On the air
Static's Dead. Zibby Killed It.
ZA-Z FM is on the air, 100.0 MHz on any radio you can find.
ACROSS THE OHIO. For four months your radio has given you static, a computer reading the weather like a hostage, and the end of the world on every other channel.
Turn the dial to 100.0 MHz. Somebody over there is playing Papa Roach, loud, and she doesn't care who hears.
The station
ZA-Z FM plays around the clock on 100.0 MHz: the radio in your hand, the one on your kitchen counter, the one in your car. Every radio on it plays the same song at the same second, so when the chorus drops at your place, it drops at everyone's.
A hundred and seventy songs. No ads, no news, no mercy. It's the best thing you'll hear all day, and the competition is moaning.
The DJ
Her name is Zibby Zoons. She broadcasts from a hideout on the Indiana bank, off a generator, a mountain of records and a transmitter held together with duct tape and optimism.
She's small, she's loud, and she loves killing zombies more than anyone I've met, and I've met people who went down to floor thirteen on purpose. Her shotgun has a name. This week it's Gary.
Quiet's how they sneak up on ya. So I don't do quiet.
Zibby Zoons
Ask where she gets her records and she giggles. Half of them haven't been written yet. Ask twice and she changes the subject to grenades.
The tape
Find a radio. Any radio. Put it on 100.0 MHz, turn it up, then go outside and do something she'd be proud of.
She'll know.
Sources: one radio, one generator and a woman who would not stop giggling.