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Chapter 1
I stumble down the sidewalk’s crumbled remains, watching the gray and white clouds swirl a daring dance around each other, waiting for the rain to descend from their bellies. The last time water touched these lips was days ago, when a handsome young man stumbled into my camp. My lips tingle, remembering his electrifying touch, momentarily quenching my thirst.
Most of the city’s rivers and streams have dried up, coursing with poison, or are being guarded by renegade survivors—people you would be smart to stay clear of—making it impossible to locate fresh water.
I scan my surroundings, surveying the deserted, dilapidated city. Roads are broken and cars are rusted, enveloped with overgrown trees, weeds, and any other vegetation wanting to reclaim the land. I always thought it would take longer than a year to erase anything and everything the human race was once so proud of.
Tall, beautiful glass buildings are crumbling, the latest development in the downfall of society after the rough year of the Flash. Some are holding their ground, steel beams binding their bones, but missing their skin. Others still stand tall, dressed up in greenery. Either way, they all appear as if they belong in a graveyard, left abandoned by all the people who used to go about their daily lives in them.
The worst part is the skeletons and tattered clothing left behind by those who perished, laying bleached in the sun, some still holding remnants of hair and skin.
I gaze at myself in a broken window. How long has it been since I last saw my reflection?Pulling the hood off my head, I study my features. My hair brushes past my shoulder blades. The last time I attempted to cut it, I used a piece of broken glass I found on the ground. I almost severed one of my fingers, solidifying the decision to let it grow.
Light streams through the clouds, highlighting my long, blonde hair, making me think of shimmering wheat fields. Standing at five-two, I’m a slight thing. Not too short, yet not tall by anyone’s standards. I’ve always been slender, but since food has become scarce, my clothes hang off of me like rags. My green eyes sparkle like emeralds, the only thing I love about my appearance, and the one thing that continues to make me smile over these rough months.
Suddenly, my eyes lock onto seven men and two women who are standing behind me, smiling vindictively in the glass’s reflection, as if they appeared out of thin air. I turn to run, but they’re already surrounding me in a semi-circle, my back nearly against the wall. My breathing slams in and out of my lungs. My vision blurs, and I know I need to control myself.
“Go on, Ryan. You know what your choices are. Are you going to save her?” The man speaking tilts his head back and laughs, as if he’s said the funniest thing in the world.
It’s then my gaze darts to Ryan. The handsome man from a few days ago is standing among the group hindering my escape. He’s not much older than me—maybe eighteen to my sixteen—and possibly one of the best-looking guys I’ve ever seen. His brown hair flops into his bright blue eyes, his skin tanned and toned. It’s a body I remember well, inside and out.
When the stranger’s words finally register, I know something bad is about to happen. But before I can move, Ryan’s face changes from concerned and scared to fierce and determined. He advances, no trace of the man I know, and I watch in horror as his eyes devour me where I stand…
The shock of the memory causes me to bolt upright, my breath sawing in and out of my lungs at a burning rate. I glance over to check the tiny sleeping bundle next to me, waiting for her blankets to move up and down, checking that she’s still breathing before I wipe the cold sweat off of my forehead. The dream always has a way of igniting my adrenaline, even after years of repetition. A shaky breath passes my lips as my nerves settle, and I rest my hand on my little angel, reassuring myself again that it was a dream. Our post-flash world is completely insane. The end of the world has cursed most lives, but the apocalypse has given me the best part of mine.
A short while ago, I found a mirror. It’s cracked, but works well enough to study my features, as the rising sun gives me enough light to see my reflection. We resemble vagrants, people who struggle every day to survive. I used to dream about becoming something, someone. A veterinarian, maybe? I’ve always loved animals. Animals never judge you by your appearance or status in life. They love without prejudice.
Growing up in foster care lowered my self-esteem, pushing me to prove myself and show the world I wasn’t “foster scum,” as some kids called me. But none of that matters now. We’re all nobodies. The Flash saw to that.
After the bright light of the Flash lit the sky, most of the six and a half billion people on planet Earth dropped dead, or mutated and died. No one expected the events that unfolded. People were going about their daily lives shopping, working, and playing with their children. Most people–the lucky ones–dropped where they stood, as if someone had flipped the off switch on billions of lives.
The people who didn’t die became Infected. They survived only to endure a fate worse than death. They didn’t die immediately, taking a few weeks to deteriorate. Their deaths were unpleasant—normal one day, and then the next, their heads distort and their skin blisters. The sores grew, leaking puss from every crevice, resembling curdled milk.
To make matters worse, these effects began driving the Infected mad. They would brutalize people, terrorize towns, and set buildings on fire, even if they knew people were inside.Especiallyif people were inside. The Infected ran riotously through the streets harassing, killing, and beating any civilians they encountered. Their sole purpose was to kill and create chaos.
Now, years later, they no longer exist. A stage of the apocalypse I’m glad is over. The survivors, we’re immune. We may have endured the Flash and the Infected, but we had the privilege of watching everyone we loved around us perish in various degrees. I went on living as I did before the light in the sky ended everything. However, my surroundings are quite different. I never thought I would have to plan my futurewhen no future existed to plan.
Some Immune—which are becoming few and far between—turned to killing, robbing, raping, and even cannibalism to survive. It’s everyone for themselves. Once humanity thinned further, the Immune had to find an alternative way of life, doing whatever they had to do to survive. The future consists of only one motive, and that’s staying alive.
The news stayed on long enough for survivors to learn that the Flash was some sort of chemical weapon. Officials never released an official story relating to whether the weapon was ours or from another country, but at that point, it didn’t matter. The damage was irreversible; our entire world permanently altered.
They never proved the accuracy of the information transmitted about the Infected and the Immune. During that time, I was unaware that I was Immune. Each day expecting to wake up with bursting pustules covering my body or my mind slipping into utter chaos.
They delivered the news over a small span of time, and during each clip it was clear the news anchor became infected. Each additional clip showcased a new papule, highlighting the stages of infection. When it was apparent to the man that he was not Immune, he vowed to relay as much information as possible to the survivors before he perished. Sometimes I wonder what had befallen the anchor, hoping that he passed peacefully, and didn’t have to suffer from the madness that overtook so many.
The information he provided helped, explaining the estimation of people who had died, and the number of people who may have survived. Only a small percentage of the human population remaining were to be immune, but that estimation was before realizing that just because you lived through the initial Flash, didn’t mean you were immune. The correct number of immune, the people who suffered no side effects, is much lower.
I’m one of them.
I’ve always been a drifter, having no ties to one place for long. With no family to speak of, foster homes were my normal until I reached thirteen and ran away, and lied about my age to get a job.
When the Flash hit, I was doing well for myself. I worked at a drive-in movie theater and lived in a one-bedroom apartment in Milton-Freewater, Oregon. The apartment was nothing special, but it was mine. Now, making a living means nothing. Your primary objective turns to keeping yourself alive every second of the day.
Occasionally, you run across items that aren’t particularly useful, but somewhat helpful in normalizing post-apocalyptic life. Earlier this morning, I found a calendar from the year 2049, the year the world changed forever. I was fifteen. The calendar also held a section on the back that shows the next three years. Today is June 19th, meaning that my birthday is tomorrow, June 20th. Happy birthday to me. I’ll be nineteen years old.
Comparing my handmade calendar to the new pocket calendar, I’m satisfied to notice that my calculations of today’s date are correct. When I created my calendar, I remembered to add a leap year, guaranteeing the best accuracy. Useless information, but I hold on to those tidbits as if my life depends on them.
Our days consist of avoiding people—considerably easy, since most people are dead—searching for food and water, and making sure our stockpile is full enough to get us through a minimum of three days. The cushion of food sustains us for the day our searches come up empty.
