The End?

He didn’t think his life could get any worse. The stiff blanket twists around his thin body as he wakes up under a bridge, to the strange quiet, he begins to believe he is wrong.

Homeless for five years now, he is used to waking up to the sound of the city around him. Honks and the sound of people talking, fighting, and making up. This morning though, there was none of that.

No sound of cars moving over him. No sound of birds. Really, no sound of anything outside of his own labored breathing. 

A frown as he tries to recall whether today was a holiday. Those types of things matter less to him now, since he lost his home and family. Every day just bleeds into the next. The nights are the worst. That is when he relives the accident that took his family's lives.

Thanksgiving and Christmas, the churches give more hot meals. It is the only reason he pays attention now.

As it is summer now, this isn’t the case.  Independence Day?  Memorial Day? Labor Day? None would account for the complete ( is it?) lack of traffic. Even more the lack of people or any other noise, not even from nature.

He moves out from under the bridge, after storing his blanket and pillow in his backpack. It contains all his possessions. Besides the pillow and blanket, it has a few changes of clothes. It hangs on his shoulder as he makes his way out. 

His eyes, shaded by a grubby hat, look up at the bridge. No cars move over it. It is as still as the air around him. It is also unnaturally still. The scruffy looking tree that clings to life on the slope of the underpass, hangs still, its leaves looking like a still life.

He looks at his watch, the last decent thing he owns. It is six AM. No way there should be no traffic. This early in the morning, the weather is strange as well. There is no early morning breeze.

Heart pounding, mouth dry, he moves towards the 24/7 convenience store  a quarter of a mile from where he slept. There has to be someone there, someone who will maybe be able to tell him what is going on.

As he moves through the surreal morning  his sense of unease grows. No traffic, no movement behind the closed curtains and blinds he passes. It isn't the best neighborhood, yet still there is always someone out and about by six.

His knees are weak already due to malnutrition. As he walks towards the store, they grow weaker. He can barely lift one foot in front of the other. It isn’t because he hasn’t had a meal in days, not just anyway. No, it is because of the growing feeling that he is the only living soul in this area, if not the city, state, country, world? 

This last thought brings him to his knees. His dirty jeans land on the filthy sidewalk. His bleary eyes see used needles, condoms, and other signs of the bad neighborhood he exists in. 

Usually he would move away from it.  Homeless he may be, but so far, not ill with hepatitis or any other sickness common to those un-homed.

This morning though, he can’t  find the energy to move. So he kneels there staring off into space. Is he the only living being still alive? Is that possible?

His eyes drift shut and for the first time in a very long time, he says a prayer.

After a few moments, he finds the energy or maybe more the courage, to get up and move on.

The lights flicker on the fluorescent sign. That they are still on seems to him a good sign. He places his shaking hands on the door and pushes it open.

He feels it right away, the emptiness. His last bit of barely held on thread of hope snaps. His empty stomach rolls as he moves through desperate to find any sign of life. 

There isn’t any evidence of a struggle. It isn’t like the store was robbed, not that he can see. Everything seems to be in order. There is just no one here. 

The cash register remains closed. Nothing knocked off the shelves, no blood. Just the strange emptiness like it is a museum set, a representation of how people used to live.

He calls out. Weakly at first out of fear of disturbing whatever force might be living there. With a bit more force when he doesn’t  receive a response. His voice echoes strangely in the empty store.

Hearing it raises chills all over his body. With a courage he didn’t  know he has, he starts to move through it, searching every aisle before moving into the employees only part. 

He finds a makeshift break room, a storage room full of boxes. He doesn’t find a living soul. 

“Where is everyone!” he cries out in frustration. Again, it echoes queerly back to him.

“Everyone, everyone, everyone.” 

Will his own voice be the last thing he hears? The thought is abhorrent to him.

“Please ( ease, ease, ease), what this is ( is, is, is) I’ve had enough ( nough, nough, nough).”

Does he continue walking, searching? Whatever he decides to do, he will need energy. It is a point of pride that he has never stolen in his life. No, he would rather be hungry than steal. 

Is it stealing if no one is about to pay? He doesn’t know but he knows he needs to eat if he is to handle whatever is next.

Finding a pad behind the counter, he takes it and a pen. He notes his name, the date ( something he finds out from the newspaper) and a list of all he is taking and the prices. 

“Forgive me. I will make it right whenever I find someone here.” He signs his name.

If I find someone, he thinks. Insane thinking, of course he will find someone. Won’t he?