My name is Julie, and I am the last person alive on this island. I am what you might call shipwrecked, except for the fact that I came here on an airplane. I guess that makes me plane-wrecked, or just wrecked, or something. What matters, is the fact that I am here, and I have no way of leaving. Ever. After I arrived here, one night, everything changed. It wasn't guns or bombs. It wasn't tanks and artillery that killed.

It was inevitable. A virus either mutated or was created that had no antidote, and it spread worldwide. As days turned into weeks, and then into months, the virus showed no signs of abating. Entire countries were dying or had died. Civilization didn't go out with a bang, as many thought it would, it died with a whimper. Follow me along as I faces the trials and problems of waking up and surviving on an island in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. An island 3,000 miles from the continental United States. 3,000 miles from home.

I hope whoever reads this doesn't mind, but I have to write down what's been going on before I go. My future prospects are grim at best. I can expect to die here from malnutrition or starvation, if not something worse. I will die alone, as it may be 100 or more years before anyone ever comes here again. Assuming there is anybody else alive out there.