Child of Tomorrow.

Tiberius Hill weaved his way among the twisting pipes, wriggling his nine-year-old body through the tight spaces.  It was pitch black, but he could see as well as if it were day, in fact he could see a lot.  He could see the tiny particles of rust on the metal pipes, he could see the individual drops of moisture on the metal ground, and such miniscule detail.  He froze, then slipped like a shadow behind a pipe as a Sweeper's spotlight swept the area, a momentary ray of white light in the smoggy night.  The beam scanned the pipes, then the Sweeper moved on, down the alleyway.  Tiberius continued his way through the pipes, the looming walls of the steel foundry on either side.  He came to the tracks for the supply train for the factory.  On the other side of the rails was clear of pipes; just clear metaled alley, away from the foundry.  Tiberius scurried across the tracks, wary of watchmen on the compound wall.  On the other side of the railway, away from the steel foundry compound, Tiberius straitened and wiped the grease from his oversized, ratty leather jacket.  He continued away, deep into the twisting alleys of the Bronx, where most wouldn't wander.  But Tiberius went where he pleased and none payed any attention to him.  Except the Sector; they'll chase him anywhere.  He went past dark, towering glass and steel towers, to his home; a derelict, abandoned, storage building.  Not far from an old apartment duplex.  Tiberius settled down in the trash-filled nook that was his bed and slept.    

Lance DeMoi and the Call from the Deep.

Lance was startled to awareness by the ringing of his telephone.  He blindly fumbled about in the dark for his phone, he finally found it and put the phone to his ear..

"You better have a good reason for calling at three in the morning."  He mumbled into the phone.

"I do.  Come to Massachusetts, Essex Bay."

Lance recognized the husky voice as Spark Roberts, a freelance paranormal investigator.
"Now?"  Lance grumbled.
"Yes.  Now."
Lance stumbled out of bed over to his dresser.  He dressed and put on his black leather jacket, brushed his teeth, contemplated his life for a few minutes, and fed Wallace.  His turtle sleepily poked his head out from under his shell as Lance went out the door.  Lance locked his house, though the locals know better than to break in, got on his motorcycle and drove to Little A'Le'Inn.  He parked his motorcycle and walked in, out of the freezing night.  Sid, tall a collage-aged boy, was asleep behind the bar, Lance walked over and rang the attendance bell.  Sid jumped a foot in the air, drool flying off his chin. He blinked, wiping the saliva of his chin with the back of his hand.
"Oh, Mr. DeMoi, it's you.  Would you…uh…like something?"
"Coffee and an Alien Burger.  Make it fast."  Lance slapped some money on the table then leaned back in the stool.  Sid shuffled back into the kitchen, rubbing his eyes.  Lance looked up the glowering werewolf head mounted on the wall above the bar, it's glass eyes staring down at the inhabitants of the bar.  Lance heard snoring; he looked and saw Ernie and Bernie passed out on a table in one corner of the restaurant.  Sid came out of the kitchen, a steaming styraphome cup of coffee in one hand, and a plate with the burger on it in the other.  Lance wolfed down the burger, sipping his coffee while he ate.
"So, where off to now, Mr. DeMoi?"  Sid asked, taking the empty plate, his sleeves were rolled up so, his dragon tattoo was visible on his left arm.
"Massachusetts, of all places."  Lance grumbled, "not even sure why.  Well, I'll be seein ya."
Sid waved goodbye as Lance left the little bar.  He mounted his motorcycle and drove through the chill morning to Alamo.  He rode to the Landing Field and got off his bike and looked around for Quincy.  Quincy was a friend of Lance's and a pilot.  Lance found his friend dozing in a storage room, he roused his friend.  Quincy snorted and opened his eyes.
"Well, Mr. DeMoi, what kin I do ya fer?"
"I need you to fire up your plane.  I have a quick trip to make to Boston."
Soon Lance was in Quincy's custom-made jet, going faster than a commercial airline.  In seven hours, Lance was standing on the sunlit hill, overlooking the Atlantic.  Spark Roberts, suddenly and soundlessly, was standing next to Lance.  He still wasn't quite used to that.
"Roberts,"  Lance said.
"DeMoi," said the other.
"Why'd you want me to come here, Spark,"
"Where we stand is the site of Innsmouth, a town not fully in this reality, it looks into the ocean, where, an ancient, lost, civilization rests.  Stare into the Bay's waters, Lance."
Lance grumbled about wasted time and sleep, but he peered deep into the blue-green water of the Bay.  He saw something move, then; blackness.
Lance awoke in his little house back in Rachel, he gasped, cold sweat running down his face; vague images of madness and tentacles slithering to the back of his mind.                     

It has been seven days since everything stopped.  The people vanished.  All of them, everyone in the world.  I haven't met another soul in all this time.  I collected as much food as I could in towns, along with ammunition, but I had to know what the world was like outside of my city sanctuary, so I left.  I was originally from Manchester, New Hampshire, I was an accountant for Cyberus Co., a computer company.  One day I woke up, and looked out the window; no one was outside.  No paper boy; just a bike and sack on the curb.  No Mr. Johnson sipping his coffee and watering the yard; a cracked coffee mug and running water hose sat idly on his front step.  Cars sat idle in the street, dog houses were vacant, trees were empty of bird-song.  The city proper was pretty bad; the streets were packed with cars, still running, so I walked to the Cyberus building.  It was empty to.  All the computers were still on.  I soon gathered up as many belongings I needed in my big back pack, took a gun from Brockman's Firearms and went off into the unknown.  In the seven days since I left, I've traveled to the northern border of Massachusetts.  Though I haven't seen any form of life, I think I see smoke in the distance, it could be a wild fire, though it's rather small.  Oh well.  And though I'm alone, sometimes at night when I'm huddled around my campfire, I think I hear things off in the woods.  Good thing I at least now how to shoot a gun.  Well that's all for now, I guess.

Recording of Jeffery Westroad, seven days after the Blackout.