NICK

The batteries in the radio were dead.

Not that it mattered. The signal had faded hours ago, with the sunrise. You stand with the small contraption in your hand, staring at it, wondering why the comforting static has faded with the pout of a small child on your lips.

The last reports weren't really reports at all. Frenzied voices of people trapped inside the radio station were the last thing to be transmitted. A running monologue of what was happening to them, giving way to frantic cries for help, and finally, screams. Behind the shrill cries you could just make out something more sinister; a low, harsh snarling sound.

You, along with the rest of the nation, had first heard that ominous noise three days before. They had attacked outward from the Atlantic Ocean, suddenly, without warning, and in both directions. The western coasts of Europe and Africa fell within hours; communications with the rest of the world was cut off mere minutes later. The entire army had been called to the Eastern Seaboard, managing to hold them off long enough for a few ragged bands of empty-eyed survivors to head west as fast as their feet could carry them and their horrible stories.

Your hand starts to shake and you rest it against your thigh, impatiently. You tell yourself that it's only fatigue, stress, adrenaline- anything to keep your mind off the real reason that you're trembling. You imagine yourself throwing the radio against the broken pavement and watching it shatter into a thousand pieces; instead you start walking. You can't bring yourself to kill that last link to civilization.

Their army- if that was what it was- had swarmed inland, killing everything they encountered as it went. Swift as a biblical plague imagined by someone with a penchant for writing horror stories, they reached Vegas two days later. The US Army and National Guard had regrouped in the desert just to the east, but had been pushed farther and farther back. About half of the city lay in infested ruins, and you skirt the edges as far away from them as you can get.

You don't particularly care. Stumbling over a loose bit of asphalt, you curse, but there are tears in your eyes and in your voice and it sounds half-hearted in the hazy light.

Where are they where are they where are they where- A single question loops over and over in your mind. Your family- your mother and father, your sisters, your brother, their children. You don't know if they got out while there was still time.

All you can do is hope, now. Hope and pray and stare at the cars you pass, wondering if you're insane enough to try to drive into Texas to find them. You know that it would be easy to get in- getting out would be the impossible part. And what if they… if they…

You're not going to let yourself think about it. You won't replace the faces of the bodies in your path with those of your loved ones. They had a shot. Not the best one, but a chance. Maybe, just maybe they made it to the Gulf. Dad was smart. Dad had a boat.

Dad has a boat Dad has a boat Dad has a boat Dad- It's a better refrain than a pointless inquiry. A period at the end of a sentence being that much more beautiful than a question mark.

You've been walking around, almost senselessly, for hours, and your legs are finally starting to speak up against this in protest. Your stomach seconds them, complaining about the last time it got any nourishment. You can't really remember, and you sit down on a bench to figure it out.

There's something ironic about sitting on a bench in the midst of a ruined city. Its metallic green paint was perfect; not a scratch or a chip to be seen. You laugh and shake your head.

It shouldn't really be that funny, and you think that you must have finally lost it.

A sudden noise cuts through your laughter, and you look down the street. It's a normal noise, so normal that it's exquisitely out of place. The revving of a car engine, and the slow crunch of tires rolling over rubble. Through the drifting smoke you can just make out a black SUV heading toward you.

Last ship out, you think, telling your tired legs to shut the hell up as you climb to your feet.

After an agonizingly slow approach, the driver's window rolls down.

"Need a lift?"

The voice is slow, rolling, joking with you, and you can feel the happiness radiating from the driver. Briefly you wonder if there is indeed a God- a fact you had been seriously doubting the last couple of days- and it he was finally giving you a small hint of a smile.

"You know what, Greg? I think I do."