I do not own Doctor Horrible's Sing Along Blog.
The sun rose, again, causing a small but blinding beam to glide through the pin-hole in the dirt and wood roof, bouncing it off a mirror and onto the mechanical eye. The light-run clock started to whine, causing a groan to come from the human that had built it. A pale, long fingered hand reached to the small table by the side of his cot, flipping the mirror on its hinge, facing down so the light hit its non-reflective back, shutting the clock thing up.
The Eye Clock had no official name. Names didn't mean much anymore. And to be honest, neither did time. The Eye Clock wasn't really a clock, not in the slightest. There were no hands, no numbers, no constantly clicking gears, no time piece that anyone would recognize. All it did was whine when light hit the eye. Exciting, right? But it was his alarm clock, waking him when the sun rose, allowing him to continue his existence.
Billy Schrecklich poked his head out from under his thread-bare blanket, blue eyes blinking at the sudden light in his shelter. It wasn't much, just a pin-sized bit of light. But it brought something to the pitch-black surroundings so he could see. Kicking the blanket that was more for comfort than warmth, the lanky man turned over onto his back, sitting up slowly, stiffly, groaning as his back popped and cracked with movement. But he didn't have long to complain and sleep, he had to work quickly before the sun rose too high and the earth became too hot.
Eyes adjusting to the limited light, the room dug out of the ground came into focus and gave him a smile. There was barely anything in it; a cot, the table beside it, a basket with his clothes, and another table filled with gadgets in varying states of completion. The room was small, but he was okay with that. Reminded him of his lab when he was rooming with his henchman. That was so long ago…
Shaking himself out of the memory, Billy pushed himself to his feet, feeling the well-worn dirt under his toes as he tread through the semi-darkness of the shelter to his basket, pulling out his off-white smock. The lab coat had once been a shining, almost blinding, white. A normal white smock, buttons down the side, always teasingly called a dress. It had been modified since its first debut as the trademark of Doctor Horrible. It was dingy, now, stitched in places where there had been rips and tears. The inside had changed dramatically, lined now with a silvery blue material that almost matched the doctor's eyes. It was a hand-made material, one he had never named. Never had the time, nor inspiration to name it. At the time of its creation, it probably would have been something like "Protection Cloth" or something stupid. Now, though, it went without a name, like most of his creations. Because names didn't matter anymore.
Not the name of his Eye Clock, nor the name of his Protection Cloth, not even his own name. Doctor Horrible, William Freund Schrecklich, none of it.
Shrugging into the modified lab coat, Billy pulled on the once-tan pants, now brownish red with dust and time, also lined with the silver blue cloth. Then the boots and gloves, fully lined. Slipping the goggles onto his forehead the man bent down, picked up his canvas and cloth lined pack, slung it over his shoulder, and pulled on a rope hanging from the ceiling. A wooden door opened. He climbed the ladder that was inset to the wall, pulled himself onto the dirt landing, closed the wooden door, and pulled the goggles over his eyes. Then he opened the wooden door that separated him from the surface world.
Sun so bright it was literally blinding filled the exchange chamber, making the man flinch behind thick dark glass that consisted of his wielding goggles. A necessity, if he was going to remain on this earth. Grabbing the edges, he hauled his thin frame up, closed the door, and gazed around from his crouch on the dead grass.
Nothing had changed since yesterday. The land was dry, dead, brown and red. Buildings lay in crumbles and ruins no higher than five stories. A once tall and proud city was gone, demolished, devoid of all splendor that it once held. The sun was now forever a deep red, the result of the dust and dirt and smoke that would never clear the air. Turning a lined, exhausted, and filthy face away from the rising sun, Billy stood, tired eyes scanning for his next direction to take.
Why did he bother anymore? Two years, from his math, and he was still waking up every morning and wandering around the dead city. He wished he knew why. There was really nothing to wake up for other than survival. As he wandered south, he pondered his reason for staying alive.
Two years since Bad Horse had screwed up. Two years since the explosion that created this mess. Why didn't he just give up? There was no reason, no people around. But here he was, every morning, rising with the sun and walking around under its scorching heat. Why bother?
His first stop that day was a bookstore. His favorite, always had been. It was a used bookstore, full of new pages to read, stories behind the stories, and a wonderful cashier to talk to. It looked nothing like the little red building that once stood there. It was now leveled, rubble hiding and crushing the books that had once been inside. Billy shifted some of the mess, like he had done every morning since he re-found it. He was looking for a book still in some shape to be able to read. His store was running dry, however, but he still hoped to find something. Small white lights flickered in the corner of his vision, sometimes growing large before they faded. Some of them gathered around him, then floated and flickered away. He paid them no mind. He was looking for something.
He didn't find it. His bookstore was officially empty of anything salvageable. He'd have to find a new one to tear apart and hope with. Hope. Maybe that's why he woke up every day? Hoping that someone had survived the fallout? Science told him it couldn't happen, he was the only one with the cloth that had saved his life. There'd be no one else. Never would be again. No humans, no animals, no plants, nothing. Nothing lived. So, no, it wasn't hope that kept him going. Hope was long dead.
Dusting off his hands, Billy turned up the street and continued south, ignoring the flickering lights all around him. Some of them crossed the destroyed street, one even grew to have shape and some features, but quickly faded from sight before Billy could even bother to care. He didn't look at them anymore. First time he saw them he had been baffled. Then frightened, then… well, there's that hope word again. He had hoped.
The flickering lights were people. Well, not exactly. Billy never believed in ghosts. But he did believe in energy. Energy could not be made, nor destroyed. This energy just happened to sometimes hold the image of someone that had once lived.
That's all. They weren't people. The first time he had seen one, he tried to talk to it, tried to get the attention of the person. They didn't know him, didn't notice him. They just faded into a ball of light, floating away, gleaming and shining in the dark. It'd flicker in and out from time to time. It was energy, not a person. There were no such things as ghosts. Hope was gone. So he didn't notice them much anymore. There were some he took note of, though, every day. But the ones that moved didn't matter to him.
Speaking of which, he needed food. That did matter to him, for some reason. So it was to what was left of a grocery store. Almost everything had been crushed, and things that hadn't been had most likely gone bad over the last two years. Be it from time, or the radio activity. But there were some things that survived. Cookies, canned food, jerky, the like. Just like the book store, Billy shifted rubble and blocks of concrete, looking for things to eat. He had raided stores all over the city, and his supplies were running low. He'd probably have to move to a new city in a few days. The thought of leaving Los Angeles was an old one, but still strange. Had anything survived outside the epicenter? Probably better than this city had, actually. But he still had ties to this city, oddly enough.
Maybe that's why he still lived. His ties. He wanted to keep a piece of human history going, so he stayed. Human history? For what? Who or what would see it? Even cockroaches had died, there was nothing left. Unless aliens existed, there was no reason to keep history going. Even if he did and lived to be three hundred years old, what would he be able to tell them? That he was the reason the planet was dead? No, his ties to this world weren't what kept him alive. He'd move north to San Fran tomorrow. There were more resources there.
Eight cans of SPAM, two chocolate fudge cookies, and five Saltine packages later, Billy had enough food for the next couple of days. He'd be fine until he got to another city. Now to find another book store.
Hours later, the sun was high in the sky, akin to something like noon. Billy's body cried for food, his legs for rest, his skin for shade. He answered them. Finding an old bank, he sat against one of their semi-standing arches, leaning against its cool shade-making bricks, and opened his pack. He opened a pack of crackers, a can of SPAM, and went to town chowing down.
He never really cared about the radiation fall out these days. It had been two years since the explosion. Any radiation that was left was gone. But he still needed to protect himself from the rays of the sun that now had very little to filter it. So he still wore the smock with the protective cloth, still wore the gloves and pants and boots.
A small breeze picked up, tossing his hair around. It was longer now than it had been when Penny died. Falling into his eyes and ears. But it was blonder now than it was then, bleached by the merciless sun.
Gazing around his resting place, Billy took in a part of the city he hadn't gotten to before. Though he had probably ran a heist in this very bank, since the day the world ended he hadn't been to this part of the city. There were no orbs here, no flickering lights that had once been people's energy. How odd. Kind of nice, not t have reminders of his blunder all over the place. A rare smile ghosted on his lips, disappearing as something white caught his eye. Nothing was white anymore. This was an energy being. Packing up the remnants of his meager lunch, Billy slung the back over one shoulder and headed to the thing.
Standing, staring at the ground, was a little girl. She couldn't have been more than six years old, long hair falling about her back and shoulders, a simple dress with flowers all over it draped over her like a tent. She was barefoot. Billy followed her gaze, finding the remains of a human child on the ground, caught under a large chunk of marble from the storefront. The skull was at her feet. Plunking his pack down, Billy grabbed the handle of a shovel that he carried around, using it to shift the massive rock off the girl's body. There it was, the remnants of a light green dress around the bones of a child.
Using the metal handle of the shovel, Billy broke the sidewalk a bit more, moving it to the side. There was dirt under, of course. Quietly, knowing what he was doing, Billy shifted the dirt from the hole to cover the skeleton. The little girl's image flickered with every shovel full of dirt. Once the skull was covered completely, Billy watched as she blinked, started to move from her previously frozen state, and then walked away, becoming a ball of light before fading away. She'd show up later, wandering lost and unknowing of her surroundings. He had work here to do.
That must be why he was still alive! He had been burying the dead since he first saw Moist's energy effigy. He had killed them, now he had to bury them. No, that couldn't be. He'd have to bury the whole world, and he honestly didn't care about these people. It was just something to do. So he did it. But, maybe it had to do with his life? It wasn't the full reason, he was sure, but it could be part of it. He'd have to give it more thought.
But a little girl wouldn't be out and about on her own. As he gazed around, more and more images came to his eyes. There were a lot of people to bury here. No, he couldn't go to San Fran yet. He had work to do. People to bury.
As he shifted rubble, found dirt, buried bones, more and more lights came to the area. Through the thick tinted glass of his goggles, he could see them group together, separate, come into another group, the like. They would gather around him for a bit, as though watching what he was doing, then go away in a gaggle like they were discussing what they had seen before leaving again.
And just like that, a pang of loneliness flooded him. The ghosts (no, not ghosts, there were no such things. Energy imprints, yes) had each other. Or they didn't notice the world around them at all.
But Billy, he knew the world around him, and had no one to be around. He had created the Dehydration Ray, had woven the cloth that was to keep him from feeling the effects of the ray gun when he fired at a reservoir. He had created all of this without Bad Horse knowing, trying to surprise his boss. He was the one that had shown the mastermind the offending raygun.
Bad Horse was less than thrilled at one of his ELE members going on their own. He had kicked Billy hard, sending him flying across the room, breathless and injured, arms around his head as he curled up to protect himself from further attacks. The huge Chestnut had smashed the ray gun with one giant hoof. The gun's chemical reserve of a mix of stolen resources mixed into a volatile mix as it was crushed. It exploded, sending an orange wave out of the building, across the city, state, country, continent, taking out the world in one fell swoop.
Coughing and hacking, red drops dotting his lips, Billy peeked through his arms to see what had happened, ears ringing from the blast.
He could see the mountains. They were on fire. Mountains? He shouldn't be able to see them, he was in a building…
That's when he knew. The city was gone. He had ran through the destroyed city, water spraying from ruptured pipes, gas leaking from under the city had caught fire, the few standing buildings going up in flames before they too crashed to the ground. And the dead lay everywhere, dehydrated instantly as the blast touched them. He alone was protected by his clothes.
Two years. Two years since he had made the mistake of letting Bad Horse know of his project. And he was the last one on earth.
That was it! That's why he was still alive! He was paying for his crime of killing the earth. He was the only one alive; he had to be the one to bury the dead, suffer for what he had done, give the innocent the rest they deserved.
And that was why the lights were still there. They couldn't rest, they were waiting for the others to be set free.
Closing his eyes, Billy leaned against his shovel handle, tears starting to leak out from under his wielding goggles. He had done this, he was alone because he had been foolish and excited. Now look what it did. Sitting on the ground, in the hot sun, Billy pulled off his goggles and wept into his gloves. There was no hope for him now.