Day: Final

I am... of no consequence. Just another man. I lay alone, staring at the ceiling, reflecting. Has it really been almost three years now? Three years since they arrived. The invaders, the huskers. Bitter, heartless beings bent on nothing but death and destruction. Ripping out the chests of innocents, crawling into their mangled remains, distorting, warping, horrendous. Forcing the dead to move about like horrible, stringless marionettes. How many of us are left? I can't say. Weeks, months, not a soul have I encountered. Alone in a world bent on my destruction. They gnaw at my sanity, the wheezes and howls that echo down these empty roads. I have to make it stop. I will make it stop.

I drag myself off of my dilapidated mattress. Not that I had been sleeping. Not for weeks, years, centuries. Who knows. I examine my surroundings, a small suburban home; Boarded up and slowly rotting away. Unpleasant but familiar, hiding me away from them like a worthless coward. No more. Months of planning, searching. Building after building, scraped clean of all weapons and volatile substances. All in preparation for this day. Armageddon. Every crevice crammed with weaponry. Oven, sink, fridge, packed to the brim with explosives. I am ready.


I climb the makeshift ladder and onto the roof. Careful not to slip. Not now. Brimming with armaments of every kind. Pistols, Rifles, knives, even a spoon. I stare up into the sky, overcast, depressing, no matter. The flare in my hand beckons. Do it. A deep breath. My hands shake as I ignite it. The sky is dyed a crimson red, how appropriate. Within moments I hear it, the screams. Then, I see it, a red, flesh soaked ocean. Approaching, hunting. I do not budge. Drawing my pistol I stare them down. A shot. One down. Another. Two down. Faster they approach, engulfing homes. Five down. Will they ever stop? Can they ever stop? Nine. How can I expect to succeed? Twelve. I can't. Fourteen. Truly, I have gone mad. Fifteen. I don't care. Seventeen. Out of ammo. New gun. Eighteen. I can see their eyes. Nineteen. Hollow. Twenty. Dead. Twenty-one. They reach the yard. Twenty-three. The house. Twenty-six. My brain slams against my skull. Twenty-eight. Even it has turned on me. Twenty-nine. Who needs it. Thirty. Not I. Thirty-two. Thirty-three. Thirty-four. Thirty-five. All around me. Thirty-six. Thirty-seven. Heads peeking over the gutters. Thirty-eight. Thirty-nine. Need more power. Forty. Closer. Fifty. Can't. Sixty. Win. Seventy.

Pain. Blood gushing. They crowd around me. Staring, taunting. Just let me die. The largest one reaches down. It lifts me up by the wound in my chest. I can no longer feel the pain. He musters all his strength, warping the remains of the host organs. A hollow voice booms: "What are your last words?"

I do not flinch. No hesitation. With the last of my breath I utter five words.

"I left the oven on."


Five hundred and seventeen.