It is the year 2030. At least that is what it should have been if I have not lost count of the days. The hope I had in the beginning is gone. Every time I lock eyes with them, I know I have to draw on borrowed energy to pull the sword out. Its pair strapped on my back with a withered old leather belt that I borrowed from the house I stole them from. They were once hung up as pretty ornaments in one of the many homes I ransacked. Its owners were, like many, the first victims to the onslaught. They were pretty little things in the beginning, the swords. However, like all things that surround me now, their beauty has been sucked away from those hollow creatures.

The creatures. Their unfamiliarity does not bother me anymore. When I am out on the streets, scavenging for my next meal like them, I sometimes wonder whether if I knew any of them in the past. Its wishful thinking, really. Even if I did know them, they are far too unrecognizable now. Their faces morphed. Their eyes hollow. The drag in their steps. The grunts from their lips and especially the rancid smell. The smell of decaying flesh. The smell of the dead.

I am not a fool to think I am the only survivor out there. But even if there are any alive, I have not crossed paths with them. I have seen signs of human life. The remnants of a fire in a house or dirty clothes pooled carelessly on the floor. I have even come as close as sharing the warmth of a single bed with them but never has my luck let me encounter a live human. Perhaps, these small hints I think I have found are my minds gift of comfort to me. My imagination running wild like my mother used to say. If it is not my mind playing tricks on me, then it is no hidden fact that we all resemble our undead neighbors. Our eyes just as hollow and devoid of warmth as them. Our cheeks sunken in and our voices raspy from the lack of use.

My name is Lucia, better known as Lucy. As of now, I am the sole survivor of the apocalypse that hit a year ago. I was separated from my family, the only thing that keeps me going is the hope that perhaps I will find them someday, which is why I have never had the strength to stray too far away. Never leaving the busy city whose streets are now dead quiet.