Last One Standing

Chapter One

Nothing in this world will ever be alright again. Not after the death of my father. Not after my whole world came crashing down. No one left to support me. To love me. I am the last one left standing. I think ...

I journey through the vast empty wasteland that will forever be my home. I own no belongings, but the items I carry on my back. Supplies tend to be very limited around here. My legs are aching from travelling miles across the country, in search of survivors. No luck yet. Probably not ever.

My life is horrible. It really is. There are no people, no stable or basic infrastructure. None at all. Just miles and miles of annihilated land, which was once an overpopulated, thriving world. Not anymore.

Not after the thing came and killed us all. Billions of us. In fact, it killed everyone, except me. At least, that's the conclusion I've come to.

Why couldn't they have take my life too? Why did I have to suffer this immense psychological torture? I'm going crazy. The only person I have to talk to is myself. I swear, one day I'll go insane. I've been deemed to a life of misery and grief, but for what?

I've pondered this question ever since my father told me to wait in that hiding spot. I've wondered why he didn't ask me to stay with him. . . or why he didn't stay with me.

What did he expect me to do now? Wander pointlessly around? Maybe make a friend with a bird or something. If there was even any of those left. I'd only seen one or two since the war.

My options are to keep walking or stop and risk being in the same place for too long. I decide to sit here, against a brown, rotted car, and eat whatever food I have left. So I quickly lower myself to the ground and get comfortable against the boiling metal. The hot sun is beating down on me and sizzling my skin. Though, during the night it gets real freezing. So cold that my fingers turn black as the blood rushes to the more important parts of my body that need to be kept warm. But that only lasts until morning, then it's back to the heat.

It's routine for me now — wake up, keep walking in the heat, go to sleep and almost freeze to death. A continuous cycle that I'd give anything to get rid of.

I wonder what I'd do, if I ever saw another human of the same species as me again. Would I run to them or hide? You never know who you can trust. Not anymore. How am I going to be able to distinguish between the two types? I guess you can't. Both would kill you on sight. If there are any survivors left, they'd kill anyone they see, because they would probably think the same way as me. Don't trust anyone.

The sun is slowly setting on the horizon, making the air turn cold.

My father used to always call me Alex, when I was little. He used to always tell me that I was beautiful, that he was proud of me. I hope he's proud of me now, having to kill whoever I see and hate myself for it. Not that I ever see anyone anyway. But I know I would shoot them on sight. I'd have to.

I blame them. The scientists. It's all their fault that all of this happened. Why would they even try to do that? Why wouldn't they stop for a second and think about the consequences that this vaccine could have on the world? Look at where they are now. They're all dead.

I decide to open my journal and grab out a pen from my backpack. I always make sure that a fresh pen is always at the top of my essentials list when I go scavenging for supplies.

Clicking the end of the pen, I begin to write.

Another day out here. Still no one. Not a soul. If I were to give up on trying to look for more people like me, then what would I do? My life would no longer have purpose.