Last Man Standing (open)

[magbeam]

(Those interested in joining please PM me)

On Frank Willard's twenty-fifth birthday, the world ended.

At first, he hadn't thought that it could be quite that bad. The signs had been there for years; people like his father had been preparing for that long, imparted the sense of it onto him. For a time, it had seemed like the Big One was right around the corner. Then, tensions had gone down, the Reds had withdrawn their missiles, the two presidents had met at a peace summit and shook hands and everything. The world released its breath in a collective sigh. Everything had gone back down to normal.

So when the war finally came, Willard later reflected, people were that much less prepared. They had let their guard down. They were so exhilarated by the fact that peace had won again, for the time being, they willingly blinded themselves to the thought that the next time, they might not be so lucky. And none of them, Willard included, had thought the next time would come so soon.

Still, even then, he hadn't thought that it could be quite that bad.

When the alarm sirens had gone off, Willard had been the first one into the building's fallout shelter, despite the fact that it was located in the sub-basement and his cramped single apartment was on the third floor. It had been the same last month, when a malfunctioning circuit had triggered the alarms accidentally. Perhaps that was why, when the massive hatch-door of the vault swung down and sealed itself shut, there were only five other people within the shelter.

The vault sealing itself was not part of any drill, nor was it part of any accident.

The long-wave radio and television connected to a shielded cable had worked for the first few days, long enough to hear about the initial atomic attack and retaliation, the strategic bomber wings, the reversion to chemical warheads and germ weapons when the massive thermonuclear arsenal had been depleted. By that point, there was little news coming in anyways. Washington had been destroyed, New York and Boston and Philadelphia and Chicago and God alone knew how many others. The last news was that the new President - the former Secretary of Education, if it could be believed; almost the absolute bottom of the line of succession - had convened an emergency government on some relatively untouched area of the West Coast and was attempting to negotiate a truce with whoever was still alive among the Reds. As if it mattered by that point. Then, after three days, nothing more came over the radio or TV. They were not dead; they still showed and emitted static.

There was just no signal for them to receive. Willard had finally turned them off. No point wasting electricity.

Willard still thought that it couldn't be quite as bad as it seemed.

It was six months before they finally opened the door to the vault. It was designed to last for up to three years, three years with two hundred occupants; however, the generator had started to go, and then the air conditioning, and Willard - who had become the de facto leader of the otherwise clueless group - had decided the faulty (or just plain lying) government assurances of the shelter were a blessing in disguise. Any more time in there and he thought that they might start to go crazy. It wasn't that it was small; it was designed to hold the occupants of an entire apartment building. That was the problem: with only six of them in it, it was too huge, too crypt like. Too empty.

None of them gave much thought to how much more vacant the outside world might be. It was a mutual, unspoken decision.

Rubble was blocking the main exit - rubble of the apartment building they had all lived in. That was not a good sign. Clad in one of the hundreds of hazmat suit and breath masks the shelter was equipped for, Willard and Jim and Percy and Raymond, the other three men in the shelter, had cleared away enough rubble - without thinking of what, or who, else might be within the chunks of concrete and steel - to access a side tunnel, a small glorified drainpipe that ran for half a kilometer at a gradual slant before reaching what had once been Founders Avenue and was now...

Well, nothing.

The six of them, Willard and the three men and Lucy and Bettie, had emerged from the tunnel to something that seemed like it belonged in a picture of Blitzed London or Dresden after the bombing or Atlanta after Sherman marched through it (even then, no spoke the obvious relation, the similarity to Hiroshima and Nagasaki). After a few minutes, Willard shook his head. No, that was wrong. London and Dresden and even Atlanta were bad comparisons.

Those all had gotten off much lighter.

He pulled out the Geiger counter, swinging it around experimentally. It beeped surprisingly low. They were far to the east of the city center, the obvious target of any atomic target, and the wind - the faint, harsh, abnormally warm and dusty wind - was blowing west. Likely the rubble of the collapsed buildings had trapped much of the radioactivity, if indeed the city had been hit. In any case, even light radiation was bad enough, and who knew what chemical vapors or pathogens - weaponized or the result of the thousands of tons of decaying matter that must be within the city by now - might be in the air. Best to keep the suits on...at least until their oxygen bottles and air filters batteries ran out.

Willard turned to his group, still looking around dumbstruck at the new world order. "Come on." He waved them on, starting to walk. "We need to look for other survivors." He started to move towards what had once been a bank, figuring its vaults were as likely a place as any to see if someone else had managed to hole up.

* * * * * * * * * * *​

On Frank Willard's twenty-seventh birthday, he came to terms with the fact that his family were all dead.

He had suspected it for some time, of course - deep in the back of his subconscious, rigorously suppressed when he wasn't exhausted with the onerous task of keeping himself alive, because if he ever stopped to think about what the absolutely ridiculous chances were that they had survived when so many, oh so many others were gone, dead or worse...It would drive him mad.

And he was already uncertain enough about his sanity.

The first few months out, they had remained within the city limits. The radiation levels had dropped further relatively quickly, more evidence the city itself hadn't been bombed, at least not directly; that was good, as supplying them aside, it was hot and bulky and difficult to move in the environmental suits. Not that, without them, they had had any more luck. They had been hesitant in eating the food or drinking the water they had managed to find, unsure whether the radiation would have been able to sterilize it of any germ/chemical weapon traces, or if that would have even been a good thing. Fortunately, so far they hadn't had to choose.

Seeing as they hadn't found any other survivors.

On one of his reconnaissance outings from the vault, Willard had found what looked like a more or less intact civil patrol car...with the driver, or rather his remains, still in the driver's seat. However, after siphoning some gas from nearby cars and cleaning out the corpse, it had - miraculously - still run. He had spent several days doing nothing but drive up and down the city's streets, his voice calling out over the truck's loudspeakers, the HAM radio in the back broadcasting his message: "Is there anyone else alive out there?"

He never heard a reply. No one checked the city hall or public library's billboards. No one followed any of his messages back to the vault.

It had been a year after the war had ended that he had finally decided to leave the city. They could spend their entire lives searching among the rubble and not find anything, not that that meant much - their lives likely would not last that much longer, anyways. Willard had been growing more and more restless, having to deal with these irresponsibly, despairing idiots while wasting their time and supplies in a futile search, while every day, he had felt a yearning grow within him. Home. He had to go home. If anyone would have been prepared, would have remained vigilant enough to survive, it would be his father.

His home was a long ways away, and taking a plane was obviously out, but it wasn't a problem even then. They had found a station wagon, big enough for six, attached a trailer to it full of dehydrated food and water filters and medical kits and tanks filled with gas siphoned from what seemed like every broken-down car within a ten miles radius. Be prepared, plan ahead; that was his credo and it had seen him through the end of the world, yet even so, the preparations to leave had only taken a week.

The first setback had been when they had gone over a roadblock, somewhere in the middle of Podunk Nowhere, with nothing but countryside and a few abandoned trenches filled with various remnants of Army equipment. Willard had scratched his head as to why there was a barricade in the middle of nowhere, but there were more pressing matters to attend to; flights of fancy had lost their place in the new world order of day-to-day survival. They had no spares, and so had run the wagon as far as it could go on rims before those, too, broke. They had walked from there on. It meant that they had had to leave most of their supplies behind, but what other choice was there?

The second setback was when winter fell. None of them had winter clothes, so they had been forced to wear the bulky hazmat suits.

The third setback had been when they had come under attack. Willard hadn't gotten a good look at them...which was perhaps a good thing. He had managed to maintain the pretense that they had just been wild animals driven to desperation by the scarcity of food.

Lucy and Raymond had been killed.

When they finally arrived to his hometown of Statesville, he almost had to be restrained from running to his house. They had learned the hard way to watch out for the...the animals. When he had got to his front yard, Willard had paused. The house looked...decrepit. As if no one had been tending to it since the war. But then again, he assured himself, why should it? Why would they spend any time tending to a house that only served as a capstone for their fallout shelter? Especially when they might prefer...to remain anonymous. When he now realized how they had broadcast the location of their shelter, Willard shuddered. So, even as he entered into the house, noting the thick undisturbed dust, he kept up hope. Even as he went into the basement and saw the door to the shelter not locked, he didn't lose hope. Even as he opened it and peered in to its dark and empty tomb, he didn't lose hope. Even as he wandered around the house in a numb daze, he didn't lose hope.

He only lost hope when he found the two shallow graves in the back yard, and the bones and scraps of faded cloth in his father's bed, alongside his parents' wedding photo.

Afterwards, he sat alone on his front porch, the other three off to one side, staring at him with obvious worry. He had been their center, their leader, the only one of them who kept his wits about him and knew what to do and never, ever had let this whole fucked up situation get to him...and now he was crying, crying and with no idea where to take it from here.

They remained that way for almost an hour, until the sun started to set. Perhaps it was all the dust in the atmosphere, but the nights were colder than they ever had been before. They would need to find shelter, shelter from the cold and the anima...fuck it, the mutants.

For some reason, a poster flapping from a single nail on a nearby tree grabbed his attention. He walked over to it, curious to see what could have lasted for so long out here. It was printed on plasticized paper, on impressive formal-type font:

ATTENTION! SURVIVING CITIZENS OF THE UNITED STATES!

THE EMERGENCY GOVERNMENT HAS RELOCATED THE POPULACE OF Statesville TO A SECURED SURVIVAL COLONY IN SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA. THE GOVERNMENT HAS RELOCATED THERE. RADIATION LEVELS ARE AT NORMAL LEVELS. CHEMICAL AND PLAGUE EFFECTS ARE MINIMAL. SUPPLIES HAVE BEEN STOCKPILED. WE CAN PROVIDE FOOD, SHELTER, SAFETY. IF YOU ARE READING THIS, YOU ARE NOT ALONE. MAKE YOUR WAY TO OR CONTACT THE GOVERNMENT FACILITIES AT FORT MASON, SAN FRANCISCO. WE CAN HELP YOU. SOCIETY AND CIVILIZATION SURVIVE. WE WILL REBUILD AND SURVIVE. YOU ARE NOT ALONE.​

Willard lowered the notice, keeping it gripped tightly in a fist. He looked around, slowly noticing that they had been plastered up around several other areas. After a year, there had no doubt been others that had also fallen down. Someone had survived long enough, been coordinated long enough, to obvious evacuate whatever survivors might have been here. Perhaps...perhaps his family might...

It was a stupid, illogical hope and when - not if, but when - it was crushed it might kill him, but until then, it would give him the strength he needed to shepherd his charges to where they might stand a chance.

He walked back over to the other three, in control again, slinging his dropped satchel back over his shoulder. He held the notice out so they could all read it. "I know where we're going."

* * * * * * * * * * *​

On Frank Willard's thirtieth birthday, he finally realized that he was the last man on Earth.

The trek across the country had been even harder than the trip home. Fewer cars or vehicles of any kind in the open, and it was across the Midwest, which they had had to begin crossing just at the start of the longer, harder winter months due to their timing. Food was scarce, but thankfully, so were the muties. Part of Willard had been interesting in catching one, seeing what it was like. That had been until they had found the corpse of one, set among by its starving pack, presumably. Seeing the effects of the radiation and germ weapons and poison gas on even the torn remains had cured him of that morbid distraction.

They had been forced to stay put in a small town somewhere in Wisconsin or Minnesota or someplace like that for the first winter. Jim and Percy got into a fight over Bettie, and Percy killed Jim.

It ended up not mattering as, the next winter, weakened by hunger and malnutrition, suffering from a fever that was probably curable with a ten-dollar pill before the war, Bettie had died.

Willard and Percy had found a small group of other survivors near Salt Lake City. Mormons, quite eager to accept the end of the world as God's punishment and just as eager to revert to polygamy with the few men outnumbered by the slightly-less-few women. They allowed them to stay over the winter in exchange for helping them with their small greenhouse. Percy had converted and, come springtime, Willard had set out alone.

For a few days, before realizing whether or not he might ever make it to San Francisco on his own, and what he might find there. He had turned back.

The Mormon temple had been attacked by the muties. Two were left, both women. Both had agreed to come with him to San Francisco, away from the site of the slaughter of their friends and family and all they had ever known. Both made it clear that Willard would not be taking them as wives. As if Willard had cared for that. At first, they had attempted to hide their lesbianism, as if Willard would take offense or try to lewdly observe. When they found he truly did not care, they soon stopped caring as well.

Sarah tripped and fell one day, breaking her ankle. A fever set in and killed her several agonizing - and motionless - weeks later. By this time, they were within what had once been California state lines. A week later, when almost at the mythical Promised Land of San Francisco, Rebecca disappeared. She had been with him at night, and when he woke up, Willard found that she was gone, with her and Sarah's personal effects, a rifle, some blankets and most of the remaining food.

He wondered if it had been something he had said.

Finally, he had made it, after three years. San Francisco. He was mildly surprised to see the Golden Gate Bridge was still standing. He forced himself not to throw caution to the wind. Best to stay on target, cool, collected. No sense getting himself ambushed by muties here, so close, or tripping and breaking his bones and dying like Sarah, or being mistaken for a mutie and killed by a patrol. It was the government of the United States, of course it must have some kind of police force...

When he got there, Fort Mason was destroyed. Not by the war; the buildings around it were still fine, and in fact, the entire city was eerily like it had been pre-war. Not by looters, either, or by fate. It was torn down, smashed to pieces, the remaining bricks and detritus scorched black, burned by fire.

It had been deliberately destroyed.

Willard collapsed to the ground, more shocked than by anything yet, unable to breath. The last bastion of the American government - of humanity in North America, of mankind in the rest of the world as far as he knew - was gone. Had been destroyed, on purpose, deliberately attacked. By whom? That was the real question. Muties were the obvious answer, but he had never seen them to be organized or intelligent enough to pull off something like this - or to fire the weapons whose casings he had found, and appeared to be from weapons pointed towards, not away from, the fort. Rival humans, then, some form of post-apocalyptic warlord band? If they would do something like this, massacre the last surviving society...then they were not humans, not to him.

How much longer did he have? A year? Five more? Maybe a decade? A decade of absolute loneliness, constant hunger and fear, living in whatever concrete warehouses he could find to protect him from the elements, reduced to hoarding even things that several years ago would have cost less than a dollar? Waiting until muties or scavengers or disease or starvation or his own carelessness killed him off.

No. There was another way.

He had been right, those three years ago in Statesville. His irrational and knowingly vacant faith that his family survived, against all odds, against everything that he had seen back home, had been enough to support him in making the journey. And now that he had found out that he had been wrong, that of course they were all dead...

Willard sighed, one final time. He pulled out his pistol, always well oiled, fully loaded clip - there was no good time to be caught off guard, he had learned that even before the war and the lesson had been driven home any number of times since. Not that it mattered now though, of course. He only had one more target left.

Raising the gun to his temple, he thought, once more, of home.

 

[magbeam]

(Figured I might as well try a bump here...)

 

[LadyAria]

Sarah Possell

It was like any other Tuesday. Pulling open the avocado door, she searched for the banana bread amongst the wasteland of crumpled paper bag lunches. The employee fridge groaned as the motor kicked on with a hiss. She crunched down to look through wire shelves and clutter. Someone must have ordered pizza for his or her class, she thought throwing a half-empty bag to the side. The fridge bulged with food for a Tuesday. Underneath someone’s half-drank two liter, the dented tin foil package hid. Beside it, a pink lunch sack with bamboo handles sat smugly where her bread and the two liter had been previously arranged. Mrs. Whitler’s bag sat pristine while the birthday bread she had baked was mangled under someone’s garbage. Disappointment kissed her face as she pulled the package from the fridge and stared at it. As if on cue, Mrs. Whitler strolled in for her hot pink accomplish. Sarah closed the door and stepped back from the ancient appliance that still kept the teacher’s lunches cold.

“Hello Wanda,” she said with a touch a frustration in her voice. “Did you happen to see my package in the refrigerator this morning?”

Sarah held up the badly damaged loaf like a wounded solider. Her dark brow arched over hazel green eyes with accusation. Her freckled nose pulled to the left as she twist up her chapstick covered lips.

Wanda turned a punishing smile on the much younger woman. The white cotton curl patch in the thick permanent of her gray hair reminded Sarah of a much less glamorous Cruella Deville. The Disney villain would have never donned Mrs. Whitler’s blue rose print dress trimmed in dolly lace and accented by plump purple veins peeking over nylon knee highs. No, Cruella never would have shopped at the plus size section of Kmart. Sarah fumed silently.

“Dear Sarah, I have been working at this school for 35 years. For as long as that fridge has sat in that spot, I have sat my lunch there. That is my spot. It is okay, child, I forgive you.”

Sarah stared in disbelief at the woman. Wanda opened the door to retrieve her lunch bag from the coveted location. Bending over, the dress pulled in unflattering ways over her elderly fat form. Slowly, Wanda moved in a stoop manner to wrap her knotty knuckles around the bamboo handles. Arthritis made it impossible for her to close her hands completely. Sarah’s retort softened on her tongue. The location clearly was the easiest one for Mrs. Whiter to reach.

“Sorry for my mistake,” she said genuinely apologetic after the older woman finally righted herself. “Have a good evening, Wanda.”

“You too, child,” Wanda replied to 24 year Sarah. “I will see you tomorrow at the fair.”

“Oh yes, the fair,” she stuttered. “I forgot.”

“There are spare supplies in the broiler room,” Wanda responded before pursing her mouth. “You should plan ahead. Parents expect Teachers to serve as an example.

“Thank you. I know,” she answered with lower eyes feeling just like one of Mrs. Whitler’s students. “It is my father’s birthday…I must have been distracted.”

“Do better next time,” Wanda responded. “I need to get back to check on detention. Be careful going down those steps.”

Wanda disappeared out the door. Sarah looked down at her watch and calculated the time it would take to get across town to her parent’s house. She could spare thirty minutes to find supplies for a class art project in the morning. Placing the smashed loaf into the pink pocket of her softly checkered dress, she headed out of the break room and down the hall. The door to the broiler room door was just a few classrooms down. Soon, her sensible brown flats hesitated in the darkness of the broiler room. Despite the population boom of the town, the taxes had not caught up with the need. The age of the school hung in the musky air. The poorly lit metal steps scared her. Looking back toward her classroom, she debated going back for a flashlight, but it would just steal time away from her search. So, she descended the steps with a shaky hand sliding across the pipe railing. Her thick chestnut hair fell into her eyes making it harder to see. Repeatedly pushing back her hair, she said a little pray for safety. She never really got over her fear of the dark. The kids in her class would laugh to know such a fact about their teacher. Finally, she sighed with deep relief, her feet found the concrete floor. The feeling of security would be the last one she felt for years.

The blare of sirens suddenly screamed at Sarah making her jump. Recognizing the warning sound, she looked up the stairs in disbelief. The janitor must be testing the alarm system, she thought. However, it was not a test. Wanda soon barreled down the steps in a fury clutching a brown haired child’s arm. He couldn’t have been more then nine or ten years old. Shock froze the young boys face as Wanda ushered him and Sarah into the shelter. In her whole career, she had never even seen the school’s bomb shelter and had always assumed it was a myth. Who would have thought they needed a shelter? Her world was peaceful. No one would bomb the US. The heavy steel door closing in behind them said she was wrong. They had all been so very wrong.

***************************************************
In the beginning, it had been hard. She begged Wanda to open the door. Then, she had fought her. She didn’t care what the radio had said or what all her years of education told her. She wanted to go home. When she slept, she dreamed of her mother’s meatloaf and buttercream icing on her father’s birthday cake. She could smell her mother’s perfume and feel the warmth of her father’s smile. He would drop his glasses down to the edge of his nose and he would peer over them filled with concern.

“Why are you so late, pumpkin? ”

The words jarred her awake in her cot wrapped in scratchy government blankets. Her pillow would be wet from nocturnal tears. She prayed they were safe. A part of her just knew they were somewhere praying for her too.

The clock told them whether it was day or night. Wanda kept everyone on a schedule. She kept them feed. She kept them busy with chores. Always a teacher, Wanda refused to let the boy’s education slip. Nicholas spread out on the floor in the afternoons surrounded by books, paper and pencils. He would scratch out answers in poor hand writing. His toothy grin had been missing a tooth in the beginning. His nature refused to see the shelter as anything more then an adventure or long vacation. He never spoke of his parents. Sarah wondered in the beginning why he did not mourn their absence. However, when she asked Wanda, she just clucked her tongue and repeated, “Some people should never have children.” Sarah mental projector flicked through the images of the faded yellow bruises he wore the first days inside the shelter. Afraid of hurting him more, Sarah never asked him directly.

Nicholas’ unusually long arms moved too much when he talked to Sarah or Wanda. His legs had a hard time holding still even when he tried very hard. Often times, his need for motion would outweigh his desire for approval. Sarah could see why he regularly attended detention before their days inside the steel walls. On one such occasion, he had disappeared into the food storage area for a bit too long. Wanda, worn out from age, responsibility and a crumbling body, laid on her cot moaning in her sleep. Even the loud bang from the other room had not wakened the old woman. Jumping to her feet, Sarah ran back to find Nicholas lying under a heavy fallen shelf. Large cans rolled out around the boy. It was the first time Sarah had really realized how alone they really were now. The shelves were too heavy for her to lift. Nicholas might die under them. Sheer panic seized her and pumped adrenaline through her veins. Screaming with rage, she ripped the shelf from the Nicholas’ thin body and threw it. He scurried away from her and cowered in the corner waiting for the first strike of her fist. Instead, she snatched him up in a tight hug.

Her voice came out high and shaky. “Are you alright? Are you hurt?”

“I’m okay,” he answered sheepishly. “I just wanted the animal crackers on top.”

“You can’t do that,” Sarah responded pulling him back to look into his eyes. “I can’t fix you if you break. We have to be careful, Nicholas. Do you hear me?”

“Yes, Ms. Possell,” he squeaked out. “I’m sorry.”

Sarah didn’t respond, but just held him close. Her hand pushed back the hair from his forehead. Rocking him, she prayed for strength enough for all of them.

*********************

Sarah awoke one morning to Nicholas poking her in the side. Her first thought was how old he looked. Time had stood still in the shelter for everyone, but him. Clearly, he’d become a teenager when she wasn’t paying attention. The first speckles of acne blossomed on his cheeks. He’d went through the bag of donated clothes, but his selection did not fit him correct. Sadness touched her heart. Hadn’t she had a closet full of hip clothes when she was his age? Her biggest concern had been whether she want to go skating or to the mall. His voice was deeper and squeaked as it changed pitches mid-sentence.

“Mrs. Whitler won’t wake up,” he said with tears glossing his eyes.

“What?” she asked confused.

“She’s cold and won’t wake up.” His voice broke as he said up.

Sarah jolted upright in her cot and ran to Wanda’s. Wanda had been wasting away for month now. Rarely eating, the once plump woman and faded into nothing. The arthritis made it impossible to do anything without pain. Wanda never said a word about her aches, but Sarah could see it in everything she did. Remembering that night in the breakroom, Wanda had been round and strong compared to the woman under the small pile of covers. The bones in her face were sharp and her eyes were sunken. Sarah touched the sharp edge of Wanda’s cheek. The skin was cold. Although she knew it was pointless, Sarah checked her neck for a pulse. She felt nothing. Pulling the cover over Wanda’s face, Sarah shook her head at Nicholas. He knew what she meant. For hours, they just sit on the edge of the bed beside the woman who kept them going for years. Nicholas cried for the first time since Sarah met him. Wrapping her arm over his shoulder, Sarah comforted him letting her own tears flow quietly. It took a while for either of them to speak.

“We have to bury her,” Nicholas said while wiping his nose on the back of his sleeve. “She deserves that much.”

“We have to open the door for that,” Sarah said looking at the sealed exit.

“I can do that,” Nicholas said puffing out his chest. “I can do that for her.”

They spent the rest of the night trying different tools to break open the massive door. Something had gone wrong when it sealed them in and the Nicholas forced the locks open one by one. In life, Wanda would never even let them try. While they had food, she said there was no point. It would take five years before the land would be livable. They had food. They had each other. It had only been four years. However, in her death, Wanda would be the reason they opened it. She gave them strength to face whatever they met. She knew Wanda would forgive her for not waiting.

 

[LadyAria]

Sarah Possell

They arose from the shelter together holding hands. The sky was a soft lavender laced with strings of satin pink clouds. Drifting into the horizon, the rich gold orbit shined the last of its dusky light. Fresh cool air stung her lungs that had forgotten nature. Nature, however, persisted despite her lack of acknowledgment or physical memory. Tall grass blew in the unattended public greens. A crabapple tree hung near full tiny green apples. Frogs sang to her from the distance. Not a single person moved in the once bustling shops visible from where they stood. However, a pack of dogs trotted past the candy store hot on the trail of invisible prey. Abandoned cars scattered about the streets like a naughty child had forgotten to clean up his toys. Nicholas sucked in his breath in shock. Sarah began to whisper a poem under her breath as she walked out into the middle of the street,

There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground,
And swallows circling with their shimmering sound;

And frogs in the pools singing at night,
And wild plum trees in tremulous white;

Robins will wear their feathery fire,
Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire;

And not one will know of the war, not one
Will care at last when it is done.

Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree,
If mankind perished utterly;

And Spring herself, when she woke at dawn
Would scarcely know that we were gone.

When she concluded, they both stood awkwardly quiet. She pushed her sweaty palms into her faded beige dress. They trembled uncontrollably twisting in the folds. Then, Sarah burst into tears. Quickly, her knees weakened beneath her bringing her fast and hard down onto the asphalt. The pain exploded making her scream. The scream shattered the air around them. Her howls were smothered by Nicholas who came to scoop her up. His hand wiped at the hot sadness streaming down her cheeks and he carried her back to the shelter. In the smear of snot and mutterings, he could hear her denial breaking away from her. They were all dead.

****************************************

She was alone. Nicholas disappeared hour ago to find shovels and dig the grave. Quietly, she brushed back the hair from Wanda’s cadaverous face. The eyes dilated wide. A fog formed over the blue. Rigor fading, the head moved free of her stroke sending panic into Sarah. The head, in her mind, moved of its own volition. Sarah touched Wanda’s cold cheek calling her name.

“Wanda,” she said. “Wake up. I saw you move. Get up! Don’t do this to me! They are all gone, Wanda. Don’t leave me with this kid. I’ll die. I’ll die just like the rest of them. Get up, you bitch. I can’t do this alone!”
Sarah had not realized she was pounding on Wanda’s motionless chest until she heard the crack. Surprised, she stopped looking at her hand. A sound of a metal heel scraping the concrete turned her attention back to the door. Nicholas stood leaning against the door. Flashy black cowboy boots with red flames peeked out from dirty Levi Jeans. Shirtless, his narrow chest was smeared with earth from Wanda’s grave. A deep frown lined his sweaty young face. Sarah reacted by putting out her palms.

“Step away from her,” he growled uncrossing his arms and walking toward the cot. “Be useful. Go find a bible.”

“I…” Sarah’s mouth opened and closed without a point. Scurrying off the cot, Sarah fumbled useless for a place for herself. The words she finally found were not the ones she originally sought. “She has one under her cot.”

Nicholas did not respond. Instead, he pulled Wanda’s frail body up into his arms. A dark stain marred the back of her gown. The smell made Sarah gag a little, but she followed him nevertheless. He never showed any sign of repulsion even when the last remnants of Wanda’s bowels streaked down his arms as he settled her in the grave. He pulled the blanket over her face to shield her from the sky. It was dark by now. A lantern sat by the corner of the opening to illuminate the night. Jumping up from the hole, he shoveled the dirt back over Wanda’s body while Sarah read psalms twenty-three. The blackness hid his eyes from Sarah. Although, she thought she saw then beginning to well, no tears released. He asked for no comfort. Instead, he shoveled with a fury. Each mound of dirt poured into the gap he would never really be able to fill.

**********
The fall came late that year. With it came a sense of urgency from Nicholas to find others. Each day, she awoke to his empty blankets. A cold breakfast would be waiting by the side of the cot. He left notes with instructions on the direction he was heading. In the months after Wanda’s death, it became clear the boy learned more then basic reading and math from her friend. The maps covered in numbers Sarah could not comprehend covered the shelter floor. He brought in equipment from the stores to build things Sarah didn’t understand. So, she just made the kits and gather the items from town he requested and stopped asking questions. Eventually, he returned with news of others. The excitement danced in his eyes making him look his age for the first times in months. Guilt stung her as she realized the weight on his shoulders. Smiling, he held out a poster he discovered two towns over from them:

ATTENTION! SURVIVING CITIZENS OF THE UNITED STATES!

THE EMERGENCY GOVERNMENT HAS RELOCATED THE POPULACE OF Kowahoga Falls TO A SECURED SURVIVAL COLONY IN SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA. THE GOVERNMENT HAS RELOCATED THERE. RADIATION LEVELS ARE AT NORMAL LEVELS. CHEMICAL AND PLAGUE EFFECTS ARE MINIMAL. SUPPLIES HAVE BEEN STOCKPILED. WE CAN PROVIDE FOOD, SHELTER, SAFETY. IF YOU ARE READING THIS, YOU ARE NOT ALONE. MAKE YOUR WAY TO OR CONTACT THE GOVERNMENT FACILITIES AT FORT MASON, SAN FRANCISCO. WE CAN HELP YOU. SOCIETY AND CIVILIZATION SURVIVE. WE WILL REBUILD AND SURVIVE. YOU ARE NOT ALONE.

Sarah looked at him with a shaky grin. “When are we leaving?”

“Did you make the kits I asked you to?” he asked in a voice of someone twice his age.

“Yes, I did,” she said looking at the floor. “I actually made a few extra. I had some time.”

“We leave in the morning then,” he answered rubbing his thumb over the plastic coating of the poster. “I hope they are still there.”

*****************************

Riding down the rode, Sarah sat in the passenger side as he drove. Trees rushed past the black Range Rover. Elbow resting on the door, she wondered if she should have protested him driving. Technically, he wasn’t old enough to have a license. He was still only 15. However, the serious scowl on his face and mess of maps spread across the backseat silenced any protests. She turned her eyes out to the road. The intense sense of loss and fear melted into relief. Every mile on the road pushed them closer toward a new beginning. She felt like Dorothy and the country highway was her yellow brick road. Laughing at the idea of Nicholas as Toto, she turned to him poking him in the side.

“How much further?” she asked.

“About 4 hours at this rate,” he answered laughing at the tickle. His eyes examined her with interest “You look happy.”

“I am,” she said catching a something in his eyes she refused to acknowledge. Looking at the stereo, she asked, “Does that work?”

“Yes,” he said blushing. “But the selection isn’t very…”

Grabbing out the CDs from the center console, Sarah ignored him and popped in the Beach Boys one into the stereo. Soon, the happy voices poured through the speakers singing “Don’t Worry, Baby”. Pushing off her shoes, Sarah’s naked feet bounced to the beat on the dashboard. A hairbrush appeared in her hand from their bags. Closing in her eyes, she belted out, “Don’t worry baby. Everything will turn out alright” to Nicholas. He burst into laughter momentarily closing his eyes. Jerking to the right, the Rover slammed into something making a horrible crunching sound. Sarah screamed. Nicholas hit the brakes. Turning back to look in the road, they were horrified by a body laying spread and bleeding. The locks delayed them from opening the door. The temporary delay gave enough time for another person to appear on the side of the road. He moved slowly with a strange pull to the left. Rolling his head toward them, the face looked melted. A red tongue poked out grotesquely at them. Raising a finger to point at them, he moaned loudly at the Rover. Quickly, more twisted painful faces appeared from the trees surrounding Sarah and Nicholas.

“Go!” Sarah screamed at Nicholas who just stared at the slowly approaching crowd.

“What if they need help?” He asked as the first ones grabbed the vehicle making it rock.

Looking back, Sarah watched as some of the stragglers reach down grabbing wads of the ran-over body. Yellow fatty tissue soaked in blood ripped apart in the teeth of what looked like a young girl. Two others survivors played tug-o-war with the top half of the corpse.

“I don’t give a fuck what they need!” Sarah said screaming. “GO!”

Nicholas slammed on the gas to break free from the advance. The loud thumps of feet being pulled under the tires drowned out the Beach Boys. An angry fist broke the back window sending shards flying inside. With a final tug, the Rover slingshot forward from the attackers. The cold wind rushed in the open window. Nicholas and Sarah sat shivering and frightened of what they might find in San Francisco.

***********************

Riding in silence, neither of them spoke afraid they both might turn back from their destination. Sarah played the look in the crowd’s eyes over and over again in her mind. The humanity vacated the shells that moved freely in the daylight hours. She had no doubt those people would have killed her and Nicholas. Nicholas stared straight ahead in a quiet determination to which she had grown accustom. When he finally spoke, it made her jump. Suddenly, she realized they were in the city. It had a look unlike any other they had drove through and she new instantly they he arrived.

“Look,” he whispered pointing over the steering wheel.

The first thing she saw looking out through the class was the Fort. The survivors had destroyed the last society. A cold shiver slid down her spine at the burned out bricks that had been ripped apart by hand. Clearly, all that was left in this world was the monsters from the road.

“They are gone,” she answered.

“No, not all of them,” he answered pointing again at the ground. “That one is going to kill himself”

Sarah followed his finger to the kneeling man with the gun to his head. Instantly, she knew he was like them. It took humanity to feel a pain that deep. Out the door and down on the ground before Nicholas could stop her, she went to him. The grovel cut into her bare feet. Her jeans did little against the cut of the wind. Pulling the red and black flannel over her grey thermal top, she kneeled down beside him. Her dark hair swirled in the air around her anxious olive green eyes.

“Whatever it is,” she said to him in a low voice. “You are not alone. Please don’t pull that trigger.” She reached out gently touching the top of his hand with hers. “I am Sarah. Nicholas is in the truck. Please stay here with us just a while longer.”


(I might have some typos I need to edit tomorrow.)

 

[magbeam]

Frank Willard

Alone. Alone, alone, alone. He was all that was left. He clenched the porcelain grip of his Glock 7 pistol tighter, the gun wavering slightly as he held it against his head. He closed his eyes, summoning up a suitable final thought. Willard settled on his family, on the last few days before he had moved out, when they had still been together, under the same house, the final happy time together as a family.

He found, to no more than a dull ache, that he couldn't even remember that time any more. His memories of his family stopped with the crumbling ruins of their house. Those two shallow backyard graves. The bones in the bed.

He wondered if he would see them again in Heaven. If there was a Heaven. He had been raised Evangelical; what else could a conspiracy-theory spouting survivalist like his father - convinced that the United Nations would use water fluoridation to brainwash Americans into Communism and that the only person who could give Uncle Joe and Chairman Mao a run for their money was FDR - possibly believe in? "Listen up, boy," he would say to Frank, as the pair of them stocked tinned food and shotgun shells in the basement. "You may laugh now, but when the hard rains come, and when they start packing your friends off to Alaskan work camps, who'll get the last laugh then?"

And it looked like Pops had been right. Willard had gotten the last laugh, after all. Literally the last lonely, bitter laugh. Still, while he had kept his father's lessons on survival, the drilled-in responses to the slightest hint of provocation, dear to heart - he wouldn't be here if it hadn't been for that - Willard had drifted away from his father's millennial, Jesus-returning religion. Perhaps unwisely - not only because it seemed that Pop might have been right here also, but also because he now could no longer believe in an afterlife where he would be reunited.

Any God who could let this happen could never allow for a happily-ever-afterlife.

And so, preparing to end the pain, Willard drew in what would be his last breath of rancid, post-nuclear, decaying city air, his finger tightening around the Glock 7's trigger.

“Whatever it is, you are not alone. Please don’t pull that trigger."

Willard's bloodshot eyes sprung open. He might have been at the limits of his despair, but his reflexes, his intuitive muscle memory, was unimpaired. At least, he told himself. He hadn't even heard the car approach. In the light from the car's headlamps, the woman's hair, waving in the light breeze from the toxic sea, seemed like a halo, giving her an almost angelic form. As if his father was somehow once more rubbing in his preternatural correctness, that his paranoid schizophrenia had triumphed in this regard also.

The woman - Sarah - introduced herself, reaching out to gently touch his hand. It had the intended effect - in an instant, the gun was no longer pointing at his head, but at the woman, moving between her and the truck hidden by the blinding lights where she said one of her companions was. The pistol shook with his hand as he moved it back and forth between them, scampering backwards away from each other.

"No," he muttered, then louder. "No, no. Get back. Stay the fuck back."

The other one - Nicholas, he dimly recalled him being named - was out of the truck now, a shotgun in his hand, hoisting it up to his shoulder. Sarah was saying something to the boy, telling him to stop, that he was just frightened and confused.

"No, no, no," Willard repeated. "You can't be here. You're dead. You're all dead!"

It hadn't even been long since Sarah - the other Sarah - had died and Rebecca fled. Surely no more than a month or two; though with things as they were, who was he to say how long time was taking to pass? But no matter whether it had been one month or two, it was still the first time, in the half a decade since he had been in this nightmare, that Willard had been alone. Truly alone, with the knowledge not only that there was no one within range to help him if he slipped, to protect him from mutants while he slept, to help him forage...But no one to pat him on the back on his birthday, no one to provide comforting steps beside him on a walk across a vast plain, no one to talk to. The only person within range of all that he could see.

The last man on Earth, after his final hopes had come crashing down, just as Fort Mason had to have crumbled.

And now, just as he had perhaps been affected even more than he had realized by the loneliness, right after he had been hit in the head that he would never see another human being as long as he lived, that he was the only one left...Here they were.

His hand stopped shaking, and he lowered the Glock slowly. The woman smiled at him, encouraging, while the man slowly relaxed, the shotgun still trained on him. He licked his lips.

"Willard," he said, finally. "That's my name. Frank Willard." A silence, then: "Did you come here because of the government flier also?" It seemed like a long shot, but if he had found one, why not others? Why else would survivors go into crumbling and disease-riddled cityscapes?

The woman nodded, answering softly. A high-pitched giggle escaped his lips at that, a snort that turned into a nervous laugh, bubbling off the steamhead of emotions that had built up over the past few hours - few months, really, even the past few years.

"Not quite what you were expecting, was it?" he asked when he finally was able to calm down. "But it wasn't lying. It was right all along. You found me. Here I am." Willard smiled, for the first time in a long while, speaking more for himself than his new companions.

"You are not alone."

* * * * * * * * * * *

"I'm not sure what happened here, but I can guess."

It was an hour later. The man, Nicholas - boy, more like it, now that he was out of the truck's blaring lights and Willard could examine him better - had finally shouldered his shotgun, and with he and Sarah, they were once more going through the ruins of Fort Mason.

Willard didn't like the boy. It wasn't just his attitude (spending one third of one's life in a fallout shelter could do that to a person) or the fact that he had pulled a gun on Willard (Willard could only imagine what he looked like, in torn and worn clothes and a large, unkempt beard, pointing a gun at the boy's sole companion for the past few years). No, it was the boy's physique. Awkward, tall, gangly, abnormally long arms.

He looked like a mutant.

"This place wasn't accidentally destroyed, or overrun by mutants." He toed a piece of rubble, not really caring to look deeper after not finding anything earlier. The boy was digging through a pile of scorched bricks, obviously the remains of some blockhouse. He was at ease for once; no mutant could approach them over this mess without announcing its presence long in advance. Sarah was over at another building's remains, a medical facility from a broken Red Cross sign.

"No, it was attacked on purpose. From outside," Willard continued, content to actually have an audience to talk to, even if they weren't listening. Perhaps especially then; no chance of them interrupting him as he let all his pent-up voice out. "And not too long ago, either. There are shell casings out there, not yet corroded and rusty - and there's plenty of moisture here. Most of them are pointed towards the fort, not away from it. That means the guns were aimed in, at the fort, not out at some group of muties or whatever," he clarified as he saw Sarah's head look up, anticipating her question and feeling strangely happy that she had been listening, after all.

"That means that there must have been another group of survivors who destroyed the fort and whatever government that was stationed here. They must have their own base of operations; otherwise, why would they destroy a perfectly good one like this? They must also have taken all the survivors with them, since there aren't any bodies here. I figure that we can join up with them, perhaps."

After those first few minutes, Willard had wondered whether Sarah and Nicholas had been members of whatever survivalist gang or warlord army had destroyed Fort Mason, coming back to see if there was anything else worth scavenging. That idea had quickly been squashed - even the sullen and protective Nicholas certainly was no militia material. Nor did Willard's hopes that they were survivors from the fort, relocated to a new location and coming back to check on newcomers, hold out either. But the germ of a notion that had been planted in his head when he had wondered that had begun to grow into this new idea.

Sarah looked up again, brow furrowed and asking how they could join with anyone who had done something like this, to what might have been the last remaining bastion of the American government and society. Willard had had those exact same thoughts just a few hours ago, with her same reactions. But now, the situation was different. Now, he had others to look after. He also no longer wanted to die.

"In a situation like this, we can't really be choosers, can we? And to be honest, I don't really care any more," he replied to Sarah's question, ignoring her look of shock. "We have no idea why they destroyed the fort, whoever they were. Perhaps the government here attacked first, or were withholding help. In any case, there are no bodies here - whoever destroyed the place obviously took the survivors with them. They must be taking care of them; if they wanted to kill them, they could have just done so here. And any port in a storm. Any sort of society that can organize a raid on a place like this, and actually pull through with it, has to have a pretty damn good chance of surviving. Certainly better than us on our own. And I'm sure they could use our help, especially if we're willing to work with them uncoerced. Think of it, ground floor in building a new society."

Sarah nodded slowly, seeming to consider just that, when her gaze turned back down to the ruined building she was on - and let out a scream. In an instant Nicholas was bounding over to her, Willard just behind him. He looked down to where Sarah was pointing - and his jaw dropped. It was a body, there in the rubble, its flesh stringy and yellow and rotting off, a lack of blood around it.

What looked like a prehensile limb dangled from the remains of its torso, just beneath its knotted and impossibly massive left arm.

Willard slumped down onto the pile of bricks that Sarah was just now being helped up from by Nicholas. The smell from the body was just now reaching his nose, but he didn't care. A body. A mutant body, right here in the middle of the fort.

That changed...everything. And not for the better.

It was the medical facility, he remembered dully, seeing the remains of the Red Cross sign in a pile of bricks and burnt wood. Perhaps that was where it had started. They had taken in a survivor, or a group of them. It would only take one.

Of course, that was all hyperbole, full hypothesis on Willard's part. He wasn't a doctor, had any sort of medical training whatsoever besides how to treat wounds during his tour of duty in the military.

It seemed clear that the mutants were caused by the war - but by what? Radiation, chemical weapons, weaponized bacteria, something completely different? How was it that not everyone in the country seemed to have succumbed to the mutation - did it affect only certain blood types, certain ethnicities, certain age groups? He wasn't even sure whether there was one standard "type" of mutant, whether some were slow or fast, some nocturnal or unsleeping, some more intelligent than others. Did the mutation even spread? And if so, by bite, close proximity, exposure to mutant blood? Willard had never stuck around close enough to find out before, and he certainly would not have been willing to sacrifice even one survivor to find out.

Only now did he regret that lack of knowledge.

Still, Willard could imagine it. In his mind, all it took was one - a single refugee taken in, hiding a bite mark or infected splatter or slowly spreading gangrenous corruption. At first, the fort's medics would be confused by the strange symptoms. By the time the first attacks occurred, it would be obvious but too late. The soldiers - this was a fort, there had to have been soldiers - might have tried to evacuate the few uninfected, but how to tell who was who? Escaping, they would direct their fire on the fort, once a refuge and now a swarm, a virtual hive of the mutants.

Until they, too, were overwhelmed. Perhaps they had been so focused on those inside that they had been taken by surprise by a wave from the city, attracted by the sounds of fresh meat and the raging fire as the fort burned.

The absence of any bodies within the wreckage took on a new, horrible meaning.

Sarah had stopped yelling, getting over her initiatial shock rather quickly. Good. Willard stood, and without turning back, started to walk towards their truck. He spoke over his shoulder as he moved.

"Let's go. There's nothing for us here after all."

* * * * * * * * * * *

Night. Half a decade without any sort of heavy industry, strip-mining, and deforestation - and the massive rains the atomic climate shift had caused - resulted in nights clearer than any Willard had ever seen before in his life, even when in the military abroad.

The lack of any sort of light pollution from the teeming multitudes of humanity also probably helped.

Of course, at the moment, the three of them were camped around a large bonfire on the edge of the city, the crackle and glow of the flames washing out the taunting gaze of the immortal stars above.

"You don't know that," Sarah was saying, softly. The three of them had just begun eating their dinner - a few raccoons he had managed to find in some old office building. They were rather emaciated; he had had to cut out tumors from all of them, and discarded one that had had two heads. Willard wondered if, somewhere out there, jackalopes actually existed now. He felt a sick tingle of amusement at the thought that perhaps mankind's final fuckup might actually reverse the trend of species numbers dropping.

"I do," Willard countered, tearing into what he believed to be a haunch. "There is no one left. I thought there might be, if Fort Mason was destroyed by a rival faction. But now..." He trailed off. There was no point in driving home the depressing point. But Sarah seemed insistent on continuing, as Nicholas, silent as he always seemed to Willard, remained quiet, eating quickly and with the shotgun still slung over his shoulder.

"But there might be other communities out there," Sarah persisted. "Other survivors like us. Like that Mormon community you found, or other fallout shelters-"

"Like the Mormon community I found and got wiped out by the zombies, mutants, whatever, several days later? Like whatever government was in the fort, that had enough authority for at least a while to spread their emergency fliers and evacuate people from across the country?" Willard was growing angrier now, and out of the corner of his eye he noticed Nicholas growing somewhat more attentive, shifting slightly towards Sarah.

"No. Those don't matter. Suppose that there are a few others like us, who escaped the war. A corn-fed bum-fuck town in the middle of Kansas that avoided the fallout. Some Joe Schmo barricading himself against the mutants inside his house in LA. Two or three astronauts in the space station. A submarine crew or a woman and her remote farm. None of those matter. It's the same as no one being left. Or rather, it will be in a few years, if not already. None of those groups are large or self-sufficient enough to continue civilization. They are all spread out from each other, and will never make contact with them. Eventually, old age or radiation or disease outbreak or a wandering horde of mutants will do them in. Even in a town, in a generation or two, the infrastructure will be gone, the few descendants inbred or infertile from the accumulated effects of the environment."

Willard was almost yelling now, his meal forgotten; Sarah was shrinking from him. He didn't intend to frighten her; it wasn't even that he was angry, himself. But he now had a forum to vent his years of pent-up frustration, of lost hopes - and he did not want the same hopes to stay alive in them, to fester and die as they had for him.

"If they were all together, with all their resources, then maybe then it would matter, make a difference. But they're not. There is-"

The shotgun blast rolled out, and for a single, frightening second, Willard feared that Nicholas had just shot him. The boy had dropped his food, was now standing in between Willard and Sarah, his shotgun in hand and a used shell dropping to the ground as he pumped the handle, reloading it. But no; even with the bulletproof vest Willard had found and worn - just in case the Fort Masonites hadn't been as friendly as he had hoped - he would have felt something by now.

Then, Willard realized that the boy was aiming behind him.

He turned around, instinctively jumping backwards when he saw the headless remains of a mutant, the corpse still twitching on the ground. A series of low groans and growls came from beyond the reach of the fire, followed by the reflected light off of a series of dull, vacant eyes as first two, then three, and then five, and then too many disheveled, jaundiced forms began to shamble towards the light and warmth of the fire.

A pair of them fell onto their fallen comrade, and another one collapsed onto the ground when, with another wave of thunder, Nicholas' shotgun blasted its legs off. The rolling gun blast, echoing off of the abandoned cityscape around them, was met with an even louder series of growls and moans. Willard didn't take notice; he was too busy running towards the truck, Sarah already starting it and Nicholas covering her with his trusty shotgun. Willard wondered how the kid had managed to become such a shot. Maybe it was nature's way of evening the playing field.

Then he had dove into the truck cabin, with Nicholas right after him. Sarah needed no further encouragement, and even before the doors were closed, the tires were squealing.

"Where to?" Sarah was asking. "Where do we go now?"

Willard considered her question, before giving the only logical answer.

"Anywhere you want."

Behind them, the light from the abandoned fire shrunk from sight as the three survivors vanished into the unknown.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Three Years Later

Willard finally believed that he was losing his mind.

It had first come to his attention a few months back. He had returned back to their encampment after a meager hunting expedition. Calling out his name to the others, he had gone inside, only to jump at the sight of a mutant clawing at Sarah. He had his crossbow - a much more economical tool for hunting than the guns whose ammunition was becoming increasingly sparse - halfway out before he realized that it had only been Nicholas, helping the woman with something. His long arms and spindly nature aside, it was a mistake that had frightened Willard deeply.

Several weeks later, while he was once more alone, foraging for supplies, he had been sure that he had caught the glimpse of an alien spaceship landing. No doubt the same bastards who had organized the destruction of the human race so they could colonize this world, coming down to finish the job.

It had been a lenticular cloud.

In the subsequent months, memories, imagination of real events, and fiction - the strange scraps of which he mentally retained - had increasingly blurred in Willard's mind. A bird had been the prelude to an entire infected swarm come to peck and tear at him to death, and he had wasted several shotgun blasts into the air before he calmed himself down. A now-rare bat he was sure was a new stage of vampiric mutation, come to turn him as well. Every mangy dog was an aggressive, newly-evolved werewolf; every bush was a Triffid waiting with a deadly sting. A meteor shower had been Russian nukes coming to finish the job. A few times, the sun glinting off of a salt flat just had to have been the halo of a kindly angel watching over one of God's chosen.

He was definitely losing his mind.

Idly, dispassionately, he wondered what was causing it. Not loneliness or depression; those would have struck before now, and he thought himself long over them. His beard was as ragged and bushy as ever - what point was there in making it otherwise, especially when winters were now longer and colder, summers shorter and cooler? Yet despite that, he was convinced he was losing his hair, his skin turning wan and loose.

Perhaps it was disease. Not even any exotic form of engineered bubonic plague or retrovirus or one of a thousand deadly and artificial strains released by the war. With the total lack of medical care, it could be Lyme disease as far as he knew.

Or perhaps it was radiation sickness; they had learned not to drink from the waters of the Inland Sea, and they had had to go further and further to find sources of clean water. It wasn't inconceivable that on one of his expeditions he had drunk from something he shouldn't have - their Geiger counters no longer worked, and he didn't trust their film strips any more. Or not even something so dramatic and sudden. He had been living outside a shelter longer than Nicholas and Sarah. The elevated background levels could have finally been getting to him.

It could even be malnutrition. It wasn't like any of them had been eating a varied diet for a long time - and what they did have, they had little of, especially over the long winter that was just ending.

Maybe it was the madness of his father. One more sin being passed on to the son, one more of his pop's insane prophecies being proven right years after the fact.

If he hadn't been so certain that he was still retaining the ability to think, however deranged, and that it was taking so long - Willard thought as he slowly made his way back to their shelter, once more with a disappointing catch - he might have even considered that he was changing into one of them. After all, he continued to think as he entered their home, how much humanity did he truly have left, after all this time since the word 'humanity' had ceased to have any objective meaning?

They had a house of cement pillars by the edge of an empty sea.

Willard did not understand how what looked like an ocean - to the best of what he could see, and had scouted around the edges of - had come to exist within what was, to the best of his knowledge, California's Central Valley. The war must have had something to do with it, of course, but the mechanics of it eluded him. The massive rainfalls, perhaps? The nuclear winter, or the melting of some glacier or another? In the end, it didn't matter. It was there, and it was toxic - due to radiation, salt, dangerous bacterial growths, maybe all of the above.

It was good protection.

Their encampment seemed like it was some form of bunker. He wondered whether it had been built by the Fort Mason government during its last gasps of authority at the end of the atomic war. Perhaps the actual American government had built it, during World War II or the atomic tests out here at the start of the Cold War. Or even some conspiracy nut, like his father.

Like the Inland Sea, Willard did not question it. Especially given its convenience. Near the sea for protection, the only major building for some distance - no staging areas for mutants or regions to obscure view - and in the middle of what looked like a salt flat. An effect of the war, the same climate changes that made the sea, probably.

Willard hoped that the zombies would prefer not to cross the parched, unrewarding desert. Of course, that first winter, he had also assumed that the extreme cold would freeze them to death - or final death, or whatever. That had not been the case, for whatever reason. But so far, at least, he had not seen any of them crossing the desert. They were all careful, of course, and kept a close watch on the horizon at all times, but it still afforded them a small sense of psychological protection, a small sense of a return to even minimal security and normalcy.

All in all, the last three humans on Earth were safely isolated from the horrors that surrounded them. And, after what all of them had been through, none were willing to give that up for an improvement that might be all too hypothetical.

Unfortunately, that also meant they had to go further and further to gather the supplies they needed to support that relatively-safe environment.

When he walked into the main living area of the - bunker, probably would be the best word - Sarah and Nicholas were there, sitting on the floor that they had placed a worn rug over, playing an old copy of Monopoly. That was one thing they had been able to locate through their scouting parties - an impressive supply of board games, playing cards, worn and torn books. They did not often have the time to play - work was hard, even here - they had managed to establish a small garden plot, enough to supplement their diet, and it required much work to keep even that going - and candles or fuel were too precious to waste on unessential uses once darkness fell. However, Sarah and Nicholas always seemed to manage to make an occasion out of it.

The woman in question looked up and smiled as Willard made his way in. Nicholas just scowled. "Not a good haul," he observed, looking at the two hares Willard had found. Not jackalopes, not yet, although soon enough he figured he would be willing to eat even their antlers.

"No, not a good haul," Willard countered. "But no doubt next time you'll be able to put me to shame, show me how it's really done." A frown crossed Sarah's face, but Nicholas' only reaction was to move back to the game board.

Half his life, Willard mused as he begun cleaning the hares. Just about half of his life - and the more formative half, at that - had been post-war. He was hard. In some ways, he would be better adjusted to this world than Willard and Sarah. Yet, in a good many ways, he was still just a boy. A boy with all the temper and impatience and lack of foresight that entailed.

Willard's thoughts from before came to the front of his mind. Was he dying? And if so, what would the repercussions be? They were, after all, if not the last people in the world, as good as such. He had a mental image of Nicholas, alone and grayed, struggling to stay alive, overwhelm by the work of keeping this one final bastion running, Willard and Sarah long gone.

No. No, it couldn't end like that. Because that was what it would be - the end.

As far as Willard could tell, he was thirty-three. Sarah was a year younger, Nicholas eighteen. Willard was already starting to show signs of deterioration - true, it could be of any possible reason, and not just due to the environment. But if that wasn't the case, if it was due to the fact that he had been exposed longer than they and they would soon show the same effects...Then there was not much time.

Sarah looked over at him again, smiling. Willard returned the smile, tight lipped but sincere. She probably would not forgive him. At least, not right away.

But he knew what needed to be done.

* * * * * * * * * * *

It was three days before he finally had his chance.

He was half surprised that, after all this time and after all that they had been through, that Sarah still menstruated. He sent up a quick blessing; otherwise, they really would have been doomed. In such cramped and impersonal quarters as their semi-desert shelter, it was hard for her to hide such a thing.

Willard timed it for the period of space in her cycle where she would be most fertile. He remembered that much of his long-ago school sex ed classes.

It was Nicholas' time to hunt. With the food the way it was, it wasn't unusual for such jaunts to take hours, perhaps even all the daylight hours. That would give Willard all the time he needed. Once Nicholas had vanished over the horizon, towards what seemed like had once been a vibrant town and was now one of their primary foraging areas, Willard approached Sarah. She was in one of the storage rooms. He had waited for her to enter there. There was only one way out of those rooms.

"Sarah, we need to talk."

She had turned to him, smiling, asking him what about.

"I think I'm sick. I see things, sometimes. It's not just that; I think I might be wasting away. Losing my hair. Going thin. I think I may be dying."

Sarah's eyes went wide for a moment, then sympathetic. She approached him, patting him on the cheek softly, telling him that he was overreacting, that they were all scared, that she hadn't noticed any of that happening to him. That no one could blame him for being worried, even hypochondriac...

He reached up, taking hold of her hand. She started - he did not often initiate any sort of contact, especially the intimate kind such as this - but she did not resist. Obviously she was thinking that he had reached a straining point, needed some sort of closeness to someone at last.

If only she knew...

He took a step towards her.

She backed up.

"I know myself, Sarah. Which is why I know what I need to do."

She was shaking her head now, trying to move past him, obviously starting to grow frightened. He blocked her exit.

"Sarah, I might not have much time left. I've been out in the world longer than you have, but only by a few years. Soon, it might be too late for you, also. That's why we need to do this now."

She was shaking her head almost violently now, starting to cry. In a way, Willard was relieved. He wouldn't need to explain what he had to do to her; she seemed to already know. He reached towards her, tenderly, clumsily; she batted his hand away. Angry, he let his hand drop, scowling.

"We can do this the easy way or the hard way."

She was fully crying now, saying that Nicholas would not allow this, that he had been so nice to them until now, that if he stopped now she wouldn't tell...

He laughed at that. "As if I would try to hide this from Nicholas? I plan on telling him myself. I think he'll be on my side, personally, once the initial shock wears ofFUCK!"

Sarah had stealthily taken the first hard thing she could find - a can of beans - into her hand, and while he had been talking, had slammed it into the side of his head. Willard reeled, and she made her sprint for freedom as he fell to his side. He was down for only a second, however, and before she could make it a dozen feet he had tackled her, throwing her to the ground, his mass on top of her. She was kicking and screaming and wriggling now; no half-timid attempt to diffuse the situation.

Willard appreciated that. Their children would need that kind of spunk to survive in this world.

He was in a bit of a quandry, however. He couldn't afford to waste any of their medicinal anesthetic on her, and if he hit her unconscious he could seriously hurt her - and despite what she undoubtedly thought, that was not his intention.

Instead, he carefully flipped her over, avoiding all of her flailing limbs except for a hand that raked the side of his face. No matter, she had missed his eyes, and he'd been hurt more seriously in the past.

He punched her in the stomach. Hard. The fight went out of her along with the air. It wouldn't last long, but he didn't need it to.

He flipped her back onto her stomach. "Don't go anywhere." He got up, and in a few moments was back. He tied her wrists together behind her, as well as her ankles. A pillow went under her hips; he seemed to recall from somewhere that this was the best position to ensure conception.

She wasn't wearing a skirt, not in this weather; even using fuel, whether wood or petrol or alcohol, for heating was a waste in all but the most extreme cold - cold which seemed to be getting worse each year.

Slowly, taking care not to damage the clothing, he unbuttoned her pants, sliding them down. Almost gently, he hooked his fingers under the elastic waistband of her undies, doing the same to them. She was beginning to struggle again; in the back of his mind, Willard could understand that, perhaps, his gentle and careful undressing of her, the slow buildup to the rape (even he had to acknowledge it for what it was) was even more terrifying than if he had ripped the clothing from her and ravaged her then and there. It gave her more time to experience her position, to anticipate it, to envision what his plans for her were.

But, once she had comes to terms with it, Willard had no doubt that she would be glad that he hadn't torn her precious jeans and panties.

And so, there she was before him, her naked sex prepared and her body bound, Nicholas gone for another few hours. Willard sighed. He unbuttoned his own pants, lowering them with his boxers, and began to rub at himself. In a few minutes, he had an erection - no matter what anyone thought, he was not doing this for his own pleasure - and, finally, took his place, kneeling behind her.

She had been curiously quiet, but began screaming and yelling as he placed his hands on her elevated hips, holding her steady as he positioned himself.

"It's all right," he said softly. "You can scream, I don't mind. I know this is tough for you. But in enough time, you'll see that it's for the best. You're going to be Eve, Sarah. You'll eventually appreciate that. But even then, I'm sorry it has to be this way."

And then he forced himself into her.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Willard was working in the garden when the storm front arrived.

"You fucking BASTARD!"

Willard turned at the expected yell of Nicholas. He turned around to face the boy as he approached, fumbling for his pistol.

"Oh, shut up, kid," Willard said. "Don't be an idiot. You can't kill me. None of us can kill anyone. We're all too important now."

"You fucking bastard!" he repeated. "I'll kill you. I'm going to fucking kill you for what you've done!" The boy seemed to have given up his attempt to shoot Willard, and seemed eager to beat him to a pulp instead.

Which suited Willard fine. Nicholas might have a longer reach, but he was still spindly. Still twenty years younger than Willard. Still hadn't grown up with Willard's father and all the rage and memorized drills that had brought with it. Still was debilitated by the anger and unthinking reaction of youth. In a few seconds, the boy was on the ground, Willard's foot on his trachea.

"Don't be an idiot, Nicholas," Willard said calmly, then laughed. "You're just jealous because I had her first. I said, shut the fuck up and listen for once," Willard repeated as Nicholas began to angrily struggle in response to his accusation.

"You think I'm blind, Nick? You think neither she nor I can see how you look at her, how you act towards her, even when she's looking? You've spent the last eight years with you. You went into puberty and she was the only woman anywhere near your age. She's cared for you, you for her. I get it. I get it, believe me," Willard continued, almost gently.

"But the thing is, you can't be greedy, Nick. We need to share to survive. We all share, with everything. This is no different. We need to survive. You probably think I'm a monster. That's fair enough. In normal situations this would make me a monster. But it's not normal. It's the fucking end of the world, Nick. The end of the world. And it really will be, unless we have children. That's why I waited until now, Nick. Until the fertile part of her cycle. I didn't do it for laughs, Nick. I did it to make sure we would survive. She didn't want to have my child. If there were other women, perhaps she would have a choice. But there aren't, and she doesn't."

Nick renewed his struggles underneath him, reaching for the pistol Willard had taken from him and thrown to the side. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Sarah, wrapped in a blanket, come to the doorway and watch. Well, good for her. She could hear what he had to say also.

"The thing is, Nick, you're a bit of a hypocrite, aren't you? You've made advances on her before, haven't you, and she's turned you down, hasn't she? In those circumstances, it's completely understandable that you'd think that way. About taking her by force. And now you have your chance, Nick - by force, by gentle loving, by whatever you like. I'm not some sort of tyrant. For there to be any survival, there needs to be the widest source of genetic material available. That means children of your own, Nick. Having a baby - having as many babies as you want - with Sarah. Isn't that...isn't...that..."

Nick's eyes had gone up to the sky as Willard had talked. He had assumed it was a classic ploy to confuse him. But then, as he stopped talking, Willard heard it. Like a distant mosquito - but right now, when it was still at the end of winter? It was then that Willard allowed himself to look up.

It was a contrail. A distant, high, unmistakably artificial contrail up there among the sparse natural cloud cover. A contrail. An airplane.

"Someone has survived," Willard said, dully and unnecessarily. He put his foot down, on the other side of Nicholas' neck. The boy stood, shakily, rubbing his neck, but eyes toward the sky. Sarah, too, off to the side was watching. The entire stupid argument forgotten by this momentous discovery.

He laughed, suddenly, breaking the silence. "They've survived! Someone has survived! Hahaha!" He felt like running out, waving his arms, doing something - but the plane was too high up, too far away for them to notice anything. Even if they had burned any of their precious remaining wood and fuel.

"Survivors!" He repeated, dumbstruck now, shaking his head. He felt like a huge weight had been lifted from his shoulders. "And they'll have to be pretty big, pretty well organized if they can front a jet plane like that. Perhaps several survivor groups - why else would they be flying around? Let's see..." He looked back to the contrail, already fading, making a few calculations and guesses.

"Northeast. Hmm...probably one of those big Air Force installations, hewn into mountainsides. Groom Lake, maybe, or Colorado Springs. Or one of a million Midwest missile silos or command-and-control bunkers, or someplace they've never even told us about. But it has to be there, it has to be huge!" Willard was smiling now, turning back around. "We have a direction. We have a hope. We need to prepare to leave here, go looking for-"

The pistol shot rang out, the force of the impact throwing Willard onto his back. He coughed, once, the sensation like fire all over his chest. After a second, the form of Nicholas came over him, his formerly-discarded pistol in hand. A second more, and Sarah joined him, reaching out for Nicholas. Willard couldn't tell whether to hold him back or encourage him.

Fuck, it hurt. He wasn't sure whether the shot had actually penetrated or if the Kevlar vest that was part of his daily ensemble - especially for a day like today - had prevented it. Even so, it meant he probably had a few broken ribs. It hurt like hell either way. Fuck, it hurt. Maybe either way it would be the tipping point that would push his abused body over the edge.

His vision was swimming now, growing dark. He thought it easiest to just close his eyes. The last thing he saw was the contrail. It caused him to let out a bitter laugh, which brushed out of his lips as the whisper of a cough.

Any community that could front even one long-range jet had to be big. There were other survivors - lots of them.

He hadn't needed to rape Sarah after all.

He wondered if it would be a boy or a girl.