Last Person Left on Earth

Do you know that feeling you get when you think you’re alone in a room then realize there was someone else there all along? Imagine that but on Earth—instead of in a room: that’s how I feel right now. 

Four weeks ago I thought I was the last human left on the planet. I can still remember waking up to a life of silence, emptiness, peace. The previous night had been a Friday, so as soon as the sun set it became unacceptable for me to be sober; I started the evening at the liquor store and ended at home watching TV. Before changing to Netflix I remember hearing someone say something on Fox News about a virus they were testing. At the time I didn’t process the information completely. The part of my brain responsible for interpreting signs must’ve shut off temporarily after registering that the TV was on a news channel. My mind was more preoccupied with finding the red “N” button on the remote. Once I had Tiger King set up I grabbed a cold Budweiser from the fridge and rolled a fat indica joint. That’s the last memory I have of that night. 

#

Next morning I woke up alone. I don’t mean alone in bed, or even alone in my home— that wouldn’t be new—what I mean is that I was the only human who woke up from sleep that day—or so I thought. I didn’t notice at first; I thought it was just another dead Saturday morning. I tried listening to the radio, but every station was playing the same static noise. Perhaps I would’ve realized something was out of place if not for my throbbing headache and unsettled stomach. All I could think about was the medium double-double I planned on buying at Tim’s— it being a Saturday, I was considering adding a Boston cream to my order. The blaring gaze of the sun was unchallenged by clouds that morning, and so, since I was heading East, I kept my head down and eyes squinted all the way from my apartment building to the Tim Horton’s down the road. Only when I arrived did I look up. I pushed and pulled both doors to no avail, then looked for a sign stating the reason for their closure during a normal business hour—didn’t find any. 

On the walk back I was able to look straight without being blinded by the rising sun, giving me a better perspective of New York’s emptiness. I would like to say I noticed something had happened by then, but unfortunately that would be a lie. The lack of cars on the road and pedestrians on the sidewalk did strike me as odd, but I simply assumed there was a reasonable explanation for it. I went straight back to my apartment without thinking much about the subject and started on my wake and bake routine. 

#

It didn’t take long before I became aware of Earth’s current conditions; once Monday came and I drove down on a deserted Linden Boulevard expecting to start my shift at McDonald’s late, it became obvious to me that something was really wrong. I called every number on my contact list, but no one answered. The most recent news article I could find online had been published two days ago: “New Deadly Virus Found by CDC” and “Trump Steps Up Criticism of Fed.” After a thorough tour around town and a few hours long brainstorm in my foggy room, I came to the conclusion that I was the last human left on Earth—I was wrong. Fortunately, there were enough supplies on the planet for almost eight billion people to survive, so I was confident there would be enough for me. 

My first trips to the abandoned grocery stores were...well, pretty trippy. I felt like a child after being given permission by their mom to buy what they want at the store. The only difference was that I really had no limit—and I wasn’t buying anything. I only stopped once I had no more space in the car. Eventually, my “theft” (if you could call it that) expanded to other stores around town; before I knew it my apartment was overflowing with all sorts of products. That was when the idea of moving into a better house dawned on me. 

A few weeks later I was living in a three-story house on the beach in Port Washington and driving a BMW i8 Roadster. I had enough canned supplies stored in my warehouse-sized basement to live a dozen lives, and enough government-issued cannabis and liquor for me to forget what being sober felt like. After a certain point the energy of the town went out, so all the new-gen consoles, 4K televisions, state of the art computers, and other electronics I brought over to my new mansion were ultimately useless. I had to find new ways to entertain myself. Breaking glass windows, smashing expensive pottery, peeing on police cars, setting expensive houses on fire, screaming with all I have from the tallest buildings, racing down main roads with sport cars at full speed, and other such distractions I found lost their novelty with time, becoming boring and mundane. Being intoxicated became my new sober. It came to a point where I would spend most of my days sitting on the rooftop of a skyscraper, drinking and smoking, watching the sun as it rose and fell on an empty world. Soon it became a custom for me to lean on the edge and peer down at the miniature cars below, wondering how long the fall would take—and whether it would hurt.

It was during such a moment of contemplation that I was startled by a big bang in the distance. The building rumbled beneath my feet, causing me to trip over the edge and fall on my ass a few inches away from where the concrete ended. I got up quickly and began spinning around like a bored ballerina in search of any signs of smoke or fire. The world around me was starting to tilt and turn by the time I saw a wisp of smoke rising by the Empire States Building. 

A minute later I was buckled up in my BMW and speeding towards the rising smoke in the horizon. 

###

I woke up beside my dead husband. For hours I went through my morning routines as though he was still sleeping soundly: I took the time to prepare breakfast, brush my teeth, take a shower (without washing my hair), try to call some friends who didn’t pick up, and review my sales pitch before deciding to gently shake my husband’s shoulder. When he didn’t move, I stopped being so gentle. I had tickled his feet, placed my cold hands on his bare belly, stuffed a wet finger on his ear, and slapped his cheeks twice before I checked if his heart was beating. During our twenty years of marriage I had become accustomed to Teddy’s pranks. Most of the time, one of those techniques I mentioned was enough to get him to break character, sometimes two when he felt particularly persistent. Now, because of this stupid habit of his, I’ll have to live with the fact that I slapped my husband in the face shortly after his untimely death. 

My first reaction was to freak out. I tried to remember the CPR training I had after becoming a supervisor for the first time, but my brain seemed to have lost its ability to think. My heartbeat echoed in my head; my lungs recycled air at maximum efficiency; my stomach clenched. After I was able to calm myself down—to an extent—I placed the heel of my right hand at the center of my husband’s chest, covered it with my left hand, interlocked my fingers, then applied pressure in harmony with the beat of “Stayin’ Alive”—which I had to play on my phone because I was unable to imagine it. From time to time I would give him mouth-to-mouth, though I couldn’t remember the proper frequency. Once my forearm started to burn I stopped. That was when I decided to call 911. 

Being the first time I ever called in an emergency, I didn’t know what the usual waiting time was, and whether it was common for them not to answer at all. I tried five times before calling Jess instead: “Hey, it’s me, Jess, your favorite. Sorry, I’m not here at the moment, but you can leave a me—” Then I tried Stephany, then Julia, then Kate. When even my mom didn’t pick up I realized something was really wrong. 

Teddy had a bulky build—his shoulders were wide, as was his belly and waist—making a challenge for me to carry his cold body by myself. Grabbing both his heels, I dragged him through the carpeted floor of our bedroom in short intervals. After dropping my husband down a couple of steps, I walked over to Ms. Wellsworth’s house and knocked at her door, hoping to get some help from one of her teenage sons. No one answered. I thought about trying the other neighbors, but I had a feeling it would be a waste of time. 

Lifting him into the back seat of our five-year-old SUV was the hardest part, and required the most effort. Bringing him over to the garage took about half an hour; getting him in the back took twice that. By then my arms felt like Jell-o, my knees were shaking, and there was a dull pain in my back. I had to sit on the driveway for a moment—relax my muscles, calm my heart, catch my breath—before getting in the car and driving towards the hospital. 

#

The streets were empty. No cars. No pedestrians. A heavy silence fell on the world, broken only by the sound of the SUV’s motor as I sped down Spring Garden Road. At the time I was too focused on how my husband’s heart wasn’t beating to notice the uncanny quietness of downtown Halifax. I took advantage of the lack of cars to drive a few dozen kilometres above the speed limit and to race through a couple of recently-turned red lights, but I didn’t stop to think about the reason behind the lack of cars. 

Only when I arrived at the hospital did I start to question where everybody was. I parked as close to the front door as possible, opening the car door before fully stopping and rushing towards the front door of the building yelling for help. Once I entered the lobby my heart sank: not a soul in sight. Behind the front desk there was a nurse laying on the floor—he had no pulse. As I went up and down stairs and in and out of rooms, I noticed corpses here and there, but no blood. I yelled and yelled—only my echo responded. 

#

My next try was Jess’s house. I parked diagonally on her driveway then hammered her door with my fist. “Jess, it’s me! Open the door, I need your help! Jess!” 

No one answered. I circled around the house and knocked at the back door—no one answered. I knocked at every ground floor window—nothing. I considered breaking in, but what would that achieve? I drove to my mom’s house instead. 

It was around noon when I used the hidden key to open the back door. I expected my mom to be cooking in the kitchen and my dad to be watching Netflix in the living room; instead, the house was silent. I found them in their bedroom, laying in bed together, both facing the ceiling, the tip of their fingers touching. I knew they were dead before I checked their wrist. 

Striding through the back door for some fresh air, I sat on the step leading to the deck behind the house and cried. I didn’t know what else to do. No one I called answered; I hadn’t seen a single person since waking up; the most recent news articles were posted last night— nothing about Earth’s emptiness. I didn’t know what was happening, but I also didn’t care at the time. I didn’t even know how many deaths I should be mourning. It felt like a dream—well, nightmare—like it wasn’t real; yet pinching myself didn’t seem to magically teleport me back to bed, beside my snoring husband. 

#

Once dusk came, I drove towards the bridge to Dartmouth. My hopes were that whatever happened in Halifax didn't happen in its neighboring city. I was wrong; Dartmouth was a ghost town. I then tried Lower Sackville—empty; Truro—empty; New Glasgow—empty. I soon came to the conclusion that all of Nova Scotia was likely empty, maybe even all of Canada. The whole world. I thought I was the last human left on Earth—I was wrong. 

#

My journey around Atlantic Canada proved my theory that the world was deserted. The first few weeks were more tough: I drove from city to city in my old SUV, searching for another living human; crying became a routine; I scavenged electronic stores in hopes of finding a way to communicate with a possible survivor—nothing worked. On top of it all, my husband’s decaying body made the entire car smell like death. After careful consideration I wrapped him in half a dozen blankets and a few tarps, then struggled to transfer him to the trunk. The foul smell persisted, so I stuffed the trunk and back seat with stolen air fresheners—it helped. 

It took some time, but soon I started to enjoy speeding on empty highways, stealing food, breaking windows, setting cars on fire, and farting wherever I wanted without a single trace of fear or embarrassment. I was free to do whatever I wanted; an overwhelming idea at first, but one I took advantage of later. 

#

I always wanted to go to New York, but I was held back before because of money, time, and my husband—fortunately, none of those were a problem anymore. I had the unique opportunity of seeing it for the first time completely empty—well, not completely. Still, I could drive through its streets as smoothly as a boat sailing on still waters. The only downside was that all of the city's attractions were not functioning anymore. At least I could still climb the Empire States building, which had always been on the top of my bucket list. 

From up there I could see all of New York, even a bit beyond. It was a beautiful view, but not quite as fulfilling as I daydreamed it would be during most of my childhood. It was then that I started to wonder: what was the most extreme thing I could do? It had to be something I would never have included in my bucket list before. 

About six hours later, I had drained all of the gas stations around New York and stocked the first few floors of the Empire State Building with red plastic containers. I considered going even further—looking for gunpowder—but in the end I trusted the gasoline to do the job. I parked my old SUV—with Teddy’s corpse and a few gallons inside—on the first floor of the building, then made a trail leading from it to a spot on the street a few yards away. I lit a match, threw it on the small puddle I made at the end of the trail, then ran the opposite direction as fast as I could. Once I considered myself to be at a safe distance, I hid behind a pick-up truck and peeped at the line of fire slowly making its way towards the broken front door of the building. 

BOOM!

###

I was able to smell the fire before I could see it. Once I crossed 30th Street I slowed the BMW down from a hundred kilometers an hour to twenty, allowing me to drift down 5th Avenue slowly enough to observe the fire. The bottom third of the Empire States Building, as well as all of the building in front of and part of the one adjacent to it, was completely engulfed in flames. I tried to think of ways in which this could’ve happened without human intervention, but my imagination fell short. 

I parked the BMW in the middle of the street two blocks away from the spreading fire and sat on its hood watching the dancing flames glimmering on the hundreds of windows surrounding it. It was beautiful; I was glad to be alive to see it. 

It was then that I heard footsteps approaching behind me. 

###

I walked towards the BMW while brainstorming how to introduce myself. However, my brain was a mixture of excitement and fear, which seemed to prevent me from accessing my speech memories. As I got closer to the man he turned, his face shrouded in darkness by the contrasting flames behind him. Both of us stood still for a few seconds, unable to speak. He then jumped out of his car and stepped towards me. His features became more distinguishable as he approached. Once he was a few inches away he extended his left hand towards me.

#####

“Hi, I’m Adam,” he said.

“I’m Eve,” she said. “Nice to meet you.”

THE END