The last man on Earth sat alone in a room. There was a knock on the door...
- Frederic Brown, 'The Knock'
He slept fitfully, periodically starting from unsettling dreams.
The armchair in which he sat was old and tatty, but comfortable. It was the only piece of furniture in the room, save for the bed that was right behind it and a metal locker in one corner. The ceiling was low and the windows were small. They were also boarded up. A pile of smouldering ash and charcoal radiated heat from the hearth, a pile of logs to one side of the fireplace and several buckets of earth to the other.
A machine-pistol rested in his lap. Every so often, as he shifted about uneasily in sleep, his hands would grip the weapon until his knuckles showed white.
The door was, by virtue of a heavy-looking bolt, locked.
When he rose from the chair at last, he felt more weary than when he had collapsed into it the night before.
His tread was silent as he made his way across the carpet.
Before he drew back the bolt, he listened.
He heard only the sounds of the house, the subtle creaking and groaning of its sturdy but subtly-shifting structure.
In a swift movement he unbolted the door and threw it back, advancing into the corridor beyond and checking both sides of it before, again, listening.
Just the house.
The doors were all closed, bolted from this side. He checked his watch again just to be sure. It was daytime.
Not that that changed anything.
He moved to the windows and unbolted the shutters, opening them with one hand.
The other kept the weapon leveled at them.
The view beyond was innocuous. Above, a sky of grey. The greys and browns of the forested hillside offered something of a contrast to the dull white of the ground.
The snow was here to stay, now.
Quietly he trod across to his ready-room, pausing before it. He turned on the barrel-mounted flashlight.
In a single movement he unbolted the door threw it open and made a sweep of the room beyond.
Nothing.
He listened all the same.
He moved carefully through the room, checking the windows or rather, the shutters.
They were all secure.
He let his guard down, mostly, and moved to bolt the door shut behind him.
He let his gaze linger on the open window.
He frowned.
Let the feeling slide as he shut and bolted the door again, moving to open a window.
The view outside was much the same.
This window overlooked the front yard. Not that there was anything to see.
The valley beyond was empty, desolate. In the far distance the towers loomed, their outlines fuzzy about the edges.
It was snowing, then.
He turned his attention to his stomach.
There was rice from last night. He poured a couple of his last tins of vegetables into a pot, along with some water from the bucket, lit the stove and boiled it all until it was cooked.
He was glad of the stove. It was why he'd chosen this place.
He ate quickly, but not because he wanted to; it was hot food.
One didn't let it get cold.
Couldn't.
Once he'd stowed everything away again, he shut and bolted the shutters. He repeated the same routine from before as he left the room and entered another, discarding his underclothes behind the locked door and donning another set before entering the hall again.
After bolting the shutters on the hallway-window, he unbolted a door like all the others and bolted it behind him again without turning around.
He descended the short flight of stairs and stood before the door at the bottom of them.
After another half-minute of listening, he rushed through.
This corridor was empty, too.
Halfway along it, there was an open space on one side. He cleared the blind corner in a single rapid movement.
Nothing.
To one side of the front door there was a metal locker much like the one in the bedroom.
He checked the rest of the doors along the corridor - all bolted - before returning to the locker.
He opens it and places the still-warm weapon back in its place, magazine still inserted. He flicks on the safety catch, as an afterthought.
He puts on a sort of belt-harness. It is somewhat bulky, but does not restrict his freedom of movement by much. He checks the pouches on it. They contain magazines, as anticipated.
He picks out two larger weapons, loading them and chambering a round in each. He slings the first, longer weapon over his shoulder and it comes to rest against his back. He slings the second over his other shoulder, this one coming to rest against his chest.
His hands go to his sides, where the pistol and the knife are waiting in their thigh-holsters, as they have been all morning.
He shuts the locker and faces the door, breathing deeply to calm himself.
He undoes the bolts and jerks the door backwards and open in a violent motion, stepping back and steadying his weapon as he points it out into the cold beyond.
The wind rustles through the bare branches.
Moving only his eyes, he examines the wilderness beyond the doorway over the barrel of his rifle.
A minute of listening and watching later, he darts through the doorway and makes a sweep of the house behind him.
Nothing is out of place.
His breathing slowing, he moves to lock the door when there is a not-too-distant, loud creak in the woods to one side.
He freezes.
He resists the urge to panic, instead dropping to one knee and leveling his weapon at the direction of the noise.
The simple iron sights do nothing to magnify the hillside. He cannot see anything out of place...
Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid...
Without taking his eys off the spot he is already fishing his binoculars out of his webbing with his free hand, bringing them to his eyes and examining the place where he thinks the noise came from...
Maybe it was nothing.
Half a minute later he decides it was nothing. Just a branch breaking under the weight of the snow.
He produces a set of keys from somewhere and locks the door behind him.
Keys still in hand, he circles around the house.
Nothing is broken. It's in good shape. All the windows are shut, the curtains drawn.
All the windows bar one on the first floor, which is boarded up from the outside.
And the inside, of course.
He makes for the windowless, doorless garage-shed, pausing to watch and listen for a moment before unlocking the door.
He examines the hillside very carefully.
More nothing.
He curses himself for forgetting to grease the damned thing at the groaning creak the garage door gives as it swings up and open.
He darts inside, listening and watching from there.
Hands gripping his weapon tightly, he hears nothing unusual.
After a moment he goes outside again, makes another sweep.
Nothing, apparently.
He sprays the hinges with generous helpings of lubricant and gives the door another, experimental swing. It is virtually silent again.
He gives it another spray before unslinging his weapons, resting the longer one on the front passenger seat. He fastens the seatbelt over it, pinning it upright. He slings the shorter weapon in the usual way, such that it is hangs about his chest. He starts the vehicle up without a hitch and drives it out to the front gate before killing the engine, engaging the brake and jumping out to listen and to look with weapon in hands.
He sees nothing, hears nothing suspicious.
He shuts and locks the garage door before starting the car again.
It is a simple vehicle; he doesn't know its name or its model or its specifications, though he'd have to be blind to miss its maker. He took it because it's all he knows how to take care of.
Or rather, to maintain.
The only sound is the throttling hum of the engine.
His features do not seem so burdened, now that he is leaving the woods behind or rather, will be soon, just as soon as he clears this next hamlet.
As he rounds one of the last bends before he is clear of them at last, he sees something...
A tree has fallen across the road.
He freezes. A few seconds later he hits the brakes, gently.
A quiet decelerration later he comes to a halt not more than twenty yards from it. It was a tall thing, they all were, and the road is narrow here; it blocks both lanes in their entirety.
The thicket about him is very quiet, though it is hard to hear it properly over the sound of the engine. He makes a slow sweep of the trees as he breaks out into a cold sweat. He checks his mirrors.
Nothing seems out of place.
Looking at it again, he remembers the tree. It was old, rotting. This was a long time coming.
All the same...
He scans the trees again.
This wasn't the only road. It would mean another hour's round-trip, but that was doable. He checked his watch.
A part of him rebelled. An extra hour? There was so little daylight as it was...
He shuddered.
He didn't need to be out here today, he didn't need the supplies...
But he would in a couple of months. Maybe three, at the most. And then, it would be dark. Dark all the time.
Winter was nearly here. He had to be ready...
Steeling himself, he kills the engine.
And listens.
He unlocks the door and clambers out.
His knuckles show white as he grips the weapon, scanning the trees.
Still quiet.
He shuts the door behind him.
Silently, he treads over to the side of the road. The drainage ditch is full of snow. Nothing can be seen amongst the trees beyond.
He makes his way down into it, using one hand to steady himself.
The other never leaves his weapon.
Once in it he treads carefully, weapon leveled, creeping his way past the tree.
Nothing waits behind it.
He makes his way up to the road.
Just a tree. There are no other tracks, apart from his own.
He relaxes a fraction.
He resists the urge to simply climb over the tree - the whole thing, branches and all, isn't even to his shoulders.
The trunk isn't all that thick. He has a chainsaw. He could cut a path for the car in ten minutes, maybe less.
Probably less.
Eyes mostly on the trees as he backtracks past the tree and up to the car again, he quickly decides against it.
He makes another scan of the woods.
He hears nothing.
He opens the door sits down keys the ignition shuts the door and locks it.
Quickly he shifts gear and turns the car as he reverses. Changing gear again, he sets off back the way he came.
He glances to the rear-view mirror for a moment.
The tree looks no different.
Keeping his eyes on the road before him, he plots out another route into town in his head.
The sky is darker than before.
As he follows the road back, it starts to snow.
He curses quietly, under his breath. He should've attached the chains earlier.
He slows down, glancing again at the sky and then his watch. Then back to the sky, and the falling snow.
When he comes to the vital intersection, he brings the car to a stop and eyes the rear-view mirror for an intense moment. Then he gazes down the road to town. And finally, he surveys the way to the safe-house.
After only a moment's hesitation, he starts off home.
It is not far. He soon rounds a hill and there they are, in the distance. The little cluster of buildings, so small against the thickly-forested hillside looming over it.
He winds down the window. The air is cool and fresh, invigorating.
And, he thinks, deceptive.
The road beneath the compacted ice is just dirt and rock, now. His is the only place it leads to.
He inspects what he can see of the house as he draws closer. The snow is light, but still enough to noticably reduce visibility. Nothing looks out of place.
He brings the car to a halt just inside the always-open front gate and rushes out, weapon at the ready.
He listens.
There's nothing but the gentle, whispering sound of falling snow.
He treads around the house, weapon leveled. One eye ahead of him, one eye on the woods around.
The window that he broke is boarded up, as always.
Nothing seems awry.
He circles the tool shed and then the garage, silently opening the door of the latter, then returns hurriedly to the car.
Still, he listens for a moment before he gets in, looking out into the valley of sorts beyond.
Seemingly satisfied, he starts the engine and takes the car into the garage.
He kills the engine the moment it's in, unbuckling and then taking the rifle strapped to the passenger seat, fumbling his way out of the car. He slings the longer weapon over his shoulder, such that it rests against his back.
It's quiet out. There's just the rustling, of course. The snow seems to be coming down a bit harder now.
He swings the door shut and locks it, making for the front door.
He makes a last scan before he unlocks it. The snow is falling quite heavily now. He unlocks the door quietly, turning the handle.
Kicking it open he advances inside and clears both ends of the corridor. He was alone in the entry-way.
He checks the bolts. All locked, from this side.
He takes the keys out of the front door and moves to shut it but something in the snow catches his eye.
His eyes widen as he drops to one knee and struggles to bring his weapon to bear in time -
Gazing down the iron sights, finger on the trigger, he...
He blinks.
He crouches there in the entryway, weapon leveled at the snow as it falls thick and fast.
It was nothing...
Visibility is right down. He can't even see out to the front gate.
Still, he waits.
He forces his breathing into a measured, even rhythm.
He relaxes his grip on the weapon ever so slightly, his knuckles returning to a sickly-pale shade of yellow-brown.
Minutes pass.
The sound of the falling snow is... soothing. The pure, clean white calming.
He gets to his feet, still wary.
And quickly closes the door, almost reluctantly.
Locking and bolting it behind him, he moves to the cabinet and opens it.
He hesistates for a moment.
His eyes flick to the door.
He lets the rifles hang off his shoulders and takes the machine-pistol, quietly ghosting over to the stairs.
He clears the stairs themselves, bolting the door behind him. Turning the flashlight on again, he unbolts the second door and bursts into the upstairs corridor.
It seems quiet, and empty.
Locking the door behind him he advances into the kitchen, confirming its emptiness and bolting the door behind him.
Resting the machine-pistol on the counter-top, he unbolts the shutters and opens them a fraction.
Poised to shut and bolt them at any moment, he peers through the gap.
Nothing.
He shut them. Bolted them. The room was dim, the flashlight competing with the shreds of grey, exhausted light that filtered through the shutters.
He reached over and picked the weapon up, switching the light off.
Stupid.
It wasn't dark out. Still, he drew the curtains over the shutters and flicked the light back on and listened.
He only heard the sounds of the house, it's low groaning and creaking. The soft rustle of the snow, and maybe of the trees. His breathing, and his heartbeat.
Nothing. It was nothing...
Tired, he slumped with his back against the pantry.
How's that for a prologue?
(No need to be shy, now. I only know what you tell me!)
Like Mr Brown's original short short story, which I have so lovingly ripped off, I'd like to think of this chapter as a stand-alone story in its own right. Do check out another fic of mine, 'Late!' if you found this one to your liking. It's only a wee little thing, a one-shot, but I'm rather proud of it.
You have my apologies for the errors grammar and seplling.
... I'm sure Misters Anno and Brown won't mind any of this, nor Studio Gainax. I mean, I'm not making money or anything...