I guess I've gotten used to being alone.

It's the way I've lived for eight years now.

I place my food on my old table -- this morning's menu is a small bowl of oatmeal, a quarter of a can of black beans and a small portion of a cup of peach preserves. I sigh. I'm going to have to restock food soon. My least favorite job. I take a small bite of the peach and automatically recoil at the over-sweetness of it. You'd think I'd be used to it by now, but it's still disgusting. My hunger overcomes, however, and I eat it quickly to avoid the taste. I gulp down the oatmeal and beans to get rid of the flavor, but it remains in the back of my mouth. I sip at a bottle of water, which is running low as well. I won't risk water from the nearby river, however — it could be contaminated.

I walk onto the balcony, avoiding the rotting wood on the right side of it. I take in the fresh air in an attempt to clear my head. The outdoors doesn't smell great — the scent is thick with rot and blood and piss and sweat and smoke — but it's still fresh air. I wonder what it would've been like before the world was like this, maybe a lady would be walking her dog on the other side of the street, a boy would play games on the sidewalk near the house next door, there would be a couple holding hands at the curb, waiting for a ride... I stop myself there. That's a world I've never seen. I probably never will. I go back inside and sit down. I wish someone was out there, honestly. I haven't seen a trace of people who can still think for themselves in all of these years. I was born after the start of this specific hell, so I'm not sure what having that would be like. I think that I forgot after Mom and Dad died. Oh my God.

What if I'm the last human here?

The thought has never really crossed my mind, since I've always held onto the hope of finding another person (those things outside aren't people; they're beasts in suits of human flesh), maybe a few, so I wouldn't be alone anymore. What if that's just a fantasy? Will I be alone for the rest of my life? What am I even living for if it's true? What's the point — why don't I just throw myself out to the monsters outside? My head spins with these questions as I walk towards the counter, the floorboards creaking. I grab my mom's old portable radio, one of the only things I have left of her. Some clothes, some old furniture, the radio and this rotting house. Damn it, why do I still flinch when I think of her? It's been so long. I should be healed by now.

I get back to my seat and place the radio on the table. It's painted neon red, but the color is chipping to a dull gray at the edges. I stare at it for a few moments, still as a corpse. I rub my fingers across the top of it. I know that there's no one on there. I had tried for nearly five years before. It's hopeless, and yet...

Screw it — I'll try one last time. For good.

I flip the radio on. It blares static loudly. Hissing, I turn down the audio dial — it's so damn sticky and jammed that when I turn it on, it flips all the way up because of how hard I need to force it. Guess I forgot. When it's low enough not to attract attention, I check outside for the monsters. None. Thank God. While they can't go out unprotected into the sun, they can still come out with a hood or hat on, along with some gloves, so making too much noise is still too risky. I take one more lookout before heading back inside and sitting back down. I listen to the static quietly. I sigh and let the white noise fill my ears. It has always taken my mind out of this hell, even for only for a little while. After a short moment, I turn the dial through the FM channels. At first, I go through each one slowly, listening closely, but I speed up with every channel. Static, static, static...

My grip on the radio tightens. I sweat slightly. No one, no one, no one... I switch the channels from FM to AM. I flip through the channels, not even pausing in between anymore. So much static, damn it! Channel by channel, I turn the dial. Suddenly, I hear a sound break the white noise briefly. I turn back a bit, slowly now, and pause when I hear the sound again.

"One, two, three, test..."

I gasp. The voice is masculine, human. It's deep and a little rough. And this voice on the on the radio is the first I've heard since Mom and Dad were taken by the disease.

"Is it working?" There's a brief pause. "All right, cool." He clears his throat. "Hello. If you hear me, congratulations. You survived. My name is Tristin. I have some information you'll need to hear."

"Tri... stin..." I repeat, surprising myself. "Tristin" isn't just the only person I've heard after all these years. It's the first thing I've said for eight years.