The Last of Humanity

The Last Prayer
I don’t know who you are, or if you’ll ever hear this. I don’t even know if it matters. But if you’re listening, then maybe there’s still something left worth fighting for.

My name is Walter. Last names don’t mean much anymore. I used to be a cop. The badge was everything to me—a symbol of justice, of order. Now it’s just another relic of a world that doesn’t exist.

It’s September 8th, 2055. Ten years since the Incident.

The end of the world didn’t come with the bombs. It came after. When the dust settled and the fires burned out, the survivors faced a darker reckoning. Fear turned to chaos. Chaos became hatred. Humanity lost its soul.

I’ve seen the worst of it. And until a week ago, I thought I’d seen everything. But then I found her.

The Baby
I was scavenging through the ruins of California, picking through what was left of an old shopping plaza. The air was thick with ash, and the world felt as lifeless as the rubble beneath my feet. Then I heard it: a baby’s cry.

At first, I thought it was a trick of my mind. But then I saw it: a wicker basket half-buried in the debris.

Inside was a baby girl, no older than a few months. She had wide green eyes and a tuft of dark hair. Her cries were weak, but they cut through the silence like a blade.

Around her neck was a gold heart-shaped locket.

For a moment, I thought I’d stumbled onto some kind of miracle. But then I saw them.

A man and a woman stood nearby, piling wood into a crude stack. They were gaunt and wild-eyed, their movements frantic.

It didn’t take long to realize the truth. The baby wasn’t theirs. She wasn’t their child.

She was their next meal.

The Fight
Rage welled up in me, hot and unthinking. I crept toward the man first, my knife ready. He was so focused on his work that he didn’t hear me coming. One quick slice, and he dropped to the ground, clutching at his throat.

The woman froze, her hands hovering over the baby. Her eyes locked on mine, filled with a twisted mix of fear and fury.

I notched an arrow and aimed. She lunged toward the basket. I fired.

The arrow missed, burying itself in the dirt.

She screamed—a guttural, hate-filled sound—and grabbed a bone from the pile. She charged at me, swinging wildly.

Her strength was unexpected, but her attacks were reckless. One blow glanced off my shoulder, sending pain shooting down my arm. I stumbled back, barely keeping my grip on my knife.

Adrenaline surged through me. I sidestepped her next swing and drove my blade into her stomach. She staggered, eyes wide with shock, but still came at me. I plunged the knife into her chest, and she fell.

It was over.

The baby’s cries brought me back.

The Letter
I picked her up, cradling her against my chest. She was so small, so fragile, but she clung to me with surprising strength. Her tiny fingers wrapped around the locket at her neck.

I opened the locket and found a slip of paper tucked inside. On it, a single word was written: Hope.

Next to the basket, I found a folded letter. The handwriting was shaky but legible, telling a story of desperation and love.

The baby’s parents had been a young couple from Colorado. They had survived the bombs and spent years searching for safety. When they heard rumors of a settlement in Nebraska, they set out, hoping to give their daughter a future.

The journey was brutal. Raiders took her father, leaving her mother to continue alone. Sickness and exhaustion finally claimed her, but not before she wrote the letter and left the baby where she might be found.

“If you find her,” the letter read, “please take her to Nebraska. The password is Hope. We wanted a better world for her. Please don’t let her die in this one.”

The words felt like a prayer.

The Journey
I named her Abby. She needed a name, and it felt right.

The road to Nebraska has been anything but easy. Food is scarce, and every step is a gamble. The highways are littered with the desperate and the dangerous, and every encounter is a fight for survival.

A few days ago, we crossed paths with a group of scavengers. At first, they seemed harmless enough. They offered water and talked like they’d seen better days, just like me. But then one of them noticed Abby and said, “Fresh meat’s hard to come by.”

I saw the hunger in their eyes.

I didn’t wait for them to act. I took the first shot, and chaos erupted.

They outnumbered me, but desperation makes you fight harder than you think you can. I walked away with Abby in my arms and a deep gash on my leg.

I’ve been limping ever since.

The Settlement
After days of walking, we finally reached the outskirts of Nebraska. The settlement loomed ahead—a wall of scrap metal and barbed wire rising out of the wasteland like a fortress.

My heart pounded as I approached. This could be salvation. Or it could be another cruel trick of the world.

The guards at the gate were armed and suspicious. One stepped forward, his rifle raised.

“What’s the password?” he asked.

I clutched Abby tighter and whispered, “Hope.”

The man’s expression softened. He nodded and gestured for us to enter.

Inside, I saw something I hadn’t seen in years: people working together. They were planting gardens, building shelters, teaching children. It wasn’t perfect—there was tension, a sense of distrust for newcomers like me—but it was something.

It was a start.

The Message
I’m leaving this recording behind in case someone else finds it. If you’re out there, know that there’s still a place where people are trying to build something better.

It’s not easy. Nothing is. But it’s a chance.

Pray for me and Abby. Pray for yourself. And if you find this, keep going.

Hope might just save you, too.