Forsaken

Evening has fallen. It's nearly dark now. But still he walks down the street, among cars and newspapers and bodies.

"My name is Evan Wilkes," he says to no one in particular. "I have been here, alone, for over three years."

He spends his days foraging through the city, taking whatever supplies he can find. Even after three years, he can find places that have not been touched by the infection. It only took a few months for everyone to be wiped out. Now, the only living things he sees are animals.

"I should probably be getting home," he says. "Thanks for listening."

The emptiness gives no response. It never does. Once, he would not have been caught talking to himself, but times had changed. He is trapped; his magic has stopped working. Throughout his life, he had never considered the possibility that one day the magic would fail. It had, and trapped him in this forsaken world, of all places.

He quickens his pace, heading for the place he calls his home. When he arrives, he flips on the old radio. He is only answered by silence. Still, he has done this for the past three years, and will continue doing so. He holds on to the faint hope that someone, somewhere, will find him. Until then, he locks himself in his safe room, waiting, praying, for morning to come.

And in the dead of night, he hears them, searching for him, waiting for the day he simply gives up. It shouldn't be long now.