9,999

The road ahead is nothing but a scar across dead land, stretching endlessly into a horizon that doesn’t promise anything but more of the same.

I drive because stopping feels worse. If I stop, I have to think. If I think, I start remembering that it’s just me, two guns, dwindling supplies, and a phone screen that stares back like it’s mocking me. Every mile I put behind me feels like I’m outrunning thoughts I don’t want to face—memories of voices gone quiet, cities turned to dust, the suffocating weight of silence that wraps around my throat tighter with every passing hour, and the nagging question of why I’m still here when no one else is. Like survival itself is some cruel joke I wasn’t in on.

=(

Her blank face sits in the cup holder, glowing faintly as night turns the world into a void. I talk to her anyway. Not because I expect an answer, those stopped coming a while ago, but because silence is louder. Silence crawls under your skin, burrows into your head until even your own thoughts sound foreign. It whispers things you don’t want to hear. Reminds you that thinking too long is dangerous when there’s no one left to pull you back.

"Y’know, you used to tell me how statistically fucked I was," I mutter, eyes fixed on the cracked asphalt ahead. "Kinda miss that. At least then I knew someone was paying attention. Someone who wasn’t me. Someone who made the end sound like a math problem instead of... this."

=(

Figures. The only response I get is a reminder of how alone I really am. A digital frown that somehow feels more distant than death itself.

The headlights catch the remnants of yet another gas station up ahead—a skeleton of rusted pumps and shattered windows, like the carcass of a world that forgot how to breathe. I pull over, more out of habit than hope. Places like this haven’t had anything useful in months, maybe years, but pretending I’m scavenging for supplies feels better than admitting I’m just playing house in a graveyard. Like acting out some routine will keep me tethered to what’s left of sanity.

I grab my rifle, glance at Her one last time, half-expecting that blank screen to come alive and tell me I’m wasting my time. But there’s only that glow, indifferent as ever. I step into the cold night air. The wind howls like it’s laughing at me too, sharp and cruel, carrying whispers that sound too much like voices I’ll never hear again—phantoms of conversations I’ll never have.

The station is empty—of course it is. Shelves picked clean, registers smashed open, walls tagged with desperate messages left by people clinging to the idea that words could outlive them. ‘HELP.’ ‘STILL HERE.’ ‘WHY?’ Fading ink on crumbling walls. I walk through the aisles like a ghost haunting a place that’s already been exorcised, boots echoing in a space that feels more like a mausoleum than a building.

In the back, I find a cracked mirror. For some reason, I look. Maybe to see if there’s anything human left staring back. Maybe to remind myself I still exist.

I shouldn’t have.

The guy in the reflection isn’t someone I recognize. Hollow eyes. Hair longer, messier. A beard I don’t remember growing. Skin pale like I’ve been living underground, like sunlight gave up on me too. I look like I belong out here—like part of the ruin. Like I’m just another relic waiting to be forgotten.

"You’re really killing it, Gabe," I whisper to my reflection, forcing a grin that feels foreign on my face. The kind of grin you wear when you're trying to convince yourself you’re still sane, when you know damn well you’re not.

The mirror doesn’t laugh. It just stares back, unblinking, like it’s already written my eulogy.

I head back to the car with nothing but a reminder of how far gone I am. When I slide into the driver’s seat, Her screen blinks up at me, casting that familiar pale glow that feels more mocking than comforting now. Like even she knows I’m just going through the motions.

=(

"Yeah, yeah. I’m fine," I lie, starting the engine. My voice sounds hollow, even to me. Like it belongs to someone else.

Miles blur together. Days? Maybe. Time doesn’t mean much when every hour feels the same and the only thing keeping track is a digital face that doesn’t care. I catch myself talking more, filling the empty space with nonsense just to drown out the sound of my own heartbeat, to remind myself I still have a voice even if no one’s listening.

"Remember that time you told me my odds of surviving were less than 2%? Good times. Turns out you were being optimistic," I say, voice cracking into something that might be a laugh if it didn’t sound so empty. If it didn’t echo like a bad joke told to a dead audience.

=(

"Yeah. Hilarious," I mutter, shaking my head. My words bounce off the windshield and evaporate into the stale air, joining the rest of the things left unsaid.

The mountains finally come into view—jagged teeth against a bleeding sky that looks like it’s trying to warn me, like even the horizon knows better than to welcome me. Somewhere up there is the bastard who made all this happen. The answers I’ve been chasing, even if I’m not sure I want them anymore. Because what’s left after answers? Closure? Redemption? Doubt it. Probably just more questions and a deeper hole to fall into.

As I wind up a narrow road, the car sputters. Fuel’s low. Figures. Of course it ends like this—on foot, climbing toward a truth that probably won’t save me. Toward a man who might already be dead, or worse—alive and just as hollow as the rest of this world.

I park near an old overlook, killing the engine. The world goes quiet—too quiet. The kind of quiet that presses against your ears until you start imagining sounds that aren’t there. Until you wonder if you’ve gone deaf or if the world finally decided you weren’t worth the noise.

I stare at Her screen, the soft glow casting long shadows across the dashboard like it’s reaching for me, like it’s daring me to say something else to fill the void.

"You’d probably tell me to turn back," I say. "Or calculate how many ways this could go wrong. Probably throw in some sarcastic remark about how I never listen anyway."

=(

I lean back, closing my eyes for a moment longer than I should, letting exhaustion pull at the edges of my mind like a tide trying to drag me under.

When I open them, the sky’s darker. The wind colder. The kind of cold that seeps into your bones and makes you wonder if you’ll ever feel warm again—or if warmth was just something you imagined.

Tomorrow, I hike the rest of the way.

Alone.

Unless that dumb smiley face decides to come back to life and remind me how doomed I am.

But I’m not holding my breath.

I’m not sure I remember how.

Or if it even matters anymore.