Scribble: Strangely, this mightn't be an apocalyptic scenario.

      Perched at the dials, his eyes peered through cigarette smoke at the numbers flashing across the display.
      Static. Electric hailstones pounding the speakers. Every so often, silence.
      Taking note of whatever number appeared on the screen, his skeletal hand raised a dusty microphone to his lips, just as the swinging lamp overhead began to flicker.
      "Come in, come in, this is . . . is anyone out there? Come in, come in . . ."
      His voice, coated in a thick layer of dust, started to give-out. Down to the filter, the cigarette let out one final puff of smoke.
      "Come in, come in . . ."