Hey there, whoever might be reading this. It’s hard to believe it’s been twelve years since the whole world went belly-up. Back then, I was just a fresh-faced college grad, living it up in the big city. Ambition coursing through my veins, dreams bigger than the skyscrapers that now stand as desolate husks. Little did I know, my biggest struggle wouldn’t be landing that dream job, but simply surviving the next sunrise.
It started with whispers, rumors of a new flu strain. Then, the news reports started rolling in, panic bleeding from every flickering screen. One minute, it was business as usual, the next, the streets were a cacophony of coughing and collapsing bodies. The city quickly turned into a warzone, desperation breeding violence. I barely escaped with the clothes on my back.
My only thought was to get out, to find somewhere safe. Memories are blurry, a constant scramble for food and shelter. Then, I stumbled upon a military checkpoint. Relief washed over me, a beacon of hope in the chaos. But that hope died fast. Overrun, the checkpoint was a macabre tableau of twisted metal and fallen soldiers. It was then the true horror sank in; there was no safe haven.
Days bled into weeks, weeks into months. Travel became a constant game of hide-and-seek with the infected, those grotesque parodies of humanity. Just when I was on the verge of giving up, I saw it – smoke rising from a distant clearing. Hope, once again, flickered in my chest.
The community was small, a ragtag bunch of survivors huddled together for safety. John, a gruff ex-marine with a heart of gold, led the group. He took me in without question, another soul clinging to the wreckage of the world. There was Sarah, the doctor with kind eyes and a steady hand, and young Maya, a spark of innocence in this brutal world. We were all broken, but together, we started to rebuild.
We cleared land, planted crops, learned to live off the land again. Days were filled with backbreaking labor, nights with shared stories and flickering firelight. Slowly, a sense of normalcy started to emerge. We weren’t just surviving; we were building a new life, a testament to the human spirit’s ability to endure. There were laughs, tears, and even a few awkward attempts at romance. This ragtag group became my family, the only solace in a world gone mad.
But the scars of the past wouldn’t stay buried forever. One night, they came. A horde of the infected, drawn by the scent of life. We fought, tooth and nail, defending our home with everything we had. John fell that night, his booming voice a fading echo amidst the screams. Sarah managed to patch me up, but the look in her eyes told a story of a hope extinguished.
We couldn’t hold them back. The community, our fragile haven, was lost. Sarah and Maya, I don’t know what became of them. Lost in the chaos, they might still be out there, or maybe… The thought hangs heavy in my heart, a constant ache.
That’s how I ended up here, back on the road, a lone survivor with a backpack full of memories and a heart full of scars. But here’s the thing, even after everything – the loss, the fear, the relentless struggle – there’s still a flicker of hope.
Twelve years in, the human spirit endures. Communities are rebuilding, research is pushing forward, some folks even possess these… mutations, gifts from the virus they say. The world may be broken, but it’s not over. We’re learning to adapt, to thrive in this harsh new reality.
This is my story, a testament to the resilience of humanity. To whoever finds this, remember, even in the darkest night, the sun will rise again. Don’t give up, keep fighting, keep building. This world may be scarred, but it’s ours to reclaim.