A lonely man. A lonely place. That last nightmare was the worst he'd ever had. It made the inevitable seem almost dreamlike.
It was after midnight that it happened. Daniel had been alone and fast asleep, like so many others. The first blast didn't wake him. The second made his wardrobe convulse and spit clothes in despair. An amber haze tickled the horizon, cruel paint on a black canvas.
Fear clamped his hands to the wooden windowsill. Not a soul appeared in the street below. No car passed on a typically busy street.
An hour ticked by before he drew the courage to venture outside. The air was warm and musty, drained of nightlife and noise. The orange blaze continued, now a little duller. When he decided to head toward the blaze, a mechanical roar made him stop. The hue vanished.
He walked with trepidation hoping to find life somewhere. But still he couldn't find man nor woman, adult or child. He moved through a city centre drained of humanity, crossing streets savaged of presence. He wandered until black bled into pale blue.
No birds sang for the sun. Seeing it all in daylight made it worse. His world had turned to decay and every last person was gone. Cars skewed in columns down streets, discarded like dead bumper cars. Stuffed suitcases and ownerless toys occupied pavements.
Outside the hospital wheelchairs and beds were tossed on their sides. He found a loaded gun in a Police car, and knew he may need it. Broken IVs and tossed bedsheets oozed like an overflowing river. He didn't want to venture inside; outside was disturbing enough.
The parks with their decaying flesh rustled for attention, colour dripped loose in droves. Their flakes of skin kicked in the breeze. Each crumpled leaf scuttled past him like crabs pursuing an ebbing tide. In the openness his every footstep was as loud as a gunshot.
Amidst such terrifying calm, Daniel eventually found solace and room for thought in the shade of a tall and looming tree. A hundred petrified limbs quiver in the wind, spindly fingers curling toward the gentle blue. It triggered vibrant, forgotten memories. The giggling voice of a child. The beaming grin of a devoted parent. Feet swinging back and forth upon that homemade swing.
Happiness doesn't come easy now, not when you're the last man alive. It can no longer delay the inevitable. No-one is coming. He can die now amongst the rotted remnants of what is long gone. He clicks the safety on the revolver, and plugs it to his temple. He stops as he hears a voice. Has he already fired the gun, or has she saved him? He opens his eyes as the word comes again.
"Daddy?"
