The End Of The World 2012

Well, here we are in the final moments of this planet. According to Mayan Calendar the end will be as crappy as the final moment of "The Sopranos". So to honor our demise I present today an original short story concerning the last man on earth. The last man on earth, while thise words are tied to Richard Matheson's work on film started as a 'knock story'. A Knock story is a two line story that tells the entire tale. In this case the story was published in 1949 as part of an anthology titled "The Best Science Fiction Stories: 1949" edited by Everett F. Bieler & T. E. Dikty and published by Frederick Fell. The story is this: The last man on earth sat in a room. There was a knock on the door... Innumerable writing contests and exercises have seized on that theme asking newbies and seasoned scribes alike to expand on it. Here is my version: The last man on Earth sat alone in a room, there was a knock at the door: one single knock. At first he thought it might be just the building settling, the door-jam adjusting or some air expansion in the pipes. He sits in his junk scavenged refuge – a fifteen by fifteen hell-hole of protection – scraping the last bits from a tin can. He always sits on the opposite side of the room, facing the door, so he cannot quite pinpoint the sound. It is morning. Another countless and dateless morning as the sun shines on the barren devastation and crumbling debris that was once a civilization. The rays of the sun, ever brighter as the clouds lift, spill through the windows and holes in the roof and walls giving the man the only bath he can ever hope to have. There is another knock. It is the door: this he is now sure. He is also sure about what has happened. He has been sure about that for months. The building he has taken refuge in from the radioactive rain, while better than most, is heavily damaged from the bombings and fallout. The knock is followed by another and another. The knocking persists with neither rhythm nor pattern, nor with any force - just simple knocking. Under the door, interrupting the light pouring in under the crack, he sees two distinct shadows cutting the single slender beam into three, smaller chunks, as though someone is standing there. And that someone is knocking. The last man on Earth holds his breath as the door handle jiggles. The visitor is attempting to enter. The handle shakes with a sense of urgency as the man remains glued to his chair. While he does have a knife he uses for food, he never thought he might need it for protection. Still holding his breath, something else begins to creep in from outside the door. Replacing the knocking and the rattling is a rasp – a sound less than a voice and even less than a word. “. . . ow.” “. . . ow.” ‘Maybe I’m not alone’, he thinks. ‘Maybe this is someone in trouble.’ “. . .ow.” ‘Maybe this is someone in pain.’ His mind begins to spin. ‘Ordinarily…but I only have enough rations for a few more days. So far, I’ve been able to avoid radiation poisoning, but if I open that door to help this man, I run the risk of exposing myself to whatever ails him. But what if it isn’t . . . I know I’m the only one left.’ Indecision can be the delicious teaser before the pain of doubt and remorse. The last man on Earth – exhausted, grieving, confused and guilty – prays to his God: a God he resents; a God who has allowed extinction to happen in a matter of seconds; a God who has allowed him, and only him, to face Hell without the strength of resolve or, seemingly, redemption. He attempts to play out scenarios rooted in sleepless speculation and grief, with options equating to dread. To let another man in need die is truly a sin, but what about the sin he finds himself in? His thoughts are jogged by a thump from the other side of the door. Initially there is silence. Then a low, guttural and choking moan – louder than the knock, louder than the rattle, louder than the rasp. This is the sound of pain. Underneath the door, poking through into his room is the blade of a knife. Blinded at first by sun on steel, he can see that the blade is more than three quarters under his door, it’s tip bent and flattened, gouging into the wood of the floor. It resembles the knife the man is clutching in his own right hand – from the curve of the blade to the serrations. The moaning grows louder and more desperate. The last man on Earth edges his way to the door. Never having used a knife before other than to eat a meal, he clutches it firmly in his right hand, blade pointed outward, in a way he believes will allow him to defend himself – or even strike first. Unlocking the door, the moans turn into howls of pain. Thanking God that the door opens inward, the man cautiously cranes his body, knife first and held high, around the latch. Before he can strike, before he can attack the invader, his breathing stops, his heart skips and his own knife drops to the floor. There before him lies a contorted, boil-covered, scab-encrusted, oozing mass of human flesh. It’s lips are deformed, it’s eyes are but slits, but the man can still recognize his own face, mirrored back at him in the blade of his knife. The last man on Earth sits alone in a room…