My name used to be Kostyantyn. I suppose it still is my name, but what is the point of a name if there is nobody around to call you by it? The name Kostyantyn apparently means “reliable,” but a more apt term for my specific situation would be “permanent.” My name used to be Kostyantyn, and I am the only one who is still here.

As long as I’ve been alone, I’ve kept a rigid daily schedule. Keeping an organized routine helps to stave off the unease of isolation and anchors me to my wits. Things were bleak initially, however long ago that was (10, 12, 30 years?) but now that I’ve had time to adjust, I’ve settled into a peaceful solitude. Besides, I’m not completely alone. I have my dogs, and the other animals, and the occasional Stalker that wanders too close to my property. Protecting my home has become my life’s singular purpose, seeing as how nobody else cared enough to stick around.

I still live in the same house I always have, with the garden out back. It used to be my wife’s garden, but she left first, and then everyone else left all at once, but I stayed behind. A mass Exodus of everyone but constant, reliable Kostyantyn. I try to keep my home as orderly as possible, though there’s only so much I can do. I don’t even bother going downtown anymore. The buildings are still there, but they’re just empty, dusty husks. Back when I first became alone, I would sit at the bars and push carts down the aisles, pretending everything was the way things used to be. But denial isn’t just a river in somewhereIcan’tremember.

There are a few animals around to hunt, but I’ve always preferred a meat-free diet, so if I want to eat it’s up to the sparkly soil in my backyard. The sparkly soil grows sparkly crops, as you would logically assume. They are similar to your run-of-the-mill carrots and beets and potatoes, but tinged with red and sing to you and make your fingers buzz when you harvest them. They taste good and usually won’t hurt you, as long as they are cooked properly. I’m pleased to say that I haven’t gone to bed hungry in a long time.

After tending to the garden, I feed my dogs. The dogs sparkle too, but not the way the crops do. The plants can ignore their sparkles, growing around the tumors as if they weren’t there, but I think the dogs can feel theirs. Regardless, they always seem eager to see me when I step onto my house’s back stoop and toss them the food I had hunted for them the night before. The dogs swarm around me and snap hunks of deer meat out of the air as I throw it over their heads. Feeding the dogs is one of the favorite parts of my routine. I wonder if I am a highlight of their days, as well.

None of the dogs have names, except for Shtatyv, who only has three legs. All of the dogs have their quirks, but Shtatyv seems most like the dogs from before, and I am admittedly biased towards him. He wasn’t with the other dogs this morning, but that’s not out of the ordinary. I think the other dogs overwhelm him sometimes. Shtatyv will usually turn up by the end of the day, and I will pet his wiry fur, and he will buzz against my touch like a carrot.

I grab my shotgun as I leave for work, planning to hunt for more dog food on the way home. I have always worked at the elementary school. Constant Kostyantyn has always been and forever will be an art teacher, whether there are students to teach or not. The elementary school is only a ten minute walk away if you pass through the park. I don’t like to go through the park anymore, since it always seems to be overrun by Stalkers. Something about it attracts them, drawing them to it while they flash their lights and call to each other through their trunks like those big gray animals whatweretheycalledagain.

Instead, I take the long way to work, cutting through the woods. The woods have been turning green again. Before I was alone, they were green, but they turned grey when everyone left. Many of the smaller animals left too, but now I hear birdsong and see a squirrel skitter up a tree. I’m not too happy to see the new animals and the green. If they can come back, that means everyone else might too, which would disrupt my routine and endanger my home. Besides, my lifestyle has evolved in such a way that I don’t think I would mesh very well with others anymore.

I don’t run into any Stalkers on my walk to the school, though at one point I do hear a loud cry from the direction of the park. It sounds far away, but I turn to follow the sound and see the top of the big wheel over the treeline. The Stalkers love the big wheel, always climbing on it and sitting in its huge yellow bulbs and flashing their lights at it. I don’t remember what the wheel was originally for ― it was built shortly before the Exodus and never had a chance to be used. I suppose it could have had something to do with the buzzing building way off in the distance. I never go to the buzzing building. It’s not a pleasant buzz, like the dogs and the carrots. It makes my body fall apart.

I exit the woods into a clearing where a smaller park sits behind the elementary school. I used to watch the children play here and make sure nobody hurt themselves. Shortly after I became alone, I tried out the park for myself, but I was too big for the swings and the slide burned me and you can’t operate a see-saw solo. Everything is covered in sparkles now, but so far it’s been safe from the Stalkers. Maybe they’d enjoy it more if it had a big wheel.

Something moves near the see-saw, and I am relieved to see that it is just Shtatyv, hobbling around on his wrong number of legs. Not that there’s a right number of legs to have, these days. I call to him, but he just turns to stare at me before running off into the woods. Not unlike him at all, though I feel a little scorned. I wave a dismissive arm at him and climb through one of the broken windows into the school.

I head straight for the gymnasium. It’s the most comfortable spot in the building now, since I don’t like the smaller rooms and I have a hard time going upstairs these days. The small rooms make me feel trapped, and they tend to have more furniture. I’ve found that more furniture means more dust, which irritates me and sticks to my body and gets in my eyes and my mouth and my nose and my chest and between my fingers and in my ears and into my teeth and into my blood and I would prefer to avoid it altogether. So now I sit in the gymnasium, and use the sparkly green goop from the old swimming pool to paint my pictures.

There’s a mural on one wall of the gymnasium, painted many years ago by a long-grown class of children and a long-dead art teacher, and I’ve taken it upon myself to restore it. I come in and I open a hatch in the corner of the old pool, reaching down into the bottom and dipping up some pigment, and carefully filling in the missing spots in the mural. I can’t tell what the mural is supposed to be. There are many human silhouettes and a few abstract splatters. It is worth pondering with your head tilted.

This is what I was doing when Shtatyv started barking.

Shtatyv never barks unless he is in trouble. My first thought is Stalkers, and this is confirmed by voices and footsteps inside the building. Usually, I would avoid them, but Shtatyv’s barking is growing frantic and I can’t stand by and let them hurt my dog. I race across the gym floor towards the noise, bursting out into a rubble-filled hallway. Shtatyv stands in the corner, backed up against the wall by a group of three Stalkers. One of them turns towards me, and we both freeze.

The Stalker and I stare at each other. I am paralyzed by his round, glassy gaze and his leathery face and his long trunk. He slowly raises a box to his face, and I don’t have time to move. There is a flash, and I am blinded. I stagger, falling to the floor, and I hear the Stalkers scream and run away into the gymnasium. As my eyes readjust, I crawl on my hands and knees towards Shtatyv. The dog doesn’t appear to be hurt, and I am relieved. Something on the ground catches my eye ― something dropped by the fleeing Stalkers. I stare at it for a moment, and finally the word “photograph” bubbles up from some long-dormant wrinkle of my brain. I snatch the photo up and strain to make out the image as it develops. 

A creature looms in the middle of a destroyed schoolhall. It is tall, with limbs stretched out like a spider’s. It has no hair except for a few strands hanging around the ear-holes. Its eyes flash green, and its toothless mouth hangs ajar below a tiny, wrinkled nose. Its clothes are shredded and dirty, and the patches of skin still clinging to the thing’s muscles are charred. I wheeze out a laugh. Broken mirrors and murky water don’t give the most reliable reflections, so I was honestly expecting myself to look a lot worse by now.

From inside the gym, there is a crack and a scream and a splash, followed by a pair of footsteps fading as one of the Stalkers bellows. I rise from the floor and head towards the noise, already knowing what had happened. One of the Stalkers fell into the open hatch in the old swimming pool, and its companions abandoned it. I move to the edge of the pool and look down, and the Stalker looks back at me. One of its legs is broken. The green water is seeping into its wounds.

It makes a low sound as it stares at me, and I kneel beside the pool and watch the creature as it reaches up and removes its face. Beneath the leathery skin and long trunk and glass eyes, there is a smooth, pale face with straw-colored hair and freckles. I haven’t seen a face like this in an eternity. This human is young, definitely born since the Exodus, and I marvel at its courage and stupidity in coming back here. The boy watches me in terror, but once it becomes clear I won’t attack him, he speaks. It doesn’t register to my ears at first, it’s been so long since someone has spoken to me. He says, “Can you help me?”

This sort of thing is not a normal part of my routine, and I don’t have an immediate response. This boy needs my help, but I know from experience that it isn’t that simple. Even now, the murky water is leaking into his flesh and unraveling his atoms. This poor thing can’t be saved, and I would never condemn anything to a fate like my own. Besides, I prefer my isolation. I nod at the boy as I reach my too-long arm over to where I had been painting earlier. My fingers close around my shotgun. At least I’ve saved myself a night of hunting for dog food.