He woke with a start from the nightmare. Creatures wreathed in darkness hunting him, devouring the universe.

He groaned and started to get up, as bad as the dream was, it was less disturbing than the waking world. While he was awake, he would remember. Remember what had happened, remember why he was alone.

Everyone that he knew, his parents, his sister and brothers, childhood friends. They all were dead. The elders of the tribe, all the warrior societies—gone.

If it had be caused by Man it would’ve been called genocide, as it was, the U.N. and the Confederated Tribal Council considered it a natural disaster.

The Survivor, as he thought of himself now, looked at his hands. The hands that showed how he had survived. Their rough, almost calloused appearance the reason why he was not spared torment even as he slept.

There was nothing he could do. His society was gone. His rescuers, civilized folk though they were, thought he was a freak, or worse, a monster. That he had, somehow, caused the disaster.