact that you're talking to the whole fucking empty city and still talking to yourself; holy shit.
So far as you know, you're the only guy left in Hollywood. Some survivors pass through on their way to the LA colony, and some of them even make it; but you're the only pretty person left from this sad little subdivision of the super rich and famous.
You didn't even really like most of those people; but the fact that every fucking rich whore and talentless hack and sycophant at the last afterparty you went to is dead and probably shambling around out there ready to kill you is sobering in ways you barely understood something could be.
"If you're alive out there, you're not alone. I'm call sign Hollywood, and you can find me on 3.475.5. If you're not on the wire, head to Compton and Lakewood and somebody there will look after you. Stay safe. Over and out."
Your call sign is more a reference to your former fame than anything; a little snappier than 'that director guy'. However, you can't help but think of it as a reminder that you're the last asshole around here.
Writing feels worthless because you know no one will ever read it, but it also helps you deal with your other dumbass emotions. Getting really into the notebook numbs you almost as much as the coke did back when you were young and stupid enough to do that shit.
It's not as good as the pills the doctor gave you were, but there's not much hope of getting more of that.
"If you're alive out there, you're not alone. I'm call sign Hollywood, and you can find me on 3.475.5. If you're not on the wire, head to Compton and Lakewood and somebody there will look after you. Stay safe. Over and out."
It's a litany, a thing you say six times daily, a speech you make from sunset till midnight. You say it out into the abyss and the abyss stares back at you and tells you you're alone.
"If you're alive out there, you're not alone. I'm call sign Hollywood, and you can find me on 3.475.5. If you're not on the wire, head to Compton and Lakewood and somebody there will look after you. Stay safe. Over and out."
Again and again. You count the hours as they pass, you scribble in the notebook, you make your mechanical speech, you jerk off and don't even know why. Your tired eyes watch the battery powered clock from behind shades you have no idea why you still wear, and after speaking the message the sixth and final time, you toss them onto the desk. You fiddle with the dials once more, then drag yourself over to the nest of shit you sleep in. The base is a huge stunt mat, and it's covered in everything you could dig out of soft storage - silk elizabethan reproduction pillows, sleeping bags, wool travelling blankets, classic quilts. It's comfortable in its way, but you feel like if you had a real fucking mattress your back wouldn't ache so much.
You strip nude and crawl in, straining to reach the industrial switch you rigged to an extension cord. The hanging halogens flick off with a little buzz, and with their hum absent the container seems eerily silent.
Closing your eyes, you slowly adjust to the sounds outside - mostly the whirr of your generator. If you really focus you can hear the soft groans and wails of what's left of Hollywood Hills, but you tune it out. You don't want to listen to it.
That's the quickest way a man can go mad.
…
You roll out of bed whenever you wake up, not exactly early since there's no windows in your tin can. You flick the lights on with another buzz, and spend a moment just contemplating your achey body. Fuck, you miss long hot showers more than almost anything else.
Long hot showers makes you think of something else, makes you remember things you don't want to, and the thought comes before you can stop it.
At least he didn't have to live in a world without showers.
You ignore the pang in your chest, dropping yourself down in the swivel chair you spend most of your time in without bothering to put on any clothes. Who's here to see you naked? No one's going to ogle your package or comment on the fact that your chest hair is frosted silver. Already, at your age.
Pawing for the receiver, you blearily move the dials to 5.425.9.
"Yo, granny. You there? Over." You jam your shades on your face, not caring how ridiculous that is. You feel more dressed with them on than you would with actual clothes. Staring petulantly at the receiver in your hand is all you can do while you wait for a response.
"Course I am!" Her cheerful voice crackles through the radio, and you sigh and lean back. Wow, is it ever a relief to talk to someone. "You better be surviving over there, Mr. Strider. Over!"
"Doing fine, ma'am. Been working on my sharpshooting. Over."
Predicably, she cackles with glee - one of said gun enthusiasts who would probably cringe at your firearms. Hell, that's probably why the old battle-axe made it this far. "Good boy. I need numbers to be proud of you! Over."
"Thirty-three, only five misses. Over."
"Excellent!" The radio crackles static in protest at her excited volume. "I told you, it's all about staying calm and taking deep breaths. No need to panic with a good rifle in your hand! Over."
This woman is probably fucking nuts, and you've always known it; but she's nuts in all the right ways. Her totally batshit gun obsession was no doubt crucial to her survival of the first wave; in just the way you blame your shitty as fuck foster care upbringing. No one knew how to run and hide and when to stand and fight like you did.
"I'm bored as hell over here. Been dead for weeks, haha. Over."
The answering giggle was almost little girlish. "You need a dog, you poor boy. Haley's such a blessing! He always cheers me up. Over!"
"Don't need no mutt." You grumble. Inwardly, you don't want to admit another warm body might be nice, another living, breathing thing. "Where would I even get one of those? Guess I'll just stroll on down to the pet shop. Over."
Another giggle. "If Haley ever brings home a ladyfriend, I'll send her your way! Over!" How the hell does someone sound so excited saying over? It honestly ceased having any meaning as a word to you long ago.
"I'll keep an eye out. Over." You reply dryly. Honestly, you're not even that big on dogs. How the fuck would she send you a dog? Walk it over? Air drop it? Christ.
"I've got to go clear my perimeter! Nice chatting with you dear. Over!"
You lean back in your chair and sigh heavily. "Same. Over."
The receiver gets tossed carelessly back to the desk, and you don't really feel like getting up right now. You spin yourself slowly in the chair, staring at the halogens on the ceiling. Sometimes you think what it'd be like if you went to the colony; helped out with the whole 'start over' thing. Get a new life.
If he'd lived, you probably would have.
You'd done everything for that kid for so long that you forget how it feels to have any other purpose.
Like the rest of Hollywood Hills, you're floating in the pointless void of nonbeing.
Eventually, you drag your sorry bare ass out of the chair; mostly because you have to piss. You pry open the plastic paint bucket, wrinkling your nose - yeah, it might only be piss, but you really have to empty this thing soon - and let loose the sour stream from the night before. It seems like it takes forever for your bladder to empty, but finally you can seal the bucket again and pull on some threadbare clothes. Most of the costumes were stored at an indoor studio, not here, and out of those that were here, most were not for your size or sex. Fortunately, the majority of what was available were plain, every day clothes; as opposed to historical or sci fi shit. 18th century menswear was really goddamn impractical.
You decide to waste some time shaving. You're really glad your facial hair isn't out of control - it takes you a week at least to grow what most would consider a three-day beard - but it's still itchy and nasty as hell. You always feel gross unless you're clean and smooth.
Then it's time for a pretty unappetizing but necessary lunch of canned green beans and a protein bar. You're not sure whether you've gotten used to eating total shit or if your taste buds are just dead. It's a nice, warm, sunny day; so you sit outside, but soon find yourself too depressed by the big echoing emptiness of the outdoor studio compound and retreat to your tin fucking can.
The next few hours, as usual, are spent monitoring cameras. Not just yours, which are usually hella boring, but various traffic and security cameras on main roads that some asshole managed to rig up to your system ages ago. Whoever maintains that shit must be crazy, and if anyone asked you it's not worth it. Seeing anything even remotely worthwhile is pretty uncommon; and you feel like a lot of poor bastards have died running out to fix these things. Eventually, you give up and return to fucking around in your current notebook.
Finally it's 1800, and you lazily scoop up the receiver. "If you're alive out there, you're not alone. I'm call sign Hollywood, and you can find me on 3.475.5. If you're not on the wire, head to Compton and Lakewood and somebody there will look after you. Stay safe. Over and out." As usual, it goes like clockwork. Your shitty ass brain wishes you could take something to check out for a while - coke, valium, booze, fucking anything.
Maybe you should've learned how to cope with your problems while your problems were still normal. Maybe you should've listened to Rose while she was around.
Too late now.
"If you're alive out there, you're not alone. I'm call sign Hollywood, and you can find me on 3.475.5. If you're not on the wire, head to Compton and Lakewood and somebody there will look after you. Stay safe. Over and out." On the hour, every hour. Like clockwork.
As you fiddle the dials back to your personal station, you hear something that catches your attention.
It's the unmistakable hiss of an open channel.
For a moment, you just sit at stare at the rig like it can give you answers. It's been months and months since anyone actually buzzed you back. You're in the middle of slowly reaching for your receiver to prompt your contact to speak when they suddenly do.
A thick, deep Texan accent is discernible even through the popping and crackling of your radio. "Hey, Hollywood."