After the End

Chapter 1: The Beginning of the End

April 1, 2019.

The world crumbled. I remember standing outside when it started—dark clouds swallowing the sky, and screams filled the air as explosions went off in the distance. People ran, terrified, unsure of what was happening. But I knew. I had seen this before. My visions, they weren’t clear, but they were enough to know that something terrible was coming.

I rushed back home, where my parents were already waiting for me, fear plastered on their faces. They knew, too. My visions had warned them. Without saying a word, we moved quickly, descending into the bunker beneath our house, a place we had prepared for this exact moment. The heavy door sealed shut, locking out the chaos above.

Then, silence.

Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months. I spent the first few days hoping that things would get better, that someone would come find us, that the apocalypse wasn’t real. But deep down, I knew the truth. No one was coming. The world was gone.

Alone, I survived, scavenging from the supplies my parents had left. They didn’t make it; the sickness came for them before the world truly ended. I buried them in the back of the bunker. After that, it was just me. I lost track of time, the days blending into one another as I waited for something, anything, to change.

One year passed.

I couldn’t stay any longer. The food was almost gone, and the walls of the bunker felt like they were closing in on me. Every night, I had the same dreams—visions of the future, of cities in ruins, of endless destruction. But sometimes, there were flashes of hope, moments that told me I wasn’t the only one left.

I had to leave.

With what little strength I had left, I pushed open the heavy bunker door. The world outside was nothing like I remembered. The once-bustling city was reduced to ashes, buildings crumbled, cars abandoned in the streets. There was no sign of life, just endless desolation.

I wandered for days, walking through the ruins, searching for something—someone. But the world was silent. I was exhausted, my body weak from hunger, my mind clouded with visions and memories. I hadn’t eaten properly in days, and my water supply had run out. Every step felt heavier than the last, and soon, my legs gave out.

I collapsed onto the cold, hard ground. My vision blurred, and for a moment, I thought this was it. Maybe I’d finally join the rest of the world in whatever came after this life. My mind drifted, but then, I felt something.

A presence.

At first, I thought I was imagining it. I heard footsteps, but they were distant, like a dream. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t even open my eyes. But then, I felt it—a faint touch, a hand on my wrist, checking for a pulse.

I tried to move, to let whoever it was know that I was still alive. I wasn’t ready to die, not yet. I felt my finger twitch, just barely. It was all I could manage.

The touch went away, and for a second, I thought I had imagined it. But then, I felt it again, stronger this time. The person was real. I wasn’t alone.

I heard a voice, low and sharp. "Impossible," the voice muttered.

I wanted to speak, to tell him I wasn’t dead, but my throat was dry, and the words wouldn’t come. Darkness took over, and everything went black.

When I woke up, I wasn’t on the street anymore. The ground beneath me was soft, and the air didn’t feel as cold. I blinked, my eyes adjusting to the dim light. I was inside a building, one that hadn’t completely collapsed. I struggled to sit up, my head spinning, but before I could move, I heard footsteps approaching.

A boy, maybe around my age, stood a few feet away. He had a sharpness about him—his eyes calculating, his posture rigid. He was small but carried himself like someone who knew more than he let on. His clothes were torn, but there was a certain order to him, a precision. He looked at me with suspicion, like I was a threat.

"Who are you?" His voice was cold, almost mechanical, like he didn’t care about the answer. His eyes narrowed as he waited for my response.

I swallowed, my throat still dry. "Xiaina," I managed to croak out. My voice was weak, but it was enough to make him pause.

He studied me, his expression unreadable. "How did you survive?"

I opened my mouth to speak, but the words wouldn’t come. How could I explain the bunker, the visions, the year spent in isolation? I wasn’t even sure how I survived. Instead, I just shook my head, hoping it would be enough for now.

The boy stepped closer, his hand hovering over something tucked in his waistband. It was only then that I noticed the gun. He wasn’t just cautious; he was ready to kill if needed.

"Don’t lie to me," he said, his voice hard. "There’s no one left. I’ve been through every city, every corner of this wasteland. No one made it out alive."

"I..." My voice faltered. "I’ve been in a bunker. My parents... they hid me there before it happened."

His eyes flickered, but his expression stayed cold. "And how do I know you’re not a threat?"

I frowned, confused. "A threat? I’m just trying to survive."

The boy stepped even closer, his eyes never leaving mine. "Yeah, well, I don’t trust survivors. Not anymore."

There was something in his voice, a bitterness that I couldn’t place. Whoever he was, he had been through hell, just like I had. But there was something different about him, something dangerous.

"I don’t have a reason to lie," I said, my voice steadying. "I just want to live."

He was silent for a moment, then finally, he sighed and turned away, his hand moving away from the gun. "Rest. But don’t think for a second I won’t put a bullet in you if you try anything."

I nodded, too exhausted to argue. Whoever he was, he had saved my life. For now, that was enough.

As I lay back down, my body still weak, my mind raced. Who was this boy? How had he survived? And why did he seem so familiar?

I closed my eyes, trying to remember if I had seen him in my visions. But no matter how hard I tried, the future remained unclear. All I knew was that I wasn’t alone anymore.

And that terrified me.