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The last 2 Percent

My name is Bri, and as far as I know, I am one of maybe a few thousand people still alive on this earth. A virus tore through the world eighteen months ago with a speed and ferocity that no one was prepared for, and when it was done, ninety-five percent of the human race was gone. Just gone. The grocery stores, the hospitals, the neighbors waving from across the street, the voices on the radio — all of it silenced in a matter of weeks. I was one of the lucky ones, if you want to call it that. Two percent of the population carried some kind of natural immunity that the virus couldn't crack, and I was one of them. I live off the grid now in the Black Hills of South Dakota on forty acres that I have slowly turned into something that keeps me alive. Solar panels, wind generators, a well, a septic system, a garden that gets bigger every season, chickens, dairy cows I pulled from abandoned farms, and a manufactured home that I have stocked and made into the only safe place I know. I have my two dogs, Forest and Hunter, and on most days they are the only company I need. We have a routine. We have a rhythm. We survive. But I always knew the quiet couldn't last forever, because the other three percent — the government officials and military brass who disappeared into underground bunkers before the world collapsed — they were still down there. Still alive. Still organized. And whatever they were building in the dark, I had a feeling it wasn't going to be good for people like me. I just didn't know how bad it had gotten until the day Forest and Hunter led me to a man lying half dead in a field outside of town, burning with fever, wearing a military uniform, with a bullet wound in his side that told me he hadn't left wherever he came from on good terms. I brought him home. I saved his life. And what he told me when he finally woke up changed everything I thought I knew about what was left of this world — and what was already coming for it.