***December 21, 2013/ exactly one year after the first Blackout***

The street is desolate. Streetlamps illuminate the sidewalk every couple of yards. These streetlamps serve nothing more than to provide safety to the handful of people left on the planet, the handful of people that are also the only people that survived the Blackout, when darkness took over.

A figure is casually strolling down the sidewalk, casually, but alert. The darkness hides many things. He walks against the direction of traffic on his side of the sidewalk, a force of habit. Not many people take the risk of going outside in the dark, because the darkness is the threat. He also carries a Berretta 92fs for protection, with a LED flashlight attached to it, to defend himself from the darkness. The Berretta is mostly useful for the LED light, because bullets aren't that useful against the darkness, but the muzzle flashes are useful for a second.

Very few houses have lights on inside them, only a small group of people are left in the neighborhood. Most houses have their porch lights on though, especially since a few of the old streets don't have streetlights. Some streets are pitch black, he makes sure to stay away from those streets.

He stops short. A few feet away, a streetlamp has gone out, right across from a turn to a dead end. There are no porch lights on either. He unholsters his Berretta and turns on the LED flashlight. He gets ready to sprint for the light on the other side.

He begins his mad dash to the other side, pointing his gun, along with the light, towards the darkness. He skids to a stop underneath the next, still lit streetlamp, breathing a little faster, mostly from fear. He turns off the LED light and stands erect and surveys the darkness he has passed. No shadows.

He begins to holster his Berretta when the streetlamp cuts off abruptly. He drops the pistol. He swiftly picks it back up. He tries to turn the LED light on. Nothing. His heart skips two, maybe three beats. A cold sweat breaks out on his face.

It is dead quiet.

Then footsteps. Heavy footsteps. They sound like the feet of someone lazily dragging them along. The shifting of gravel.

He fires into the darkness once, twice. Only a second of light against the darkness. He runs towards the next streetlamp, down the hill. He fires once, twice, three times more behind him, slowing the darkness for only a second. He trips and begins to tumble down the hill. A cold feeling covers him. It is like being dipped in cold water, but it also feels like a cold hand has grasped you like a child would grasp a ragdoll.

He loses conscious. It only lasts for a second or two. He rolls into the light. He stares into the light bulb of the streetlamp overhead, eyes widened, mouth agape, looking for air. He takes a long gasp, holds it for two seconds, the coughs it back out, breathing rapidly. His chest rises and falls rapidly with the frantic breathing. He finally slows his breathing and rises to his feet. He stares ahead blankly for a while, then resumes walking.

A teaser chapter for a story I am thinking about writing.