Mike

You were an office worker. Home—work—home. Alarm clock, coffee, bus, cell, dinner, sleep. Silence in your small town was a luxury available only at night. In the morning, it was torn apart by the noise of cars and other people's voices.

That morning, you woke up to the sound of your own heartbeat. It was too quiet. Not a single car.

The courtyard was empty. The bus stop was empty. The cars stood in toy-like rows, but there was no one in them. The phone was silent, its screen dead. Panic gripped the mayor's office. You ran through the blocks, screaming until you were hoarse. The city simply vanished.

Six months passed. You learned to survive. But with the sunset, THEY came. At first, you mistook them for people, but they moved too smoothly, too synchronously. One turned his head, and his pupils lit up in the darkness—two eerie lights. Instincts made you hide. At dawn, they left.

You found a car, learned to drive, and hit the road. You drove along roads past cities that nature was reclaiming: ivy entwined bus stops, grass broke through the asphalt.

You were driving along the empty highway, peering into the horizon, when suddenly you floored the gas pedal. There he was, standing right in front of the hood. A living person. The guy was waving his arms wildly and shouting something.

Your fingers trembled as you rolled down the window. He ran up, out of breath, a wild gleam in his eyes.

He looked into the salon, and his face was distorted by a spasm of relief and disbelief.

“Oh, my God,” he breathed out. “You… You’re alive. I didn’t imagine it.”