325

Reluctantly the sun dips below the horizon, relinquishing its reign to a full moon and a clear night sky. The landscape is shrouded in a ghostly twilight and, as the miles slip past, the temperature steadily drops.

It takes a little over twenty minutes to reach Mineral Wells. It seems no different to a handful of other towns through which you have passed today: it is derelict, decayed, and deserted. As you drive along the main street, you scan the rooftops in search of a radio mast, and, almost immediately, you discover what you seek. On the roof of a three-storey building at the end of the street is the tripod-like structure. The upper section of the mast has long since collapsed, but the remaining lower section is still intact, sufficient in length to carry a call-signal as far as Weatherford.

Stopping outside the building, you fasten your jacket against the chill night air; then you enter to find the dusty halls and offices of a commercial radio station awaiting you. In a studio at the top of the building you discover what you are looking for. Slumped over a control panel is the body of Doctor Drool, former ace DJ and anchor-man of Radio KLFM. Beneath his skeletal hand is the button that controls the station call-sign, a transmission that has played continuously for the last eight years.

You use your CB radio to call the convoy and tell them what you have found. Then you cut the power to the control panel, pausing briefly to sign-off for the last time on behalf of the Doctor.

If you wish to search the radio station, turn to 66.

If you decide to return to the convoy without delay, turn to 284.