After The Fall

Flickers of Hope

It is now the year 3500, and I found a small comfort in the fact that my phone still worked, offering me a calendar and a clock to mark the passage of time. The internet remained accessible, and flickers of electricity pulsed through the remnants of civilization, making my solitary existence a bit less empty. Over the years, I roamed across countries, taking advantage of old cars abandoned on the side of the road. Most still had gas in their tanks, and when one ran empty, I simply switched to another, allowing me to traverse much of America—the continent I had called home when the chaos erupted.

With no pilots left in the world—and having no clue how to fly a plane myself—I was sadly bound to this land. But with over a thousand years stretching out before me, time felt oddly elastic. I could explore and take in the fading beauty of a world long gone. Yet, amid the adventure, boredom crept in. I often found myself watching videos on my phone, clips of laughter and life captured before the crisis, filled with faces of people long since departed. Each flicker of light on the screen was a haunting reminder of the vibrant world that had once thrived, now reduced to echoes in a desolate landscape.

I discovered long ago that I didn't have to eat, sleep, or drink, since I couldn't die anyway. Back in the good old days, this realization felt like a blessing—more time to explore, more moments with friends, and no money wasted on food. Not that any of that matters now; money has lost its meaning in this barren world. If I need something, I simply break into places—who's going to stop me? I often grab a bottle of water from deserted stores, as everything else has taken on a strange taste; you know, a thousand years will do that to you.

Though I didn't need food to survive, it's still disheartening to see that I have no options left—even the canned beans have spoiled. Unfortunately, those persistent bacteria somehow managed to survive, those annoying anaerobic idiots, rendering what little food I had left completely inedible.

Right now, I find myself walking into the Denver Zoo. I've noticed that some animals in certain places retain their fur even after centuries, which is fascinating to witness. The zoo in Denver is known for its diverse array of animals, and although I've visited before, it's been a while, and I'm curious to see how they've changed.

The zoo also holds many lifeless bodies—those of caretakers and visitors alike. Since I've been here before, I've taken the time to close the eyes of the humans I find, giving them a final gesture of humanity. As I make my way towards the gorillas—the first animals you see upon entering the zoo—I pause for a moment to watch them lying there. But I know where I really want to go: to see the black panthers. They are majestic beasts, with beautiful black fur that feels incredibly soft, just like big cats really.

I slip through the workers' entrance into their habitat and find a black panther lounging on a wooden structure, fully stretched out. I settle beside it and gently stroke its fur. It might seem strange to do this, but I find it incredibly relaxing and oddly healing.

I've been lying here, listening to songs on my phone and petting this panther for what feels like literal hours. The sun is nearly setting, but I'm reluctant to leave. Even I find a dead zoo a creepy place to be at night. Then again, every location feels eerie in the dark when everyone and everything is dead. An unsettling song plays from my phone as the sun sinks slowly. Suddenly, my eyes widen, and my body jolts upright. Did I hear... a sound? No, it can't be. I must be imagining things. But there it is again—a noise? Wind? No, this doesn't sound like nature; it sounds like footsteps. I'm fully convinced I'm going insane. Staying here past sundown was a bad idea.

I glance back at the panther, sighing. This isn't real; I can relax. There's no way I heard footsteps. I lie back down on my side, looking at the panther, which looks like it's sleeping peacefully. "Excuse me," I suddenly hear. My body snaps straight up as I look down at... a person? I scream, literally jumping back and falling off the wooden structure, landing straight on my ass. "Ow, that hurt. Damn, I must be going crazy," I mutter aloud. "You're not," comes the reply.

My eyes shoot to the source of the voice, landing on a young, if I may say, handsome man. I'm too baffled to speak. "My name is Liam. I found you... using technology. I'm not here to hurt you, I promise." Is this for real, or am I finally losing my mind after a thousand years? I step closer to the fence and gaze into the man's eyes as he approaches. He touches the fence, then brushes my fingers, which are gripping it. I jump back again. "What is happening?" I ask, bewildered. "You cannot be real," I stammer.

Liam reaches into his pockets. I brace myself, fearing he might pull out a weapon, but instead, he reveals... his phone? He shows me his screen, which displays an app. "It took me forever to build this program, so please don't break my phone." The app shows red blinking dots around the world, including two dots marking our location. "It's a tracking app based on other people's phones. I figured I wasn't the only one who still had access to the internet. I hoped, I didn't know, but I really hoped I wasn't alone in this world," Liam explains.

I'm still at a loss for words, grappling with this new flicker of hope. "Does this mean I... we aren't... alone?" I finally manage to mumble. "It's just the survivors with internet that I can track. There might be more, but according to this, there are about 26 of us. You were the closest one to me; I'm coming from New York." This makes sense to me; it doesn't seem like a hoax. Yet, I'm still wary. I haven't spoken to another human being in 1,400 years, and I'm not sure I remember how.