The world ended on December thirty-first of the year two thousand and twenty, precisely at the stroke of midnight. The human race began to be systematically exterminated by the spawn of the System.

We were given a chance to defeat them, to take back our place at the top of the food chain.

We failed.

The first to perish were those who bravely rebelled. The soldiers. The defenders. One by one, they fell. In their final moments, they begged for aid. Nobody replied.

The next to succumb were those who feebly cowered. The deniers. The leeches. Together, they fell. In their final moments, they cried out into the darkness. Countless voices replied in kind.

The last to decline were those who shamelessly ran. The deserters. The cowardly. Alone, they fell. In their final moments, they whimpered quietly. There was nobody left to answer.

The final human to die was a survivor. A runner. As he died, he begged for salvation. His prayers were answered. He was offered a chance to save himself, along with all of humanity, and he took it.

This is his story.

"I sat in the dark and thought: There's no big apocalypse. Just an endless procession of little ones."― Neil Gaiman, Signal to Noise.

I am absolutely new to writing and will take any and all constructive criticism. Please give feedback, it is greatly appreciated. I will update the tags as they change, and I hope that you enjoy this little story I'm writing!

Quick warning: Seamus is intentionally a flawed character, and this story is going to explore those flaws and perhaps even change a few of them. I do not agree with all of his actions, but it is what it is.