They're right all along.

The people at the camp are what's left of the human race.

Or, at least, that's what this journey is leading me to believe.

I have been running for hours now and have probably covered a few miles, but I have never once seen a live human being—or any living creature, for that matter. Plants, animals, insects, roaches, nothing.

All there is are wrecked houses and establishments, broken roads, a shitload of garbage and a few corpses in varying states of decay. The epitome of dystopia.

But there's no turning back now. If I go back there, I'm a dead man. I know how syndicates are with their prisoners escaping; I've watched enough television to be able to tell this. President Moore probably has the camp's best rangers looking for me with a handsome reward—promotion to general status or something—over my head.

He's a good president, sure—perhaps, the best America has ever had in all of its history—and an overall good guy. But, if there's another thing television has taught me, it's that desperation for survival brings out the worst in people.

As I come to think about it, I'm not even sure what he intends to get out of me. Definitely not ransom money, as that isn't even a commodity anymore. I also can't possibly be a hostage from a rival mob, since my alliances and my penchant for mischief have all been a thing of the past. Perhaps, as a slave to exploit in forced labor? Not if I have something to do about it. And even if I'd agree, I'm not sure how I can be of any help, anyway.

I'm just a lanky seventeen—no, twenty—year-old who knows nothing about wielding weapons other than my fist, so I can't be one of the camp's muscles like Brad is. I definitely have no background in medicine or agriculture, so nursing like Peyton and farming like Cora aren't options. Moreover, they already have a leader in President Moore, so there's no seat for me at the table. Or anywhere else.

So, what could I be? A freeloader like what Alexander is? I, unfortunately, don't have the last name—or the conscience—for it.

And it can't be altruism and call of service, right? You know, because he's the president and it is his duty to reach out and help the citizens? Or to rephrase it into a more appealing campaign, because he has the purest soul whose main passion lies in saving lives? An all-around do-gooder, for short?

That's pure bull.

There's no need for politics and public relations here. It is nonsense if there aren't any press to write these things anymore or surveys to keep tabs on the citizens' presidential trust and confidence. And to what end? So he can get re-elected on the next elections?

If they're right, then this is anarchy, and I see no reason for this changing anytime soon. Maybe not even in this lifetime. Democracy, as we know it, is nothing but a concept of history. His aspirations of ever returning to that pedestal might as well be put to rest, along with 99.9% percent of humanity.

Although I may not be able to pinpoint what exactly, it's obvious that they have an ulterior motive for adopting me. And that's what scares me.

Peyton even said that they were running out of supplies to feed everyone for at least another year and that the produce from their attempts at growing crops on what seems like poisoned soil is insufficient. So, I don't understand why he would dare add another mouth of a non-contributing, paralyzed person to feed? Just so they could turn me into jerky whenever they're all sick of their vegan diet?

No thanks.

I'd rather die of starvation, than die in service of others suffering the same.

Solitary living in this wasteland may be a gamble, but it's one that's worth taking. I may not know a thing or two about survival, besides a few tricks I have picked up from watching all nine seasons of The Walking Dead, but I have to try. Who says I can't learn from experience? I'd figure out a way around this harsh environment on my own, even if it kills me.

So, ever since I realized that I can already move during my second waking day at the camp, I started planning out my escape. I snuck out in the middle of that night, while all of them were sleeping, and have never stopped running since.

Okay, maybe I take a short pause every fifteen minutes to gasp for air and drink water from my stolen tumbler, but simply put, all I've been up to for hours is trying to get away from them, shady people.

Maybe I'm overthinking things, and they all are actually nice, well-meaning people—except for that Alexander guy and his cronies, all three of them are hopeless—but I just can't seem to completely trust them, not if they're withholding so much information.

Fine, I'm withholding a few of my own but never at their expense or their loved ones'. I can give them my real name and crazy story any time, but I doubt they will ever reveal any of their secrets in exchange.

They've all been casually mentioning the Shatters, the Vessel, the Antes, the Centrum and all these shit like they're public knowledge, but none of them could have the balls to explain them to a neophyte like me.

They keep appeasing me with the promise that I would be told everything in the right time, but I can't spend forever waiting in the wings for some hand-me-down information, not with the possibility of finding my mom, Lola and Wendy growing leaner by the day; I reckon to just discover them myself, whatever it takes.

Now, I sit here on the sidewalk, in front of what happens to be a coffee shop back in the day to take my two-minute water and toilet break.

The establishment is unrecognizable, though, as most of its facade has crumbled down into a mountain of debris. The only indication of it being such is the menu board containing a list of beverages and dessert still attached to one of the walls.

I rummaged the place a few minutes ago for anything to eat, but I found nothing. Not even drinking water. Hence, whatever's left in this tumbler will have to do.

After slurping the last drop of my water supply, I get up and start running again.

The sun is already stalling above, and the temperature has climbed, like, a dozen degrees since I started my journey to nowhere, so it's safe to assume that it's probably somewhere between ten and eleven in the morning.

It's weird, because I've never experienced an autumn morning this hot before the coma. Especially not in Indiana.

Whatever happened in this once precious planet has fucked up not only its flora and fauna but the climate as well.

Now, I'm dripping in sweat like there's a shower fixated above me that just won't stop, you know, showering.

Sure, I had been running, and science or anatomy would tell me that this is my body's way of cooling itself down after generating heat from burning some calories I'm not sure I have. But I'm used to having my morning jog every day since I joined football in sophomore year, and I've never perspired this much.

If I'm to believe what I've been told, the month is already November, a time when the forthcoming winter is already hinted in the atmosphere at Stephens—my close-knit hometown where everybody knows everybody and being in somebody else's business is like second nature—and we're only in Fort Wayne, which happens to be the closest city.

I can do this.

A few more sprints and, well, the necessary tolerance of the sun's pulsing rays, and I'm back to where I should be, regardless of how hellish my life there has become.

As I slow down to a stroll, after realizing that there's no way President Moore's troops will catch up to me now, I hear a series of clacks and crunches from the gas station that's on the side of the road.

Finally, some humans!

Or if that's too optimistic, maybe some animal will do—at least, something to prove that there's still life beyond the camp.

Examining the area, I notice how it appears to have fared far better than most of what I have seen so far. The freestanding signage still stands, despite the led price monitor no longer working. The roof and the eight poles supporting it are also intact. Moreover, all four fuel dispensers—two on each lane—seem unharmed, aside from the fact that they're coated with dust and some of the nozzles are left lying on the ground.

There aren't any humans in sight, however. The noise of what seemed to be heavy objects falling have also died down.

Maybe those were all wishful thinking. Maybe I'm just imagining things. Maybe my brain's conjuring up these false stimuli to convince me that I've been lied to by those people from camp, to justify my reason for leaving.

Maybe they were never lying to me, after all.

Maybe I'm doing the wrong thing.

Before I could start running again, the same sound hinders me. This time, it's from inside the convenience store at the back of the gas station.

Going into the decrepit establishment with shattered glass doors and windows to check on the source of the sound, I'm disappointed to just see the mess the creature left in its wake: a bunch of knocked over racks and some opened, half-consumed cans of expired goods over the layer of thick, hardened mud that's covering the store floor.

Still, that's a good sign though. An indication of life.

Taking this opportunity, I roam the area to pick up a few items I could find some use for: a pocket knife, a cigarette lighter, a yard or two of rope, among others. Unfortunately, there aren't any food items with expiration dates that are less than a year ago.

As I walk back to the exit, a silhouette of what seems to be a man emerges near the doors, startling the crap out of me.

"Oh, hello there, Mr. Man," I greet, struggling to act all cool and relaxed. "It's nice to have another human being here—you know, other than myself."

He utters no reply nor makes any movement.

Perhaps, he didn't hear me? I ask myself. Perhaps, I wasn't very clear, what with my voice shaking?

"How can I help you, sir?" I louden my utterance and take a few steps forward.

He's just standing there, as if thwarting my way out.

"Uh, do you like own this place?" I ask him, trying to talk my way out of this tense situation. "Look, I'm sorry. I didn't know this is somebody's territory. I'll just return these things back and make my way out, okay?"

He grunts in response.

Not wanting to get into trouble, I drop everything on the counter and raise both hands up. I lurch towards the doors, hunched over and eyes fixed on his massive shadow on the ground. I stop about a meter in front of him and drag my gaze back to eye level, meeting his veiny neck. "Okay, man, I'm leaving now. Let me pass."

Yet, he won't budge.

My gaze creeps to his mug. It's hard to tell what he's thinking since I can barely see his facial expressions in this mid-darkness. Only his bared pearly whites.

"Sorry again for breaking in." I inch closer. "Won't happen again. Promise."

He moves a little to the side to make way for me before pulling out something from his pocket and raising it up overhead. Despite the poor lighting coming from the doors, I can pretty much distinguish what he was holding up.

A knife.

The same as the one I was holding a while ago.

The only difference is that crimson stain on the blade.

Oh, crap.

Just my luck.

He draws the weapon backward. He lifts a foot and lets it fall to the surface with a thump before lifting the other. He pulls out another knife from his back as he charges a few more steps, his pace picking up and the sounds he makes quieting like a ninja in the dark.

Of all the men I could possibly meet, fate brings me this... psycho.

Okay, I guess, this shall then be known, going forward, as the battle of the psychos.

I hope not the one where the fake psycho dies.

Not my lucky day, though, since the real one is obviously more experienced in this department, as he creeps forward like a masked serial killer in those classic slasher films, while I can only manage to scuff backward, my breathing heavy and my heartbeat going turbo. To make matters worse, it dawns on me how in each of those movies, the men usually perish. The final girl trope, as they call it.

Nevertheless, I refuse to let the odds dictate my fate. I have to put up a fight.

The slow chase goes on, until I trip on some of the scattered cans and find myself sprawled on the mud floor.

Shit.

I can't be going off like this. Now's not my time.

Spotting one of the cans within reach, I pick it up and throw it at him. The projectile hits him in the eye, yet he appears unfazed by the impact. I grab a few more and fling the same, the target still invulnerable. With nothing else to throw, I crawl back, my fingernails digging through the dirt. I attain a good distance from him, before hitting one of the racks.

Double shit.

Cornered, with him ready to lunge at me, I'm forced to just close my eyes and await my inevitable death.

Praying.

Even though I don't go to church or believe in any higher being, for that matter.

A few, long, strained seconds pass, with me hearing nothing but my appeal to stay alive.

Please, Jesus, Allah, Brahma, Buddha, Zeus, Gandhi, whoever you are, let me live.

And as if those prayers are heard, I hear him groaning and collapsing beside me.

Slowly, I open my eyes and see him lying face-down, with an arrow through his back.

Dead.

Just like that.

I would have reconciled my relationship with God for saving my life right at that moment, except it wasn't Him who has saved me. Clearly, a true God would not use an arrow to vanquish some evil. That's just so... mundane and ungodlike.

Instead, it's this stunted but hulky guy by the doors, still holding out his bow that's loaded with another arrow.

"Brad?" I ask, finally recognizing who my savior is. "W-what are you doing here?"

"Saving your ass," he answers sarcastically, before putting down his weapon.

I get up, run to him and give him a hug, thankful that it's someone I know.

He hugs back, which kind of makes me a little uncomfortable, remembering that he is, you know, into men. And I'm not.

"How did you know where I am?" I inquire as I break it off.

He responds by gesturing towards the outdoors with his thumb. "Johann."

I look outside to see who he is referring to, and spot the weird, barely speaking, dark-haired guy from camp—who, I must say, is always by President Moore's side—chilling by the parked truck. Or is he meditating?

So, his name's Johann. Finally a legit name to call him by, since I don't remember him introducing himself to me that night I woke up or the next two days I was there. Or maybe he did, and I just didn't catch it?

Anyway, I guess I'd have to stop referring to him as Merlin now, even though he acts like that to President Moore's King Arthur. Or is it more appropriate to refer to the latter as King Uther, since King Arthur never had a legitimate son? Or maybe Alexander is illegitimate, the Mordred in this scenario?

Uh, never mind. That isn't the issue anyway.

"But how?" I continue to press Brad, as I'm still unable to understand the logic of it all.

Did they somehow put some sort of a tracking serum in me (in my food or in my drink?) and Johann's like their tech guy?

Highly unlikely.

Those things only exist in movies and television.

Or maybe not anymore since I've slept for years?

Nothing seems impossible now.

"Let's just say, he has a gift," is Brad's short and helpful answer.

What kind of gift? A literal one, like, maybe a real tracking device one can buy at some security store, which were maybe given to him by someone? Or like something more symbolic, an in-born—I won't say God-given—talent, like a technologically adept mind similar to Bill Gates' or Mark Zuckerberg's or something?

It frustrates me that he's still keeping me on my toes with these cryptic answers, that he still can't trust me with their secrets.

Okay, fine, I fled the camp, which may have erased whatever amount of trust he was starting to have in me after those two days we spent pseudo-bonding. I don't blame him. But why can't he just say it like it is?

These people and their silly riddles.

"Well, thanks to you both for saving me from this lunatic man," I tell him, curving my lips to a smile, even if I'm a bit pissed on the inside.

"Man? Are you sure about that?" he asks, both eyebrows raised.

"Um, yeah?" I answer, matching his sarcastic tone and making it obvious that I reject any possibility of it being otherwise. "And even if he was biologically female, if he chose to identify as a male, I think we should respect his truth. Wendy told me that when she was talking about our transgender classmate, and I think you of all people should know that."

"Just," he says with tired enthusiasm, "look at... it."

As I turn around to look at the dead man, all I could do is gasp.

On the same spot where the frustrated psycho killer used to rest dead was someone, or something, else.

Lying there is a naked, hairless, longer-limbed and extremely pale—almost the color of alabaster—creature, with two pairs of sharp claws for hands and feet and no outer ears. On its back runs a range of pointy bones that extends to its tail, like that of a certain species of dinosaur I saw on National Geographic.

I'm not even going to hesitate thinking that it's one of those alien-like monsters I saw in my visions wreaking havoc on earth.

I walk closer to examine this rarity, and I manage to see its three eyes.

They're wide open.