When the end of the world came, there were over sixty different psychological operations being run on the public by dozens of government factions, so even though I’m living this nightmare, I couldn’t tell you what’s happening. Did aliens attack? Did we start throwing nukes at each other? Did GameStop crash the global stock market and end any pretence of civility between the nations?

Yes. All of the above. Or none of it. Believe what you want.

At the moment, I don’t care why it happened. All I know is that my supplies have been stolen by a pack of genetic deviants. I don’t like coming to the city, but I can’t let this go. I’m dead without my stuff. I’m currently running down the middle of the street as fast as I can on a bad leg. The sun is behind a wall of brooding clouds and a fine layer of dust covers the cracked windows of highrise apartments. It almost looks like snowfall, but it’s from chem-bombs. That’s why I’m wearing a gas mask, if you were wondering.

Cold wind drags paper and dust through the streets, but despite my thick jacket, I’m burning up, and my gas mask is fogged over. I don’t have any bras that fit, my back is killing me - I’m as miserable as I’ve ever been.

The sudden clap of laughter followed by the clatter of what might be cooking pans stops me in my tracks. You might think that I would be scared. I’m not. Even my exhaustion disappears as I grip the rifle hanging from my shoulder. My fingers hurt despite my gloves, but I feel only a primal sense of anticipation.

Are they cooking my food? I turn in the direction of the laughter and make my way through a wide fountain square before a Barabbas Bank occupying the first floor of a darkened skyscraper. I wind through a sea of tents, some made of cheap plastic tarps held up by benches. Don’t worry, nobody’s in those tents. The entire square is covered in a thick layer of dust, so the inhabitants are either dead, or they cleared out after an airborne attack.

Just as I pass under the shadow of a Blaqq Qube statue, a silent ship enters the avenue to my left. I freeze. It’s a perfect sphere with a roving square of light hovering just off the surface. Like all airships used by rogue militaries, it makes no sound as it scans the avenue. It’s eerie, and while I stand like a part of the Blaqq Qube sculpture, my heart hammers against my ribs.

Will I be taken to some underground facility? Tested for genetic infirmities, like so many who have disappeared?

The ship’s panel of light suddenly turns orange, then whirls off to the side. The ship takes off, scattering dust as it flees. I watch as two small, black orbs race after it. Most likely drones from a rival military group. I exhale a breath I’ve been holding, fogging up my visor. Despite the need to catch the thieves who took my supplies, I have to sit down. My hands are shaking and I feel sick.

Alright, I need to tell you something. You might end up here sooner than you think, and believe me, you don’t want to see what I’ve seen without some kind of warning. The thing is, I don’t come from some high tech future. I grew up seeing helicopters, airplanes, the same stuff you see. But when the lights went out and the shelves went empty, the militaries, the rogue intelligence agencies, or whatever they were, brought out all their fancy gadgets. I ran into one of them, and I don’t ever want to go through that again.

It happened one night when I was in the park in my neighborhood - stupid, I know, but I still lived in town back then. I heard men shouting, and something like animals squealing. I hid behind a tree with my mouth hanging open as soldiers in black uniforms piled out of a big steel orb hovering a foot off the ground. Through a hole in the orb, I could see more soldiers walking around, in their strange black uniforms.

I was already scared, but my blood ran cold as a group of uniformed children dragged a body up to the soldiers. A soldier stalked over and examined the body with some kind of scanner.

“Finally, some decent genes!” he shouted. “Alright, we can use this one. Get him inside.”

I swear, this is going to sound made up, but the children all did a little hopping dance before dragging the body to the ship. As the light from the ship’s open doorway hit them, I saw their odd faces. Were they not fully human? They were blinking their big eyes, and they had receding hairlines and wide, thin ears, with veins visible in the light. One of them approached a soldier and squeaked at him, and the soldier jerked his hand away before the creature could touch him.

“Yeah, you did fine!” he snapped. “He said so, didn’t he? Just get in the ship. Go on. Go!”

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They were not children, but chimeras. I watched the genetically engineered slaves struggle to load the body into the ship. The final one received a kick on the behind as it pulled itself over the rim. I craned my head to look inside the ship again, and was surprised to see a long hallway extending way, way back, with doors on either side. At the time, I couldn’t comprehend how a ship the size of a garage could have something like an entire office building inside of it. Now I know it was just a non-Euclidian structure. But, never mind - you’ll find out about that stuff in a few years.

I pull myself out of the daydream as I calm down. Did that really happen? It seems so bizarre, even considering everything I’ve been through. Anyway, I’m alone again, sitting under the Blaqq Qube. I rub circulation back into my bad leg, then force myself up.

Then, I hear it - they’re laughing again. It’s the people who stole my food! I take off once again, feeling high as I listen to the sound of conversation echoing through a narrow, dust-choked alley. Even through my filters I smell roasting meat. They almost sound like a family setting down for dinner. Are they bragging about all the food they’ve stolen? Do they care that they’re killing someone by taking what isn’t theirs?

I slow down as the alleyway opens onto a shopping center, where posters of smiling, clean faces are tacked onto broken glass, and burned out storefronts crowd together, like a mass grave into which the modern world has been dumped. I crouch at the opening to the avenue and watch a man, a woman, a child, and a young man gather around a possum roasting on a steel spit suspended over an open car trunk. Spotting bags lying nearby, I know I’ve found what I’m looking for.

The older man turns to the child and says something, and I realize that he looks like a Marvel superhero. Sorry, I no longer remember their names. He is wearing a FAMEs mask. They all are. Despite their ragged clothing, the entire family wears black masks which are screens projecting the faces and voices of celebrities. The woman’s mask shows Taylor Swift smiling, laughing politely. The child’s mask displays some anime character giving the others a stern expression.

I ignore the urge to stare at the beautiful faces, and aim down the sights of my rifle. The fear and worry disappear down a deep tube leading far away from me, and I become an animal going through the motions of some trick it has been taught. I keep my breathing steady as I check the safety. My eyes lock on the gun at the young man’s hip, and I turn the rifle in his direction. I center the iron sights on the back of his head. I inhale, then hold the breath.

My finger slowly caresses the trigger. The young man turns, and for a moment I see Conan O’Brien looking in my direction. The rifle jerks in my hand and in a blast of violence the mask shatters and brains spill across the car. Taylor Swift screams, then the Marvel superhero sees me.

“Monster, monster!” he shouts. He grabs the small child like a sack and tears off across the avenue. I chamber another round, feeling an inordinate amount of satisfaction as Taylor Swift tries to run, stumbles into the car, then falls over. As she struggles to rise I shouldered the rifle and fire. The bullet crashes into her side. Seeing her jacket balloon from the impact, I know the round has pulverized ribs and organs.

I’m deaf from the gunfire, but seeing no one else, I force myself up and limp over to my bags. I make an involuntary sound, like a whimper of joy. The woman is dead, but her mask still works, and Taylor Swift looks up at me. Though her expression is neutral due to her user being dead, I imagined she looks at me with disapproval.

Glancing at the young man’s shattered mask, my eyes immediately fall on his necklace. Still angry from what they made me do, I snatch the necklace off his neck and look it over. It’s a heart-shaped locket. Though my fingers hurt, and it’s difficult to handle with my gloves, I pry it open.

A young man and woman gaze at me through the yellow haze of a holophoto. The woman leans into the man, and he glances over at her with a smile before the recording loops. I stare at the couple, struggling with a deep-seated envy that is painful to acknowledge.

No, wait. It isn’t envy. With a start, I realize the woman in the holophoto is me! Yes, that’s it! And the man in the holophoto? He is my lost love, kidnapped by scavengers long ago. My heart aches to see him again. I pass my fingers through the hologram, involuntarily snuffling as the memories of better times take shape, becoming more real.

Look, I know this is sudden. Perhaps I should have explained it earlier. But I try not to think about it. Alright? But these people who stole my stuff, they also happened to kidnap my… no, wait. Wait. Those bags, my stuff? Okay, honestly, I’ve never seen these bags before in my life. But I’ll take them all the same. These people owe me, because they either kidnapped my boyfriend - husband? No, boyfriend - or they associated with the people who did. And that’s why I did what I did. I have to find him.

I have to put my life back together. My life with him!

As I enjoy the new memory, I pace around the encampment. I feel high, like I’ve accomplished something incredible. I feel like doing this thing… it’s hard to explain. I snap the locket shut and carefully place it in my pocket, then I pull off my gloves. I hiss as cloth tears away from skin. Then I pull off my gas mask, making sure not to bang my proboscis against the sides. I chitter involuntarily as I climb atop the car where the possum is cooking.

Maybe it isn’t so smart, breathing in all the dust, which can get in your system and change you in all kinds of ways. But at the moment, I don’t really care. I stand on the hood and bounce the car, then I call out. It is the mournful cry of an animal. It’s something that I have to do occasionally. Perhaps I cry out to others like me.

But… I don’t think there is anyone else like me.

THE END