NomadNate87 and the story of streaming after the apocalypse

Live from the Sandwrecked USS Whatever: Episode 47

Hey wasteland fam, it’s your boy NomadNate87, broadcasting live from the middle of absolutely nowhere again. If you’re just joining, welcome to the post-apocalypse, where the Wi-Fi is somehow still better than the food situation. I’m currently standing on a cracked asphalt road that leads straight into a sand dune the size of a small country, staring up at a full-on aircraft carrier just… chilling on top of it like God dropped it there after a bad night.

“Guys, look at this thing,” I whisper into my phone, panning the camera across the rusted hull. “They used to park fighter jets on this bad boy. Now it’s a very expensive bird perch for radioactive seagulls. The scale is insane. I’ve been walking toward it for two days and it still looks fake. Everything out here is empty. Not ‘quiet countryside’ empty. ‘Everyone who ever lived here is dead or smart enough to leave’ empty.”

I turn the camera to selfie mode. My goggles are fogged, my keffiyeh is full of sand, and I’m pretty sure my left boot is 40% duct tape at this point.

“Anyway, today’s content: exploring the beached USS ‘I Don’t Know, It’s Big.’ But first, real talk. I ran out of the good canned peaches three days ago. I’ve been eating something called ‘Mystery Protein Brick’ that tastes like regret and old gym socks. Do you know how hard it is to find toilet paper in the apocalypse? I traded a working flashlight for three squares last month. Three. I’m living like a medieval peasant with better internet.”

A low growl echoes from behind a half-buried strip mall. I sigh.

“Oh great, the dogs are back. Hold on, chat.”

I flip the camera just in time to catch two glowing, mangy mutts with patchy fur and way too many teeth charging at me like I owe them money.

“Sup fellas,” I say cheerfully. “You guys streaming too? How many viewers you got? I’m at forty-three right now, including my mom’s burner account. Beat that.”

I manage to scare them off with some loud yelling and half a protein brick. One of them actually catches it mid-air like a champ. Respect.

“See? Even the radioactive dogs have better snacks than me. Moving on.”

I start hiking up the dune toward the carrier, legs burning, lungs full of dust. The ruined city around me looks like someone tried to build a suburb and then immediately gave up. Collapsed apartment blocks lean against each other like drunk friends. A faded billboard still reads “Grand Opening!” with a faded cartoon family that probably died screaming.

Halfway up, sand in my boots, a pack of tumbleweeds spinning past like angry cars rushing their way to work. My phone buzzes. I check the live chat, let's see what my followers have to say:

I spin around. Three guys in spiked armor are standing there, also holding phones.

“Yo,” their leader says, waving. “We’re live too. ‘Raiders of the Lost Highway.’ We got 212 viewers. You mind if we rob you on camera? It’s good for engagement.”

I stare at them. They stare at me.

“Dude,” I say, “I have half a protein brick and dreams. That’s it.”

One of the raiders shrugs. “We’ll take the brick. The algorithm loves drama.”

We end up trading instead. I give them the brick, they give me a warm can of off-brand soda that expired in 2027. We pose for a group selfie in front of the aircraft carrier like it’s the world’s saddest tourist trap.

“Appreciate the collab, guys,” I tell them as they wander off to terrorize someone else. “Drop a follow. I’m at 112 total followers. I post consistent end-of-the-world content and still can’t crack a thousand. What does a guy gotta do? Die dramatically?”

I finally reach the deck of the carrier. The wind howls across the empty flight deck. A single plastic lawn chair sits in the middle, somehow untouched by time. I sit in it, legs dangling over the edge, and pan the camera across miles and miles of golden nothing.

“Anyway, that’s the stream today. Another wrecked ship. Another day of not dying. If you enjoyed this, don't forget to smash that like button and subscribe. Or don’t. I’ll still be out here tomorrow, probably getting chased by something with too many legs.”

I sigh, looking straight into the lens.

“Seriously though. If anyone’s watching… send beans. Or followers. Either works.”

At least the carrier makes a killer backdrop.

I look at viewer count one last time.

Excitedly I scream:

"67!"