Nuclear Event Detector
Summary
The speculation is spun out of an old product spec Biddle stumbled upon, about which Ill only say that he imagines the sort of grimly absurd situation in which you might need to make a claim for a refund against a poorly functioning nuclear event detector. If she responded to his messages right now, when he could barely read it through the canned corn goggle fog and could only type out big clumsy mitten-fisted keyboard slaps, he might just give up and strip it all off and run out into the ashes naked and screaming. Maybe it would be better to gulp down some hot cesium dust blowing through the office park instead of sitting here wondering whether customer support would get to him before the gas raiders and burn-dogs and torture jockeys with half-melted faces and fallout psychosis outside. It was a miracle, God’s own handiwork, that the gas generators at the office park still hummed and the net satellite dish on the roof still pointed in the right direction most of the time and any packets were able to get in and out of this jerry-rigged bunker to reach wherever Tammy was, presumably somewhere that hadn’t yet been turned into a shitty looking version of hell. He missed looking at websites and chatting with people besides Tammy and that guy from FEMA who’d completely lost his fucking mind but still DMed him sometimes with water purification advice and lewd poems.