All around me, I hear the low rumbling voices of the dead as they shamble toward inevitability. Their dead eyes stare into their control devices, immunizing them from the stench of old food and failed humanity.
An eldritch voice, like the ghost of a numbers station periodically rises above the discordant general murmur. It hums and crackles and hisses it’s condescension —
“E78… F39…”
I am designated E02. The queue is an interminable trudge. I try to avoid contact with my fellow sufferers. Sometimes, one of them will break out of the queue and attempt to leave this place, imagining a world beyond these pale walls and the stench of the unclean.
These are the rites and offices of the dark god, DMV.
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