Little Mikey

Little Mikey thumbtacked the cereal box that he had turned inside out to the wall over the silent shortwave radio. Paper in the house was scarce, and there was nothing to write on, so he cut open the empty cereal box. He used it to mark off the weeks, months, and years as a crude calendar. The journal that he kept, Tom's journal, had been filled years ago, and Mike couldn't even remember the last time he had read it, let alone made an entry. The cardboard showed that the date was December 25, 2061. One of the cameras was still working, but it was always quiet outside. Mike was thirty-eight years old, and he thought that he should know his age and the date. Tom used to ask him what day it was every morning, and if he didn't know, the grandfather would tease him unmercifully. Mike stared at the calendar and tried to focus his mind on the last working system in the bunker. At least he knew the date, maybe.

He found it impossible to maintain the house alone. He didn't bother cleaning much, and the food stores were close to being exhausted. There was still a large quantity of MREs in the food storage room. At least he had electricity and water, most of the time. One of these days, he thought that he might even take a shower.

Mike often thought of the years that he had spent in his grandfather's house. He thought of Tom and how he had taught him how to fence in the long tunnel that led out to Joseph's house. Mike found it interesting and wanted to fence with someone after Tom had passed into the good night, as Tom had referred to it. Tom had lived until he was in his nineties and gave Mike fencing lessons until he became bedridden.

On the evening when Tom went to sleep for the last time and drifted into the good night, Mike imagined Tom's final words to be, "Hey, Mike, practice your parries, you never know." Lately, there were days that Mike dwelled on the good night himself; it almost soothed him as he felt it edging nearer.

Mary Anne had died out of what Chris thought was despair. Life in the house was not a life at all, but existence in prison, a prison with no crime, judgments, or locks. The confinement's blunt reality was that it was too much for anyone to withstand for this length of time. When Mike's father told them that his grandmother had passed away in the night, no one even asked for details. It was as if it was expected, even normal.

Chris took Lisa's passing harder. "There was no reason; no reason for her to die," he would mutter to himself, again and again. He missed her, despite the constant arguments they'd had towards the end. Lisa never accepted the situation; she would constantly ask to go out and walk around. Chris was adamantly against it, and the bickering was incessant. Lisa wanted to go home to Schenectady and see her mother, and she was unreasonable about it to the point of being psychotic.

When she passed into the good night, Chris wished that he could take all their arguments back. He wished he could have another day with her, just one more day. Chris would take his wife outside for a walk. He thought that he would hug her and tell her that he loved her, just one more time. He wanted to cry but would not afford himself the luxury. After that, Chris felt his mental resolve stretching thinner with each passing month. The ropes that tethered the boat of Chris's mind to the dock of his sanity were fraying, and it was only a matter of time until they snapped.

When Mikey's younger sister Michelle, passed it was from an undefined illness. The doctors and hospitals had vanished decades ago. The medical stores' antibiotics in the escape room, were no longer viable, and the remaining food was not the most nutritious.

When she got sick, it was just too much for her system to fight. Their immune systems were all weakened as a result of the lifestyle that they led.

Chris and Mike buried her in the dark, next to Tom, Mary Anne, and Lisa. After that, Chris changed. He didn't talk very often and always answered questions in the shortest possible sentences. Mike felt as if his life existed in a vacuum and he was starving for oxygen. It didn't surprise him when he awoke one day, and Chris was not in the bunker. The cereal box over the radio read 2051, but he wasn't positive about the date. Mike checked the house, the garage, the grounds, and, finding the back door wide open, gave up the search. Chris had gone for a walk. Mikel's thoughts were vapid and disconnected. If he wants to come back, he will.

The house was utterly quiet, and Mike prickled at the sensation. There were times, in the years that followed, that Mike thought that he heard voices. Sometimes he heard one, sometimes many. They sounded like echoes, and his mind would seize with irrational fear. He would search the house and grounds, calling for his family. These episodes were invariably followed by the blackest depression and thoughts of the good night. Each time Mikey had these thoughts, they enticed him more.

After everything that happened, Mike's feelings were dead to the touch. He did not let himself feel sadness for anyone except Michelle. In those moments when he thought of her, Mike fought back the tears until they finally didn't come anymore. Now that he found himself alone, even his most basic feelings fled until there was nothing left but a simple curiosity of what remained outside the house. The question, what should come next, loomed continuously in his mind.

In 2063, the last camera winked out. Mike couldn't accept that he was a shut-in with no connection to the outside world. The day arrived when he decided that the end had finally come. The generator was on the fritz again. The backup batteries were all but useless, and he had consumed the last moldy MRE.

Mike climbed the stairs up into the dark main house. He rarely went up there anymore. It was there that the voices were the loudest. He lit the last candle stub and slowly crept towards the kitchen door.

Mike stood there with his hand on the doorknob for a long time. He knew he was no more than a voyeur attempting to catch a fleeting glimpse of reality but didn't know if he was brave enough to peek. It wasn't the fear of what lay outside the door that stopped him. Mikey knew, deep down, that he was a goner. The emotion that froze him was the fear of leaving the only world he could remember. With everyone gone, the house had become his only companion and source of security. Michael Cranston stood in the doorway, his foot poised at the threshold. It was with a greater sadness and effort than he had ever expended, Little Mikey turned the doorknob, thus ending the reign of his species, Homo sapiens, as he gently stepped into the good night.