Nothing has survived. Before eventually rotting away, the living dead have cleaned out all vestiges of humanity. Refugees have been devoured. Bandits have either killed one another off or succumbed to ghoul attacks. Survivor camps have fallen to attack, disease, internal violence, or simple ennui. It is a silent world, devoid of zombie or human activities. Apart from the wind rustling in leaves, the surf breaking upon shore, and the chirps and calls of what wildlife remain, the earth has found a peace not known for millions of years.
One: there has been a malfunction in Project Flashlight with devastating results. Two: it seems I am the only person left on Earth.
—Zac Hobson, The Quiet Earth
Somehow, don't ask me, SCP-668's effect changed ever so slightly. And now, nobody can run from us and I mean nobody. The whole world stood still while the last Agent to carry the knife went mad with loneliness, stabbing his way through towns and cities. He even got here. He looked right at me and put this goddamn knife in my hand.
And then I stabbed him. I wander now, looking for something, anything. A reason to keep on walking. But the helpless, terrified people died of starvation long ago. There is nothing left to stab.
I don't know what kind of power source ran Dajjal, but it certainly made an impression when he popped it. That was it for China, Russia, most of Europe, really. More than a billion dead, all kinds of muck and shit in the atmosphere, environment utterly buggered... and then, finally, things got as worse as they could. I told you. Mushrooms grow on dead things. And we let Morrigan Lugus sporulate unfettered. A supermassive mycelial network. A mushroom mesh. A mycocomputer growing on a continent of corpses. We gave Morrigan Lugus the world. And that, Tommy, is pretty much all I have to say. I do hope that it recorded nicely for your digital stores, down there in that doomsday bunker. I also hope you have an infinite supply of anti-fungal spray. Me? Oh, don't worry about me, Tommy. Everyone in Britain will be dead soon, one way or the other. Morrigan Lugus will probably watch the last two people in the country strangle each other to death over a can of mushy peas, because that's just the way we are. And I think it stopped amusing Morrigan Lugus long ago.
I listen to the endless static on the ham radio every day. Found a little generator in the ruined town, and I've been siphoning gasoline from an abandoned filling station to power it. The static fills my ears, and sometimes it even drowns out the echoes of Evelyn's wailing as that thing tore itself out of her. Sometimes I broadcast, not giving away my location, but hoping someone - anyone - will answer. I feel like those SETI scientists who used to beam radio messages out into space, into the darkness of infinity, on the off chance that someone out there is listening.
It rains all the time now, up there. I can't even go topside anymore because strange things move through the rain clouds, and the puddles breed miniature terrors.
The world is still drowning.
—This Is How The World Ends, by John R Fultz
After the orbital strikes, Thunderhawk bombardments, Whirlwinds, Vindicators, fusion and starfire and finally Battle Brothers with flamers had finished cleansing the world of all the enemies of Man, we built a monastery in the center of the largest, most radioactive impact crater. We named the planet "Tranquility", for it was very quiet now.