Back to story III

The old man stood at the edge of his property, a wild, crazy glint in his eyes. His thinning, long, dirty, and unkempt hair covered his face. He wore a tattered trench coat over a patched-up suit—quality turned rags. Now a barren green wasteland, his field stretched out before him, littered with makeshift barricades and eerie scarecrows dressed in old clothes.

People trudged through the outskirts of the city, their faces gaunt and hollow, their eyes filled with despair. They passed by the old man's field, some casting wary glances his way, others too lost in their misery to notice him at all. He raised his arms, his voice cracking but filled with a strange authority.

"I told you," he croaked, his voice echoing in the eerie silence.

"I told you, wretched pieces of society, the end!!"

"The end has come!"

He laughed, a harsh, grating sound that sent shivers down the spines of those who heard it. His laughter turned into a cough, but he quickly regained his composure.

"They laughed at me," he muttered to himself, his eyes darting around as if searching for the ghosts of those who had mocked him.

"You called me mad,"

"You called me a crazy fool."

"But look at them now! Scrambling like rats, scurrying through the ruins of their precious civilization." 

He pointed a bony finger at a group of scavengers, his eyes blazing with a mix of triumph and madness.

"Did you think your high walls and your shiny machines would save you?"

"Ha! The reckoning was always coming, and you were blind to it."

"Blind!"

The sky overhead was a grim shade of gray, heavy with ash and the remnants of the city's fall. The smell of smoke and decay hung thick in the air, a constant reminder of the apocalypse that had begun.

The old man's home, a dilapidated shack made from salvaged wood and metal, stood behind him. The windows were boarded up, and strange symbols were scrawled on the walls, remnants of his desperate attempts to ward off the doom he had long foretold.

He turned back to the passersby, his expression shifting to one of grotesque amusement.

"You there, with the ragged coat!"

A young woman paused, staring at him with a mix of fear and curiosity. The old man leaned closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.

"Did you hear it?" he said, cupping his hand to his ear.

"The whispers of the wind? They speak of more to come."

"This is just the beginning. The darkness has only started."

His eyes darted around, and he suddenly straightened, shouting to the sky,

"I told you all! And now you come, crawling through my field, seeking what?"

"Salvation?"

"Answers?"

"There's nothing left but the bones of your broken world!"

He cackled again, a sound that mingled with the wind, sending those nearby hurrying away from his property, casting fearful glances over their shoulders.

The old man stood alone once more, his voice softening as he spoke to himself.

"The end has come."

"And I was the bearer. But did it matter?"

"Did they listen?"

"No. Now, they suffer, and I remain a witness to their folly."

With a final sigh, after they scurried, he turned around and took his gun while watching and shooting the zombies that followed those passersby.

***

"Huh?!"

"I died at 22."

What would you do when you learned you died 8 months later, after monitoring, watching, observing, and nerding yourself with a plan? Be surprised, panic, overthink, or be in shock—well, that's what I'm going through right now.

I just learned I died in 8 months... Fucking damn 8 months... My paradise plan had failed miserably, and not on a small scale, not by chance.

"Fighhhhhttttt!!!!!!"

"Tonight!!!!"

"We conquer!!!!!!!"

Lying in the grassy fields, I'm watching the world burn, watching the end of all humanity, with the flow of blood on the fields and the rising of ashes.

People were fleeing, fighting, and dying; they lost an arm, they lost a limb, and they lost life as the end descended like a bug. But they were the least of my worries; I'm just thinking, wondering, and fathoming that I died in eight months, like, damn eight months.

I'm even wondering about my existence, fathoming, and thinking about my life, my parents, and my friends—who I think I left on campus.

'They'll survive, hopefully'

I was even doing something I never even thought I would do in a lifetime; I was deep thinking. It hit me hard to learn I died; it wasn't even because I died, but because... I don't even know; I died, like.

'How did I die?'

'What happened?'

'Did I cause my death?'

'Was it a zombie?'

'Was it a mutant?'

'Fuck!!!'

I'm in an existential crisis right now.

Those were the thoughts in my mind; when I asked what happened to the hologram of myself, it didn't respond, but each time it just glitched out until it disappeared some moments ago.

Trying to capture the moon in my hand, I daze at the future sky. The air is murky and stiff, with ashes and cinders flying around, smoke rising, and blood flowing like a stream into the ground. I could hear the screams, the crying, and the groaning of everyone below the mountain as they struggled to survive while clinging to the minuscule hope, but still, they died.

*Grumble* *Grumble*

'I'm hungry,'

I didn't even get to eat because of this damn future; the surroundings glitched out as I returned to the room. 

The A.I.'s VR was seriously advanced; it was immersive and almost realistic. I felt the feel, the final moments, and humanity's final struggle.

The experience gave me chills; I could feel goosebumps on my skin from the way they were cut open, the way they were hacked, and the way their heads were dragged out like fighters in a game.

'It was...huuhhh' I shivered thinking about that.

'Huh, it's morning...I guess I thought too long.' I could see the rays of sunlight through the curtain blinds, and well, I guess I watched it all happen in 6 hours.

The room lights were still on, and I could guess the dams and power plant were still running.

'Guess I should get up,'