2,555 days.
2,555 days since the very last news broadcast ever aired on station; the very last public service announcement to ever air.

"Citizens of New York, a quarantine has begun. All residents shall be contained within the Manhattan area, and shall be required to wear masks when outside. Do not associate with others, report any strange behavior to the provided police personnel. This includes: Rapid blinking or shaking, muttering incoherently, bloodshot eyes, and repeated itching of the nose, mouth, head and chest.

Anyone with these symptoms will immediately be apprehended and cared for by personnel, to ensure the safety of others around them. These are the symptoms of a virus extremely harmful to the immune system, and causes erratic, rabid behavior, similar of that to an animal infected with rabies.

If you or someone you know is infected, report them to the police. The spread of infection is high, and if not properly contained, can severely damage the population."

The announcement, spoken by a serious, knit-brow man, ended with a final fearful remark.

"Stay inside. Don't get sick.
And god bless all of you poor damned bastards that can't."

The broadcast clicked off with an aura of heavy silence. The crew in the filming room glanced back and forth at each other, for what they knew would be the last time. The main anchorman, the man shown on the tv, sighed heavily and ran a hand through his hair, disheveling it.

"I guess this is it."
Tears brimmed at his eyes. "This is the last hurrah."

The others remained silent. They didn't need to speak. They all knew.

"Hurrah." The anchorman scoffed. "Hurrah." He laughed softly, his face contorting into a twisted piece of sorrow.
Tears fell, staining his dark face.

He wiped the tears away and covered his face with his hands. And he cried.
He cried for his coworkers, his neighbors, his family.
He cried for the last hurrah.