YEAR 2333

Year 2333

June 3rd

I can remember, on a day where things seemed so unremarkable, seeing tiny dots form in a cloudless, beryl sky, until it wasn’t so blue and clear anymore. Specks grew into blemishes, blemishes into a stippled blanket of such... abnormalities. I'm not sure any word exists to describe what these things are. Bullets from God's gun raining down upon the earth. A fiery, inexorable terror. A statement. An attempt purification. A "burn it with fire" sort of temperament, except it wasn't exactly fire. I don't think anyway. I'm guessing, at this point, it doesn't really matter. Whatever theoretical stance one could possibly use to summarize why what happened happened, would end up at the only possible conclusion.

My name is Alex Blake and it is the year 2333. I am a survivor of an alien empyrean attack that seems to have completely eradicated the human race. It has been two years since then.

Truthfully, I can’t recall much immediately proceeding the first "rain", nothing helpful in figuring out the “how” and “why” anyway. There were no warnings, not like there are in movies, where the scene cuts to an undisclosed military location, sirens blaring a seemingly endless and piercing drone, soldiers running in all directions. A frantic hive mind that always has the itch to shoot explosives at anything unresponsive to English and usually ends up nuking a city or two before furthering the plot. I guess reality really does imitate art because if any military in the western hemisphere reacted to whatever fell from the sky that day, they never ended up doing anything useful. I would know, I was outside. I had been a forest ranger before the beginning of it all, out wandering lesser tread paths within some of the denser areas of a Georgia woods, somewhere near the outskirts of Atlanta. The first one I saw hit the ground but a dozen or so yards from where I stood. Right through a worn out cabin we used as a fire watch, sat atop one of our larger, rocky hills. But then the cabin wasn’t there. Then I wasn’t there, I was bolting down uneven terrain, through trees stood like soldiers. Then there was no path at all. Cutting across trails in desperate attempt to hurry to shelter, I was tripping over surfaced roots and thick, tangled brush. And slamming face first in the mud, hot from June summer, as another one of those things hit the ground. Closer this time, into one of our main buildings we had used as a conference hall. I remember there should’ve been a Scout’s meeting in there at the time it struck. All rationality had abandoned me at that moment as I took off in the opposite direction, stopping only when I became blinded with tears from how my lungs burned. I collapsed to the forest floor. I couldn’t get myself to move from that spot for nights, as I watched those alien apparatus fall from the sky, and listened to the sounds of the obliteration of the human race.

The time spent in that forest haunts my dreams to this day, blotched with newly founded isolation and hunger and the noises those things make as they hit the ground.

No scream could possibly surmount the horrendously inexplicable sounds these strikes made for days. From time to time, I’ll still see one break through the clouds. The earth won’t shake, but sigh, as if there is a release of long stored tension; like a man who's sat too long in the same position and shifts his weight ever so slightly. As the contraptions hit the ground they shatter, where a sound like breaking glass rises above this earthly exhale. But do the vessel break? No, I don't think that's entirely accurate, though I couldn't ever be sure. They will strike the ground, tremble and crack, then they aren’t there at all. Neither is anything around it but dirt. They never leave craters, only empty land. As if those things obliterate anything and all human. As this shattering sound fades, it almost mimics wind chimes. Hollow. What a peaceful sort of sound for such a violent thing, these...erasers.

The first night in those woods had been the worst of them. I must’ve passed out at some point because I recall waking up to the sound of snapping twigs and a low growl. Opening my eyes to what once could’ve been a bear, then hardly recognizable as anything but a demon. Stood before me on all fours was a mass of mangey, brown patches of cracked and blistered skin where fur should’ve grown. From a long snout jutted yellow teeth, bleeding gums, and hot breath that reeked of decay. Unkempt and overgrown claws curled into emaciated paws so thin I could trace the bones. Where eyes once were there was only gouged voids, bottomless but felt impossibly focused. Knowledgeable. Intelligent. Though it had been only feet away, too this day I am still unconvinced that thing was entirely real. That I had gone through a sort of sleep paralysis where I hallucinated the whole thing. But, if it was real, I imagine it had been trying to convey a message I never got around to deciphering. After what seemed like an eternity, that abomination of a creature simply turned away, disappearing into the murky darkness of the forest. When I finally moved, I remember cringing as I felt the weight of my pants soaked in urine. Whenever I look into a forest, wherever it may be, I see a bulk of stripped skin turning the shadows within its canopy.

I can only speculate why I was spared that day, or really any day since. A miracle? I feel that to be naive optimism. Sheer dumb luck plays out to be more of a secured guess.

I've had much time to reflect on how beautiful our demise, as a race, was. These alien apparatus left no trace of existence after their prompt exodus but the death of us humans. The world did not gray or become bleak and depressed as we ended. It bloomed. I witnessed an entire ecosystemic liberation unfold before me over the next year. It saddens me to admit the air was hard to breathe as it regained its authenticity. Having been highly proficient in consuming what pollutants it once contained, I'm still shocked how quickly it purified itself. I wouldn't be surprised if those apparatus had anything to do with it, as they made their way down to us. The sky is now not only a color but a presence I can crudely describe as the seas Moses parted to free his people, for there is a rekindled purpose in its movement.

The water. Oh, if only I could do justice to you how magnificent a sight it is. The first time I laid eyes on the ocean after just two months, I was brought to tears, unashamedly, both at the exposure to such beauty, and the realization as to what exactly my race had been killing. The distinct outline of a metal beast sat below the horizon, soaking afternoon light in gray fumes, belched from a diminutive stack. The ship’s bow cut through the water like a knife as it spouted low, bellowing drones. I know in my heart, whoever had been on that boat had been searching for others. I jumped up and down, staggered by the loose sand, waving my arms erratically. Desperately. And I swear I saw the bow start to move towards the shoreline when a familiar, whirring shape punctured the clouds from above. A direct hit. As quickly as if the ship had never existed to begin with, the water settling and undisturbed. Moments later I watched as whales breach the surface. I could hear them sing from the beach.

Nature is restored to its primitive freedom, walking the planet as it so chooses. Things are stabilizing to such an extent the earth now appears so foreign. In my Catholic upbringing, I was taught to believe God thought of this world as a punishment when he banished Adam and Eve to Earth. If this is to be true, I have no doubt in my mind exposure to the surpassing beauty of Eden would kill me on sight. I am humiliated to admit to myself that this planet is a creature, a being of its own, of great complexity and humans were the parasites in such an equation.

In the time it took for me to make my way out of that forest, whatever inklings of civilization survived after the initial attacks - a car here, a building there - were sparse, to put it mildly. Things like finding warm clothes, preserved food, and shelter quickly became quite the b***h to tame. Having lived in subtropical Georgia at the time of the initial attack, as it happened in mid-June, made the cold of little concern until later. The heat, on the other hand, made dehydration a daily struggle. It rained a relative amount, so if I couldn't find a fresh water source, that became a modest crutch. I can't begin to count the number of times I've nearly starved to death. When these apparatus collide with anything, let's say a house, they don't just "take" the house but everything in it as well. Man-made or not. This looks to go for any kind of enclosed, synthetic area and anyone unfortunate enough to be in it at the time. I still can't tell you what happens to them, how they die, if they die, only that whatever those enigmatic objects fall on, it's just not there anymore. That and anything within a couple hundred feet. I became quick to avoid cities and thought it a good idea to seek out farmland. Having been a half hour or so east of what used to be Atlanta, I knew enough about my state that if I headed general south I'd stumble upon agriculture at some point. So I took to wandering. The plan seemed like it would’ve work initially, the first field I stumbled on even showed it's farmhouse intact. I spent the night there but had been woken up early in the morning to one of those things touching down near the edge of the property, too far out to reach me. But not the central barn a few yards away from the house. In a storm of dust, it was there, then not. This was when it dawned on me how precise these aerial phenomena are in their brutality. Too precise. All fields within its vicinity remained undisturbed, or so it looked. When I made my way to the fields, I remember choking back vomit as I inhaled the smell of rotting crops. So far gone in only moments, liquefying before my eyes. Pesticides had come to my mind too late. Whether out of paranoia or negative association, I haven't slept in a building since.

Since the morning at the farm, I took to a vagrant lifestyle, only stopping to sleep if I can, or eat if I can, or drink if I can. At one point, around six or seven months later, I came across a car, sat still and completely out of place in a patch of broken road. A complete circumstantial error. I couldn't tell you what year, what model, but know for a fact it was a relatively old one, and it was tan. As I approached it, I stopped and stared. Believe it or not, it was the first car I'd seen, in its entirety, since the beginning of all this. When I pulled the driver’s side door handle, it was reluctant to budge, but flew open after a few violent tugs and a protesting metal groan. I remember the seats were dark, tattered leather, the smell of a rotting, dirtied coffee mug toppled on the floor on the passenger side, chipped wood paneling stripping the inside doors, and keys jutting out from the ignition. A strange, guttural exclamation escaped my throat. I frantically searched for the hood latch. When it gave way with a metallic pop, I nearly fell on my face scurrying from a crouch in the driver's side door to the front of the car. I still feel the way my heart sank as I held both hands over a cold engine, having hoped whoever used it last had still been lingering about. Whenever this car had been abandoned, it wasn’t recent. They probably left their vehicle, keys in the ignition, in a hurry as they watched the initial purging. Just as I had listened to it. I froze in place, a feeling resembling a panicked adrenaline shook my hands and made my heart flutter. I screamed out a "hello", an "Is anyone there", then just screamed. This was the first time it dawned on me how truly and utterly alone I was. It took awhile for my cries to dissipate with deep inhales and increasingly placid exhales. When I was numb enough, I sat on the edge of the driver's seat, twisting the keys to the right. There was a moment of objective wheezing before the engine roared to life. Mechanical strains. Fueled hums. Even the radio whirred a heavy static. So the last thing I expected myself to feel was abject horror. Up until then, for months, I had been denied everything I had become accustomed to. My civilization. My home. My people. I should’ve felt overwhelmingly triumphant. But I was quick to wretch the keys out of their ignition and throw them out the open car door. I couldn't steady my breathing. My entire being was rejecting something that had been so normal not too long ago. Now, the sounds of that machine cutting through such a universal, natural quiet... God, it makes me feel perverted. This wasn't my world anymore. I didn't - I don't belong here.

I'm not sure how long it took me to regain my composure, but when I did, I hurriedly distancing myself from that vehicle, leaving the car door wide open.

June 4th

Ah, I must've been a bit delirious yesterday, probably due to starvation. I was also quite lethargic, I’m guessing, because of fatigue. Today, I ate for the first time in a couple days or so, having gorged myself on a patch of pansy flowers. There had also been some dandelion weeds nearby, something I convinced myself long ago to be a circumstantial delicacy. I must have wandered into what used to be someone’s flower garden, in what used to be a suburb. Now, it just looks like an ever-expanding assortment of fields, some only barren and dusty, others rich with green vegetation. Some stretching for days, others for seconds. There have been times where I’ve prayed through the night God turn me into a cow so I could cram fistfuls of grass down my throat without hurling it up the next minute. He must think that too gluttonous a request to be granted.

I look back on my previous entry and see I was clearly reminiscent in my famine. Or was it pensive? Either way, it's not an uncommon occurrence, food and water have really become my largest hurdle. Even the last time I ate, several days ago when I found this journal, was thanks to dumb luck. Well, I guess most times I eat are. I had stumbled upon the discovery of a lifetime - a bookstore. A building.

Seated in the center of a vast dirt field, the small, brick, one-story building seemed such a lonesome sight. Many of its windows had been cracked and broken. It took some time to psych myself into approaching the store, I was honest earlier yesterday when admitting any building serves as less than a comfort to me anymore. But I was hungry. In the end, there really is nothing but stupidity within desperation.

Aside from “I don’t want to do this”, my initial thought as I stepped through to the inside was "it's dark in here". The sun wouldn't set for another few hours, its light all but refused to enter the vicinity, leaving it laid out in an eerie atmosphere. My second thought had been "maybe someone else had broken the windows, determined in seeking shelter", but killed it promptly. Any time I had let myself contemplate someone else having had survived thus far, as I have, has only left me altogether dejected. I've not seen even a whisper of other human life since I watched that ship get hit. I won't let myself die of hope.

Decrepit wooden shelves were toppled over, books were strewn all across the floor, though many of them showed to be in fair conditions. There had been no apparent water damage, but where I had been showed to get little rain. Overall, the place was just immensely dusty, thick layers caking the walls and rotten furniture. A small barista counter was shoved into a back corner, and, to my good fortune, a few vacuum-sealed bags of coffee grounds were stored in one of its inner cabinets. Without hesitation, I broke the seal to one of the bags and forced a handful down my throat, vehemently choking on the loose, dry grains. I managed a couple other handfuls before I felt a burning threat to vomit. It wasn't satisfying in the slightest, but that's become an unattainable standard. In all sincerity, if I had thrown up, I probably would've eaten that, too.

Several minutes went by as I scoured the store until it made me bitterly aware it had nothing else substantial to offer. There had been a few sagging boxes of protein bars in the back, but each one I had touched felt to be more liquid than solid, and I didn’t think to touch what would’ve been the cooler. I was heading out before nearly stepping on this journal. I'm still not entirely sure why I chose to take it. Perhaps impulse. I was eager to get out of there and might've not been too critical of any other decision I'd made. Perhaps a deep, subconscious yearning to simulate the closest thing to a conversation I can manage. Completely one-sided, but I still have to put in some effort. A few dozen pens, still firmly sealed in their plastic packaging, laid beneath a crippled stand near the window I crawled through. I might've just taken advantage of a coincidence. Regardless, it's not much weight to carry.

It's been almost four days since then, but I can feel in my soul that bookstore is gone.

June 6th

There's a beach not too far ahead. Well, not ahead, more like down below. I stand on the edge of a cliff, starring at a steep descent I'd estimate a couple hundred feet or so. Not impossible, but not entirely without risk. Though, a beach seems like such an inviting accommodation right now. Water means fish, fish means food, food means I don't starve. I know how to make a fire and enough about purifying salt water to make an evaporation trap. All it looks like to me, at this moment, is salvation from my troubles. My exhaustion aches my bones, and I can just imagine the warm sand sprawled loosely beneath me, soothing any pain if not just briefly.

I'm going to skim the cliff face and see if there might be an easier way down.

I've spent nearly the entire day searching for a better way down to the beach. I’d wager I’ve made my way to the Gulf of Mexico if I remember its tide clock correctly. I’m not an expert. Either way, the beach looks to expand between the cliff and shoreline enough where I would survive the high tides without having to make the climb back up every twelve hours or so. All to my right is thick forest, a forsaken place, where I imagine that monster’s cavernous eyes and rotting teeth waiting. I wonder, if it ripped my throat out, would I last long enough to hear that demon swallow it?

I presume it’s easier to catch fish in an ocean than anything in the forest anyway. To my left there’s nothing but the cliff’s edge showing no signs of a steady decline, having outlined it for a few miles before submitting to the truth. All there is is the beach below me, bowled by a promontory fence, and desolate land from where I came.

I'm going down.

June 7th

The climb down had taken away the rest of my daylight. Despite my career as a ranger, free climbing is something I’ve never tried up until now. Even though it was a descent, I don’t picture myself understanding the appeal any time soon. I took it slow, as I’m sure one faulty move would’ve been met with an unforgiving free fall. The rocks, though plenty of handholds, proved to be challenging all the same, as they were jagged and slippery. Around fifty feet down I had lost my footing, and for a moment too long the only thing preventing my death had been the straining resistance of my hands, white-knuckling their holds as I felt the sharp rock cut into the flesh. When I finally re-founded my balance, I had to still myself for several minutes. Maybe, in part, because of a blinding amount of adrenaline, but also due to a vivid image matched with a terribly prominent thought. Me losing my grip entirely, the gut-retching sensation of gravity wrenching me to the ground, the stunning pressure as my head collides with the sand, the noise as my skull cracks open and the gushing of blood and cerebrospinal fluid as it mixes into the beach. And why I shouldn't just let all of that happen. I’ve never once, in these two years, considered myself suicidal, but those thoughts didn’t feel as invasive as they did contemplative. Regardless, they faded eventually, and I continued on my merry way.

The second I hit the ground I couldn't overcome the overwhelming hunger that crushed any thought in my mind other than "your dinner is right in front of you". The shore is littered with driftwood, so it only took a matter of minutes to sharpen a stick, practically tripping into the water until I was knee deep. Catching a fish took less time than I thought, as they flew by and around my legs carelessly until I managed to spear one through the tail. Discarding the stick on the shore, the fish writhed furiously in my hands. I sank my teeth into its torso, tearing a large chunk off the belly. I inhaled the salt water from its gills as I pressed my mouth into its neck, ripping through the skin, juices flooding out of the wounds and onto my face. Before I could take another bite, the world took a sudden turn and blurred around me. As I crumbled into the sand, I could still feel the fish squirming in my hand.

When I came to, this world was bathed in a sunrise. The colors reminded me of Asiatic lilies a neighbor used to grow in their front yard. If I close my eyes and concentrate I can still remember how smooth the petals felt under my fingertips.

I decided to explore the beach further but didn't get too far. I'm most likely just dehydrated but my body still aches and there's a dull pain behind my eyes. Though, even if I felt at my best I assume I still wouldn't have covered much ground.

I nearly missed it at first, so firmly tucked into the foot of the cliff face I’m unsure it would even flood during high tide. Around a dozen or so yards away from where I dropped down, the cave blended in well to its rocky surroundings, with an opening only a bit wider than I am, and maybe half as tall. I’d have to crawl on my stomach to get inside. The second I noticed it, the cave was hard to ignore. I felt as if some ethereal force were pulling me closer to the opening. To the darkness. It was too dark, much too dark. I couldn't see an inch into its mouth. The air seemed to still around it as if no breeze were coming in or out. But there was a sound. I thought it was all in my head at first, something between a hum and a growl, so low on the register, it was deeply felt.

There was a wariness that sprung up from the back of my mind, an instinctual warning telling my body to pull back, to get away. There is something erroneous about that cave.

I ran back in the direction I came.

June 8th

I've been coughing all morning, I must've inhaled sand in my sleep. Or maybe I just refuse to admit I might be sick. My body is so tired, there's an incessant pounding in the back of my head. After all this time, after everything I've gone through, put my body through, I've never gotten sick. It's not that. It can't be that. It's got to be that cave. I had been too stubborn to leave the beach after encountering it yesterday, telling myself it was too much convenience to give up for something I can’t quite wrap my head around. Ever since I heard that sound, that howling, it hasn't left me. If only it would let me rest...

That's what I'm going to do. I'll rest just a bit more and get off this f*****g beach first thing tomorrow.

June 9th

I slept through all of yesterday and still feel wholeheartedly exhausted. I tried to eat some fish but the smell made me gag, I'm sure I'd just throw it up. It's too warm outside, I woke up drenched in sweat. I couldn't stop sweating. I had to take my clothes off, I felt like I was suffocating. I would lay in the ocean to cool off but I know better. There's something in there. I can see the waves, how they curl into themselves to form such unnatural shapes. Maybe it’s the fish, the ones who watched as I ate their friend alive. Maybe it’s something else entirely. They think they can trick me, but I know better. There's something in the water and there's something in that f*****g cave. There has to be.

I can't get myself to move much at all. I'll scale the cliff face tomorrow. I'll get off this beach after I rest. After I'm better.

June 10th

I'm imprisoned. These cliff walls are my prison and the ocean a mocking sight. The water gets closer to me, it creeps when I turn my back... I tried to climb. I tried but I fell and I know if I try again the same thing will happen. My body hurts so much. My head hurts so much. I shake as I write. Am I supposed to drown? Is that what God wants? Is that what this world wants? Will it be entertained just as much if I decided to hang myself instead? I could think more clearly if it weren't for that howling. That cave. That f*****g cave and its f*****g darkness and its f*****g infestation on my mind.

June 11th

I’m curious. When these apparatus destroy every building, every monument… will they start to target the smaller things? When I die, will one of them come hurdling down onto my corpse? After every human is gone, will they still keep going? I wonder, should a stray soda can fear for its life?

June 12th

Too weak to fish

Too weak to walk far

Too weak to climb

That cave doesn't care

This f*****g beach...

I'm alone

I'm alone

I don't feel God

He's not with me

He hasn't been for some time.

June 13th

I'm dying. I know I'm dying. That cave knows I'm dying. The ocean knows I'm dying. The sunsets have stopped looking so beautiful.

Time to make a decision.

June 14th

I know what I need to do. That cave calls me, the only thing in this world that wants me.

I'll leave this journal in its mouth, in between the rocks. If I come back, I'll write what I found. If I don't...If God isn't with me, I'll find him myself.