Cinders fall from a blackened sky, a deafening silence drapes over my ears.
I've read news articles about the cataclysm of 2177, the end of the world, the extinction, the rapture.
Glimpses of the war were repeatedly told through abandoned radio towers, spreading pieces of the story. Echoing the last chapter of a dying race, leaving behind trails of their downfall in propaganda, protest signs, graffiti and murals of the terrible war to end all wars.
Truly it was thought to be the work of God, the cleansing of humankind.
It was the one thing that connected the world together as one, billions of people awaiting the outcome, their fates. All eyes and all ears, awaiting death.
But, as for me, I don't seem to remember anything before the aftermath, I've given up trying to all these years. I awoke inside a school bus 6 years ago sometime after the smoke had settled. I guessed that I had a severe case of amnesia from the heat flashes, separated from my classmates. I didn't have much other ideas on why I couldn't remember.
I salvaged what little I could to understand this world. I was just an outsider looking in, an outcast of simpler times.
I could feel it in my bones, all the words left unsaid, works undone and lives unfulfilled. It shows all around me, a world that almost thrived, almost beyond its potential. But it's greed, ambitions, and pride tore itself down. I read it in history books, scientific articles, and government propaganda.
On 2177, January, 25th, the ongoing anxiety between the United States and Russian powerhouses clashed in the most devastating displays of ego. With the push of buttons and clicks of triggers, the sky was cluttered with thousands of warheads. Vaporizing the ground to ashes and burning through the oceans. The catastrophic explosions tore a void into our seas leaving a dry canyon of charred blood and waste. A domino effect followed which destroyed the ecosystem and polluted what was left of our oceans with sulfuric acid and radioactive waste.
After weeks of blasting each other into oblivion, the war came to a screeching halt. Leaving us with mountains of sand across the horizons. Whole cities engulfed in the remains of animals, humans, and trees that were vaporized in the explosions. And whatever unfortunate sentient being left alive just mutated along with everything else. If the war hadn't killed everyone, surely the weather finished the job. Our world was ravaged and twisted into something new after all the radiation and chemicals seeped into everything.
Acid rain, atomic lightning, poisonous tornadoes, and deadly sunlight.
We turned our world into a living, breathing death trap.
I might be the last of my kind. An impossible miracle.
My name is Wyatt Sullivan, and I am a survivor.
YOU ARE READING
Post-Apocalyptic ParadiseScience Fiction
This is not just a story of a boy raised in the Apocalypse. This is a love letter to those struggling with depression and anxiety. A cry out to anyone struggling with suicide. In this nail-biting journey with Wyatt Sullivan, we are put in the front...