Adam and Eve

I never did think, despite all past events and unexpected turns, considering what I know of the world and of myself, against all odds, that I would be the last person on Earth.

I have managed to keep myself grounded; my flat is more or less what is was before everything ended, but with a few minor changes. The electric hob is now a small gas camping stove (the hob and oven were hell to get out of the building), and all the useless light fittings are in a pile next to the door. Of course, all the electricity failed as soon as the power stations were abandoned, so I made do with gas lamps and candles where I could find them. It truly is surreal walking down the aisles of homeware stores pushing a trolley like normal, picking out what kind of scent I want, and then simply walking past the deserted checkout stations without a thought to any kind of payment.

The candle I keep next to my bed is my favourite. I had it long before, but it has lasted me far longer than any other. Just before I go to sleep at night, I watch it flicker and sway in the dark, like a golden ballerina turning on a music box.

I hardly light candles at all, such a precious commodity they are. If dusk creeps upon me, I have to break whatever journey I am on and find a home for the night. Perpetually moving is the only way to survive, for staying still would drive anyone insane. I take any route that will carry me and rejoice at every new town I meet. Perhaps ‘town’ is not the word for an empty settlement. They exist to be outdoor museums at the end of every train line, for me to explore on my own. The little ones are the nicest, those that have kept corner shops and market stalls alive, despite the irony of a much smaller population to serve them.

I am making my way to London in the hopes that the resources there will have lived longer than most. Maybe I can find a working car with a little petrol left; the density of the population must mean my odds are better.

If my memory serves me well, I will only need a day more walking to get to the north edge of the city. Once I arrive, I will need a better map quickly; travel time is precious, and it costs dearly to walk in the wrong direction.

I must have slept well because the sun is well above the horizon by the time I wake up. My blackout blinds do their job, but with little light to go by in the late evening I have tended to go to bed much earlier than I did when the electricity was still connected. In the early days, it often surprised me how early the sun set, as if the hours of night and day weren’t mirrored either side of noon. My nine-to-five desk job regularly encouraged drinks after work, no matter what day of the week it was. I got up as late as possible every morning and blamed the buses any time I was late for work. I was secretly pleased when everyone abandoned the office to spend time with their families and I didn’t have to set an alarm clock anymore.

In my flat, I put the kettle on the stove, filled up with last night’s rainwater. My mother would probably be disappointed by my choice of drink, but I know it’s safe and clean, and any you can’t taste any impurities when it’s used for coffee. Besides, there’s no one else left to judge me.

I never discovered cafetieres until my shoplifting trip to the homeware store. Years spent drinking the freeze-dried stuff and I had been missing out on such a luxury. I put a spoon of coffee in, fill up the cafetiere with the now boiled rainwater, and breathe in deeply. I’ve still got coffee beans for months – an abandoned coffee shop ensured that – but the sacks will run out eventually and then I’ll be left empty hearted. That beautiful smell that lifts my spirits every morning, best thing since sliced bread.

Enfield is my new favourite town. The road sign, Welcome to Enfield – Please drive carefully!, seemed like a message from God. Round just the first corner is a general store with maps of the local area, train lines, and the quickest routes into the City of London. And sat right outside, a three-year-old Ford Mondeo calls to me with its half open passenger window.

I reach inside and unlock it with ease. The driver’s seat is far less dusty than the passenger’s, protected by its fully closed window and a jacket strewn across the headrest. I shove the jacket in the back and sit down. My cart full of stuff is still sat outside and I should really check the engine for any imminent danger, but I cannot help taking the moment to relive a little normalcy of the life I used to have. My first car was a ten-year-old Ford Mondeo, and I fixed it up every time it gave out. I nursed that car when it was sick, and it protected me from the elements when I slept in the back seats on an impromptu road trip. The car I sit in now has none of the quirks mine did, but it feels familiar in a nurturing sort of way.

I fumble under the steering wheel for any kind of wires. To my shame, I once looked up how to jack a car and trip the engine without using the key. I was never going to do anything illegal, I simply had access to a car I could mess with and I was curious to see how they did it in the movies. That skill is now my saving grace. I smirk to myself.

After a couple of minutes of grunting and fiddling, the engine mumbles and then splutters to life. I have a working car.

Ever since people began rushing home to their families, I began making use of the balcony of the flat across the corridor. Every morning I take my freshly brewed rainwater black coffee and sit in my plastic chair and look out over the deserted town. It’s no buzzing metropolis but the landscape of houses and now dull apartment blocks weave a tight path to the town centre and the shops. From my fifth-floor balcony I can see the high street and the town hall, stacked up next to chain-store clothes retailers and a few different brands of bank. All empty now, and blissfully quiet.

When you’re the last person, it not longer feels like stealing. Everyone else bailed, ran to their friends and family, revved their engines and drove off leaving churned up dust in their wake. Surely, they’d want me to make use of their resources, so that I might survive when they didn’t?

Perhaps this is what the girl across the hall was thinking, when she packed a bag in half an hour and chucked her front door keys into my lap on her way out. We both knew we wouldn’t ever meet again so bitterness seemed a little futile in the moment; I was no perfect neighbour and she had no reason to be nice to me. I think of her from time to time, when I sit on her balcony and enjoy her view, and apologise and hope it means something.

An earthly grumble startles me. The sound from the other direction and I can see no movement from the balcony. I run inside, put down my coffee cup and make for the fire exit. The lift stopped working long ago so the stairs are the only way up and down from my apartment. Jumping down two steps at a time, my brain rattles through every possible scenario: a burst sewer pipe? Gas explosion? A giant tree crashing down?

The sound is so comforting that I sit frozen at the wheel unable to move. The car works: the rhythmic rumble of the engine vibrates through the seat and I feel as though I am inside a living beast. What would be laboured breaths are evidence of life to me.

To my left a tower block fire exit swings open and clangs against the outside wall. The unsuspecting blank rectangle leaves a black hole in the base of the tower block.

A woman runs out and stares at the car.

Parked outside the old general store is a bright red Ford Mondeo. And carefully, gently, out steps a guy about my age. I stop in my tracks and just stare at the person in front of me.

I know I’m the last one because there’s no one else left alive. I tried every way I could of sending a signal, a message, any kind of display that I’m still here, and if anyone else was that they should find me.

But that was years ago and I accepted my life for what it was: solitary.

Yet here, just a hundred meters from me, was my contradiction.

I do not know what to do. Anyone can learn to jack a car, but there are no instruction for this situation.

I gingerly raise my hand and wave. The woman briefly waves back.

I open my mouth. I am Adam, I say.

Eve, I reply.