A/N: I don't know. I just… I needed to. I swear, it's just a one-shot, if someone wants to continue it, just message me.
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It came in the middle of the summer. In the middle of the night. It wiped out the town, the state, the country, the continent.
It wiped out the world.
There was no defense, no remedy that they knew of. There was only death and destruction—
And Them.
They deserved the capitalization, as the pronoun was the only real name the people had for Them. They swept through immediately following the destruction, feeding on the remnants and making sure to take out all survivors. No one who had survived the first wave could survive the second.
And there was always a second.
It took only a week for the world's end to come. No one expected it, no one was ready. No one could save themselves.
No one survived.
No one, save for one.
No one... except me.
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I barely felt the recoil any more, all too used to firing the assault riffle in my hands. I was lucky to have even found it, especially after I had discovered that the blasters I'd had at the beginning were of no use. Not even ecto-blasts could take these things down. In fact, if I didn't know better, I'd say They fed off ectoplasm just as much as They fed off the dead, decaying flesh of the bodies that littered the streets. Of course, I did know better, and I knew my theory was true.
I'd caught Them feeding before, tried to stop Them so I could maybe, maybe bury some of the dead as had become my self-appointed job in the past two years. Of course, it was always easy to find bodies to bury, but getting close enough was a different matter entirely.
Not to say I'm squeamish or anything, but after two years left to rot, even the strongest stomach would lose to the stench.
And it was everywhere. No escape even out in the less-inhabited countryside, since rural areas just meant dead animals rather than people. And no less of Them to fight off the bodies.
It had become a daily routine. Find bodies, kill Them, bury bodies. Lather, rinse, repeat. Day in and day out, I had no respite, barely enough time to eat and sleep before waking to do it all over again. I had learned early on how to survive on half a meal a day and maybe six or seven hours of sleep each week. Less, if I happened to run across one of Their hotspots.
And not even my ghost powers could stall Them. Sure, I had tried in the beginning, nearly died trying, before the last ghost in existence managed to hold Them off long enough to get me out of there.
Of course, this had been five months after the initial attack, and I'd lost hope of ever seeing anyone again, so my blood- and oxygen-starved mind decided this meant I was hallucinating the person, even as she bent to wrap my wounds.
"Geez, dipstick, you really got worked over."
I blinked up at her, slowly, not quite taking in the glowing green eyes or flaming blue hair as I relaxed on the ground. Obviously, I'd finally died and this was some sort of karma for fighting all the ghosts off when I was living. Oh, dead half-ghost? Let's send one of his enemies to pick him up! Haha, won't that be so funny?
Yeah, no.
"C'mon, kid, you've gotta get up before They come back!"
I was so out of practice speaking that I didn't even bother to respond.
Which apparently annoyed her. "Dipstick," she growled, "we've gotta go, or They'll just come back and kill you!"
But what was the point? Everyone else was already dead.
"Maybe, maybe not," she answered, and I realized I actually had spoken to her.
Huh, didn't remember saying that.
"You didn't, kid, you're projecting your thoughts."
I blinked. Telepathy?
"Apparently. That new or something?"
Far as I know, I thought back with a shrug.
"You don't have to narrate, y'know."
I stared blankly at her for a moment, wondering why on earth she thought I was narrating.
"Because you are. You've lost that little filter between your brain and your mouth that keeps you from saying every little thing you're thinking."
Wow, okay, that's kinda weird, but I guess it explains things, seeing as I was probably going crazy, anyway, so why not go the whole ten yards? Or was it nine yards? I dunno, I've forgotten most of those old clichés—
"Sheesh, kid, you'd better learn to stop just spouting. It's a wonder They haven't circled back to kill us yet, what with you jabbering away." She rolled her eyes at me, cocking some huge shotgun I hadn't previously noticed her carrying.
But, you said this was telepathy, right?
She glanced at me, confused. "Uh, yeah, why?"
Then they can't hear me. Telepathy requires a connection between two minds. All of Them, well, the ones that still have brains, they don't function. No brain, no mind, no hearing telepathy.
One of her eyebrows raised. I'd managed to impress her. "For someone bleeding half to death, you're oddly coherent."
I think I chuckled, or at least, I did mentally. I always did think best under life-and-death situations….
"Then that's good news. Daily life is life-or-death now."
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For three months, the two of us survived together. She didn't really understand why I'd made it my job to bury the bodies, but she wouldn't refuse to help me. For the most part, this meant she'd keep watch while I made and filled graves.
But, as I'd come to learn all too well, all good things come to an end.
It started with silence. We were all too used to the sound, having heard nothing but it or my shovel scraping up dirt for months, not to mention the occasional gunshot. As such, neither of us thought much of it until she suddenly stood up.
What is it?
"Shh," she said unnecessarily.
I rolled my eyes. Seriously? You're gonna shush me?
She blushed. "Right, sorry." Then she shook her head. "But we've gotta be quiet. I thought I heard something."
You know how you're watching a horror movie and you just know something bad's about to happen, then a character says something like What was that? or Did you hear something? right before the monster comes out and kills them?
I think you know where I'm going here.
We should go.
"Shhh!" she hissed.
No, seriously, something's not—
"Shut it, dipstick, or I'll—"
I never learned what she would've done to me. She was just suddenly underneath a pile of Them, her shotgun flying off into the distance, completely useless to her.
And my theory about Them feeding off of ectoplasm? It was true. As They ate her away, her screams slowly dying out before being cut off altogether, They grew, the ectoplasm bleeding through Them, giving Them a strength They definitely did not need.
Then, They noticed me.
My eyes went wide, and for a moment, I was frozen as about twenty of Them, all hyped up on ectoplasm from my last remaining friend, turned to stare at me.
I did the only thing I could think of.
I dove for the shotgun before rocketing up into the air, barely able to keep afloat from the oppressive pressure that had come when the first attack hit. It was one of the reasons I never flew any more, because it had gotten just so damn hard. Flying was supposed to be easy, relaxing.
Now, it was a struggle to remain just ten feet up.
But I took advantage of the height, leveling the gun at Them and slowly picking Them off, one by one, two or three shots each. Once They'd all gone down, I floated down another few feet and emptied the rest of the round into Them, then reloading and emptying that round, as well.
Just in case.
That done, I finally looked over to my last friend, seeing her battered body lying in the dirt. I glanced at the grave I'd been digging, and, ignoring the body that originally was destined for the hole, put her in instead. Then, I covered her with the freshly-dug dirt, patting it down at the top and digging around in the dirt nearby for enough rocks to spell out her name.
Everyone else may be gone, but I'd always remember her name.
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A/N: Yeah, I've got no clue. Again, if you'd like to continue this, just ask first. Kaythanksbye.