Adamina POV

One hundred and thirty-two days of solitude—that's how long I’ve been utterly alone. The world outside my small Ohio homestead fell to chaos five hundred and seventeen days ago when global conflict erupted for the last time, decimating populations and leaving swathes of land barren.

I was supposed to be a chef, training under some of the best in the state before everything collapsed. Now, I sustain myself with a modest garden, the same soil that fed my family—my grandparents, who passed two years ago, and my mother, whose life ebbed away just over four months back from a merciless illness I could do nothing to stop.

I’m one of the lucky ones, if you can even say that. As soon as word got out that America was joining the war I had a gut feeling. I jumped straight in my car, left the city and drove back home to my little hometown in Ohio.

That night, bombs filled the sky, destroying L.A., New York City and Houston. The world turned to violence, chaos and destruction long ago. While the world was on fire my family and I stayed out of view in the little farm house I grew up in. Woods surrounded us and hid us from the dystopia around us.

I had been training under one of the best chefs in Ohio before the war. I was able to sustain my grandparents, my mother and myself. My father died in a war when my mother was pregnant with me. My grandparents passed within months of each other two years ago. My mother passed from whatever sickness took over her body one hundred and thirty two days ago.

I had no way to save her. All I could do was watch her die. That broke me. To pass the long minutes of each day I tend to the small garden, my source of life. I contemplate letting it die and withering with it but I know my mother would ask me to continue. To be strong and look for a better tomorrow.

I dig my fingers into the dirt, ridding the plants of the weeds that threaten to choke them out just as the pain of solitude threatens to choke me. As dusk paints the sky in shades of fire, I pause, hands dirty, back aching, to gaze at a star burning brighter than the others. It moves—an orange streak cutting through the twilight, growing larger. The ground trembles as it crashes nearby, in the woods that have shielded me from the world’s end.

My feet take off before my brain can catch up. I race toward the fallen star like it is calling my name. I fumble in the darkening forest past branches and briars. branches scratching at my face, thorns catching my clothes. There, in a crater smoldering with alien heat, lies something unimaginable.

This is no star, but a vessel, sleek and otherworldly, far beyond any human engineering. Smoke curls into the twilight sky, stirring a mix of dread and awe within me. Cautiously, I approach, finding a window to peer through.

A man lies unconscious in the seat. I scramble around the smoking vessel. I look for a door but don’t find one. I take my garden shears from my pocket and race back to the window. The glass is compromised from the impact. With a few hits I think I can open it.

The glass gives but doesn’t shatter. I kick it in with my foot and climb into the foreign vehicle. There is a man in the seat, lying unconscious. He has a cut on his head. There is not much hair to obscure the nasty gash. He takes shallow breaths and I know he’s alive…for now. I have to get him out of here. I saw this thing fall from the sky and I know our rockets carry lots of dangerous fuel and this craft is likely the same.

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I use the shears to cut the seatbelt and wonder how I’m going to get him through the window. He is a very large man and I’m not sure I can lift him. He wears a military outfit in an olive color. The metals on his shoulders are written in a language I don’t recognize. He groans and his eyes attempt to flutter as I adjust him in the seat.

“Hang in there. I’m going to get you out of here.” I tell him but he doesn’t respond.

“Come on Big Guy. I need you to help me out.” He gives me no response. My blood pumps through my veins as the vessel creaks and groans. The adrenaline rush gives me the boost needed to drag him out the window.

"Stay with me," I whisper, though he cannot hear. Dragging him out is a feat of desperation; he is heavy, his body a dead weight as I pull him to safety just as flames begin to devour the craft.

We collapse under the safety of the trees, far from the blaze. My thigh burns—a wound from the glass—and my breath comes in ragged gasps. How will I ever get him back to my farmhouse? Then I remember the old mule, stubborn but strong enough to help.

I thank God my grandpa kept that stubborn old thing all this time. I complained at the fact it was another mouth to feed but now he’s an asset. I leave the Big Guy in his spot and sprint toward the fence, wincing with each step as my thigh throbs painfully. Despite the urgency, a part of me marvels at the surrealness of it all—a man from the stars, lying here, dependent on my aid. My world has been small, confined to survival and memories, but tonight, it has expanded into the cosmos, bringing with it a whirlwind of fear and wonder.

As I secure the mule to the wagon and load the stranger, his size more apparent now, I can't help but feel the first stirrings of something new—a curiosity, a flicker of excitement in the vast emptiness that my life had become.

I hastily grab some herbs to entice the old mule and hook him to the wagon, feeding and leading him through the darkening night.

Big Guy is still unconscious but I manage to drag him into the wagon. His legs are too tall and thick and hang over the side but it works. When we reach the farmhouse I am utterly exhausted, adrenaline wearing off. Still, I push through.

I assess the stranger and grab a first aid kit, cleaning his head wound and the abrasions from my not so graceful rescue. To my surprise none of the injuries are alarming. I assume he has a concussion but nothing else seems to be severely injured. I debated taking off his uniform to check for more injuries but I’m no doctor and it feels like I’m violating him so I decide to leave it.

As I look over the injury my eyes drift to the rest of him. This man has to be seven feet tall. His body doesn’t fit the full size bed at all. He has a military style haircut with a dark chocolate colored scruff on his face.

His biceps are so big I don’t think I could wrap my hands around them. He’s pretty human looking, just very large. Maybe they are injecting the men with steroids because he is massive.

I begin to panic. This man is not from America. What will he do to me? There is so much war and violence on the earth that he could easily take one of what’s left of the few women and hurt me. Even if he were from here I couldn’t trust him. These men are crazed with bloodshed. Still, as I look at him I can’t help but hope. I wonder if this stranger might be the key to understanding more than just the fate of my own desolate world, but perhaps the secrets of the cosmos itself. As his eyes flutter open, revealing sunset-colored irises, my heart skips—a sign that my world is about to change forever.

Just as I am finishing wrapping the head wound his eyes fly open and his hand grabs my wrist. I am frozen as I stare into sunset colored eyes. The irises are golden and fade into orange just like the sunset I watched hours ago. Black pupils are mismatched and I know he must have a concussion.

“Lizulu eli eli?”

I scream as the man grabs my arm.