The world was over. Streets were vacant. Cars abandoned. Homes were left open; its heart destroyed. A child's bike laid on one side, and its wheels still spun slowly around and around. All life was gone, and hollow footsteps slipped across concrete. The end was met with soft, brown eyes.

A bloody hand cautiously touched the golden doorknob. The door was slowly pushed open. Debris met the wandering gaze, and sunlight chased shadows away. Fingers traced the door, trying to remember, but instead left a fingerprint behind. A slumped form stumbled inside, and knees struck the floor. And time fell away.

He must have been lying there for hours. The sun was hot on his skin, but then it moved away. The wind rustled through his hair, and pain screeched across his body. His arm hurt the most, covered in blood, and it took every ounce of strength to rise off the floor. His eyes returned to the world, but the world was gone. There was no sign of life. Maybe he was the last man standing after all.

The kitchen was a wreck. Signs of a struggle met his gaze. The window was shattered. The table was smashed. The sink was clear, but hardly any water ran out across the drain. It was just enough to wash some blood away, and hands rose to a rugged face, a face unknown to him.

"Aztecs and Mayans," he muttered. "Aztecs and Mayans."

It was a strange thought. Their civilizations were gone, and historians struggled to know exactly why. But maybe that was what had happened here. Maybe mankind just disappeared. If that were the case, why was he left behind? Was it punishment for something that he did, or did they forget about him? If only he could remember, but no memories returned to him. Instead, he clung to the sink, wishing to know how he came to be here.

It didn't matter. He had to keep moving. He wasn't sure as to why, but every nerve in his body tightened with the sense of danger. Something wasn't right, and he couldn't afford to stay too long. His stomach rumbled, and he opened the fridge, hoping to find food. All he found were crackers left in a cabinet, and it would have to do. Maybe, if he was lucky, he would find more food and shelter down the road, and if he didn't, he would have to go hunting. Maybe the wildlife was still alive and well, and nature was the one taking back the world.

More time slipped past. The pain in his arm became a dull throb. His head was clear, and it wasn't. His mouth was dry, and his eyes stung. Maybe he should've died. Maybe he should've disappeared. This wasn't living but living as the walking dead, and he desperately wanted answers. Instead, all he had was a long, empty road filled with abandoned cars, debris, and maybe even a dead body or two, and the dead would not talk to him. Their charred remains were more ash than bone, and their secrets were theirs to keep.

Metal scratched earth. The hair on his neck and arms waved into the air. Eyes fell across his back. His body slowly turned. He half-expected to see some sort of monster, alien standing behind him, but all he saw was a little boy half out of a man hole not far down the road. He wanted to say something, but his body lurched forward, desperate for human contact. But he noted the horrified look on the boy's face, but he couldn't stop himself. And he fell forward into the manhole, chasing the boy.

"Wait," he whispered. "Wait. Please." The boy ran further down the tunnel. "Son…" Son? Was he a father? Did he have a son? "Please, I need to know. I need to know who I am."

Footsteps fell behind him. He froze mid-step. Fear and relief overwhelmed him. He was not the last man standing. There was still life. There was still hope, and he smiled at that. He smiled as something came crashing down against the back of his head.

Was it night or day? Who could tell when you were underground. His body recognized the comfort of a bed, so they had not cast him aside like before. He was not left behind, wandering alone, and the pain in his arm was gone, bandaged. His head hurt like hell, but he tried to rise. Instead, a sharp, old hand fell against his chest.

"Rest," she snapped. "Rest."

"No," he whispered. "I have to know. I have to know." He fell back down against the mattress. "Please. Tell me."

"Tell you what?"

"Who am I?" The old woman moved into view. She hovered over him with a penetrating light shining into his eyes. "What happened to the world?"

"Don't you know?" He shook his head. "They came."

"They? Who?"

"The aliens. What the hell happened to you?"

"I don't know." She moved away from him, but he grabbed her by the arm. "I'm sorry." He let go of her. "You said the aliens?"

"Yes." She sat back down next to him. "We were invaded, and most of us were wiped out." She gnawed on her lip. "The rest of us took shelter underground."

"Under the ground?"

"Yeah. Many of the bridges and railroads have tunnel systems, and they intersect across a lot of major cities."

"Like the Underground Railroad in the nineteenth century, where black slaves used it as safe houses and secret routes."

"You some kind of professor of history?"

"I don't know." He struggled to sit up. "I wish I knew."

"Rest." She pushed him back down against the mattress. "You took quite a hit to the back of your head."

"Lady." A short, bearded man appeared behind her. "Don't talk to him. He could be a traitor or a damn fool, or both."

"Take it easy, Kenny." She moved away from the man lying on the cot. "He doesn't even know who he is." She now stood before the other man. "It's definitely trauma, but I'm not sure as to what kind."

"We should've left him in the tunnel. He could be one of theirs," Kenny hissed. "They don't know that we're down here, but if they find out, what's to stop them from dropping a nuke over our heads?"

"Kenny…"

"Let me kill him, Lady. He could be the enemy."

"He's not harnessed, Kenny. He's not the enemy." Her sharp, blue eyes held his brown-eyed gaze. "He needs help."

"Lady, we have too much at stake. There are too many of us down here for the picking." Kenny glared at the man, who now watched him intently. "Let me move our people down the tunnel to a safer location away from him. Just until we know for sure. Please, lady, give the order." She gnawed on her lip. "We have children down here, and they want our kids for whatever damn reason. Lady, my son is here."

"Son?" The man struggled to sit up. "Son."

"Yeah, the boy that you scared? He was my son." Kenny stepped closer. He studied the man's face. "Do you have a son?" His voice softened. "Is that why you ran toward him like you did?"

"I… I think so. I just don't remember." He fell back against the mattress. "I don't remember." Tears stung his eyes. "I wish I did."

"We can't move everyone, Kenny. We still have wounded, so move who you can including your son." Lady touched Kenny's shoulder. "I'll stay behind."

"Lady." Kenny turned toward her. "We need you."

"I'll be fine." She smiled, a smile that lit the wrinkles below her eyes. "He's not the enemy. He's just a causality like him."

He thought he was the only one lying wounded on the cot. A few rows over, there was a soldier barely breathing. His left leg was gone, and his right arm was badly burned. The man struggled to return his gaze, but his breathing was ragged, sharp. His head was bandaged, and his face was tear-stained.

"What happened to him?"

"They happened to him. They wiped out his whole unit, but it's a miracle that he lived." Kenny led Lady away from him. "I don't like this. Something doesn't feel right about him."

"Keep two of your men behind, but take everyone else. Go, Kenny. Go now, in case you are right." She gingerly kissed him on the cheek. "I leave our people in good hands."

We're at war. The thought brought a chill right down his spine. We're at war. We're fighting for survival because the aliens had won, and if any of our soldiers were still alive, they would be like the poor bastard lying on the bed a few feet away. One thing was for certain. He was not the enemy, but was he a traitor? Was that why he couldn't remember? What did the aliens do to him? That thought chased him down into a long, dark spiral of oblivion.