Final Days

January 2027

Day 25
The base camp is a sprawling fortress of concrete and barbed wire, surrounded by soldiers who look as worn down as I feel. I was processed, questioned, poked and prodded like some lab rat. They kept asking me what I'd seen, where I'd been, but I couldn't give them answers. Not the ones they wanted. All I could think about was the girl, the way her body had gone cold in my arms. The way I'd failed her.
They finally let me rest in a cramped bunk, away from the others. I think they're afraid of me, afraid of what I've seen. Maybe they should be. I don't feel human anymore. Just a shell filled with memories I'd rather forget.
Day 26
They're trying to keep us busy, give us tasks to "reintegrate" us into the fold. But it's all bullshit. I see the fear in their eyes, the way they avoid looking at me too long. They know what's out there, what's coming. They just don't want to admit it. The base is packed with survivors, but everyone's got that same haunted look. Like we're all just waiting for the other shoe to drop.
I hear whispers about "the angels," about Judgment Week. Some of the soldiers are starting to crack, mumbling prayers or staring blankly at the walls. They can put up all the defenses they want, but deep down, we all know it's just a matter of time.
Day 27
One of the officers took me aside today. He looked tired, older than his years, like he'd seen too much. He asked me about the girl, about where we'd come from. I told him everything, even though it hurt to say it out loud. He didn't flinch, just nodded like he'd heard it all before. When I was done, he handed me a small metal tag. The girl's name was engraved on it. A token, he said. Something to remember her by.
As if I could ever forget.
Day 28
They gave me new clothes, clean and pressed, but they don't fit right. Nothing feels right anymore. The base is a maze of corridors and barracks, filled with people who've seen the end of the world and lived to tell about it. But no one talks. Not really. We're all ghosts here, drifting from one day to the next, waiting for the inevitable.
I tried to sleep, but every time I close my eyes, I see her face. Hear her whispering to me, warning me. Telling me it's not over. I don't know if it's my mind playing tricks, or if there's something else at work. I don't know which scares me more.
Day 29
There was a commotion at the gates today. A group of survivors, beaten and bloody, stumbled in from the wasteland. They looked worse than the rest of us, eyes hollow, skin stretched tight over bone. The soldiers rushed to help them, but the newcomers just kept screaming about the angels, about how they'd seen them. How they were coming.
The base commander tried to calm them down, but they were beyond reason, clawing at their faces, trying to tear out their own eyes. They had to be sedated, restrained. But the fear in their voices, the raw terror—it's contagious. It's spreading through the camp like wildfire.
Day 30
The base isn't safe anymore. I can see it in the way the soldiers grip their rifles a little tighter, the way they jump at every sound. The walls that once felt like protection now feel like a prison. We're all trapped here, surrounded by ghosts, haunted by the things we've done to survive.
I hear talk of a new plan, something desperate. They won't say what, but I can see the dread in their eyes. They're preparing for something, but I don't think they believe it'll work. Neither do I.

Day 31
The air's thick with tension, like a storm about to break. Rumors are flying—some say the angels are already inside the base, hiding among us, waiting to strike. Others whisper about strange noises in the night, about shadows that move on their own. Paranoia's taking hold, and I can feel it crawling under my skin, sinking its claws into my mind.
I don't know what's real anymore. The lines between nightmare and reality are blurring. I keep hearing her voice, the girl's voice, calling my name. Telling me to run. But there's nowhere left to go. Nowhere left to hide.
Day 32
Everything went to hell today. The newcomers snapped, broke free from their restraints, started attacking anyone they could find. The soldiers tried to contain it, but it was a fucking bloodbath. I saw one guy rip out another's throat with his teeth, blood spraying everywhere. The gunfire, the screams, it all blended together into this cacophony of chaos. I barely made it out of the barracks alive.
I'm holed up in some storage room now, trying to catch my breath. The base is burning. I can see the flames licking at the walls, hear the distant explosions as the ammo dumps go up. This is it. The end of the end. Judgment Week, for real this time.
Day 33
I don't know how I'm still alive. The base is a smoldering ruin, bodies piled up everywhere. The air's thick with smoke and the stench of death. I'm moving through the wreckage, stepping over the corpses, trying to find a way out. But it's like the world's closing in on me, every path blocked by debris or fire.
The whispers are back, louder now. They're calling my name, telling me to give in, to join them. I don't want to. I don't. But I'm so fucking tired. So tired of running, of fighting, of living through this nightmare. Maybe it's time to let go.
Maybe it's time to end this.
Day 34
Found a way out. Or what's left of one. The fence is down, torn apart by something big, something strong. I'm stepping into the wasteland again, the charred remains of the world I once knew. The sky's still that sickly red, the air still heavy with ash. But I'm free, in a way. Free from the base, from the fear that gripped it.
But I can feel them watching me. The angels, the demons, whatever the fuck they are. They're close now, so close I can almost see them out of the corner of my eye. They're waiting for me to falter, to fall. But I won't give them the satisfaction. Not yet.
I'm still here. I'm still fighting. For what, I don't know. But as long as I'm breathing, I'm not done.
Not yet.
Day 35
The road ahead is endless, stretching out into the horizon, a bleak and barren wasteland. I don't know where I'm going, just putting one foot in front of the other. I've got nothing left, no one left. Just me and the ghosts, the memories that haunt me with every step. But I keep moving.
Maybe there's still something out there, some place where the world isn't a fucking nightmare. Or maybe I'm just fooling myself, chasing a dream that died long ago. Either way, I can't stop. Not until I've found the end, whatever that means.
It's just me now. Me against the world, against the angels, against whatever's left out there. And if I'm going down, I'm taking as many of those bastards with me as I can.
Final days? Fuck that.
I'm not done yet.