Past the executive offices was another door that led to the broadcasting room. This was the place Dal really itched to be. He always envisioned himself behind the morning show microphone. That was the sole reason he’d taken the janitorial job at the radio station. Well, that and because he needed cash to pay for gas and school books.
Steady noise vibrated the doors that led to the broadcasting room. Dal recognized the sound immediately. It was the blare of the emergency broadcast system. The sound sent a shiver through him.
Machine gun ready, he eased the door open. The sound drilled into his ears.
There was no message playing, just the unending whine that indicated an emergency. He supposed they didn’t have a pre-recorded message for a Russian invasion.
Everyone had left in the middle of work. Like the office cubicles, there were signs of a hasty exit. Car keys on the floor. A half-eaten sandwich.
An idea formed in his mind. People needed to know what was happening. He glanced over his shoulder at Lena and flicked his eyes at the studio. She nodded in understanding.
He led the way into the room, locking the door behind them. He made his way to the wide bank of buttons and switches, his fingers caressing the microphone that dangled from a thick cable down from the ceiling.
Sometimes, when he picked apples under the sweltering sun, he escaped the discomfort by imagining himself as a radio deejay. He’d play good music and help people escape this tree of their day. He’d make sure to play every request phoned in. And he’d find local, uplifting stories to share on the airwaves.
Amidst the abandoned studio, this dream seemed a million miles away. Dal let the machine gun dangle from its strap around his shoulder. His fingers flipped the various switches and buttons while Lena stood guard behind him. Thank God he’d taken a radio communications class at the junior college. Otherwise, he’d have no idea how to use the equipment.
He leaned into the microphone. Making a snap decision, he didn’t use his name in case the Soviets had a way to track him.
“I’m broadcasting live from KZSQ in Rossi, California. West County is under attack by Soviet forces. Repeat, West County, California, is under attack by Soviet forces.” He licked his lips and glanced at Lena. At her encouraging nod, he turned back to the microphone. “Russians arrived in Greyhound busses barely an hour ago. They’re dressed in fatigues with the Soviet star, sickle, and hammer on the back. Many of them have machine guns, but they’re also armed with dart guns. They’re shooting people with darts. At this time it is unknown what substance is in the darts. Avoid the Russians at all costs. Use extreme caution if leaving the area. If you have the means, board up your doors and windows. Keep your guns loaded. Protect your families.”
And then, because he couldn’t help himself, he decided to end on a positive note. “America isn’t going to stand for this shit. Kill any communist bastard you see.” His finger slammed down, looping the recording to play over and over.
A grin split Lena’s face. She gave him the thumbs up.
“Take that, fuckers,” Dal mumbled.
Something loud banged nearby. It sounded like a door.
Fear spiked through Dal. He grabbed Lena’s hand and yanked her out of the recording studio.
Another door slammed, then another. Through the open door of the executive wing, he saw a flash of camouflage green.
Soviets. They’d heard his broadcast.
They had to get out of here.
Chapter 10Radio Station
DAL SHOVED LENA IN front of him. “Run,” he hissed. She broke into a blind run, sprinting as fast as she could out the door and into the adjoining hall. Dal was on her heels.
He counted the bangs as the Russians checked each of the executive offices. They didn’t know where the studio was and weren’t taking any chances. Four doors. Five. Six.
He spun around and raised his Russian-issued machine gun.
The corridor door flew open. Dal opened fire, spraying bullets down the hall, then turned and ran. Shouts and Russian gibberish followed him.
“Right,” he hissed at Lena as they approached a fork in the corridor.
She tore right. Dal followed.
Behind them came shouting and more gunfire. Shit. He was going to get Lena killed if he didn’t think of something.
“Left,” he whisper-shouted. Lena made the turn without question.
The janitorial closet appeared up ahead on their right. An idea formed in Dal’s mind. His left hand reached out to snag Lena’s shirt. His right hand plunged into the pocket of his jeans.
He pulled out his keys to the KZSQ janitorial supply closet. Just as he shoved the key into the lock, a Russian burst around the corner. At the sight of them, the soldier shouted in alarm.
Lena was ready for him. She let loose a burst of bullets just as Dal yanked open the door. The soldier fell as Dal hauled her inside and quietly closed the door.
Their harsh breathing filled the large closet. He didn’t dare turn on the lights. He closed his eyes, imagining the closet he knew so well. The toilet paper and paper towels were stacked on the right-hand side. The bleach and disinfectant were stored on the left. At the back of the room were miscellaneous supplies like Kleenex and toilet seat covers.
And in the back left-hand corner was Dal’s cleaning cart. He snagged at Lena, his hand catching the sleeve of her shirt. He pulled the cart out of the corner, thankful he’d gone to the trouble of oiling the wheels last week.
He felt around on the floor until he found what he was looking for: the sub-floor access panel.
Dal had used the access panel several times. The studio had intermittent rodent problems and Dal was the one drafted to set
