37 days to your Osprey Evisceration …
… or so his Smartphone tells him. Dumbphone. No use to him now – not since the Infinite virus hit – just churning out data that is ever more random, pointless, irrelevant.
He hurls it over the balcony and watches it cartwheel down to bounce off a shattered television, clip a ruined microwave, rest on a dead laptop. Discarded machines ring the apartment block like a sediment of crazed fossils.
The city is silent and still … save for rising columns of smoke, like signals from an ancient past now become endless future.
He wonders who lives next door.