I'm not one for poetry. I never was. Never was one for fine arts, in general. I'm not a fan of churching things up. So of course, since the world had gone to shit, I decided the best course of actions was to cut out the tumors.

Drains on our resources who, as far as I was concerned, weren't contributing sufficiently. They couldn't possibly. Elderly, cancer patients, and children couldn't go out on patrol, and didn't have the necessary skills. We needed to survive as long as we could. There was no point in having children, after all, humanity was dead. All forms of it, metaphorically and literally.

If humanity were to survive, well... Then surely I'd go down in history, right? "Crawford Oberson: Apocalyptic Dictator". One could fantasize, hm? But again, humanity was fucked as far as I was concerned, and it seems to me I was right.

In my life, many people died. Many people survived for awhile, too. I was benevolent, at some point, but leadership is difficult, needless to say. Some people think they have the fucking right to judge me. Why? Because I did things people didn't like. Well tell me, then: Would we have survived LONGER with them? With those whiny brats, or those people so close to being corpses? They'd die in their sleep, and the entire fucking city would have crumbled even sooner.

This bullshit would have happened MUCH SOONER, without me! They should be grateful they lasted this goddamn long! After all, with the patients and elderly, they could have caused the issue the dead doctor did, in the first few days. With children, and all their whining, they could have attracted the dead much sooner, but they didn't, did they? Because of ME. Because of ME, they didn't get the chance to fuck it up for the rest of us.

I AM A GREAT LEADER!

Well, I was.

They didn't want to hear his justification for his cruelty. The dead surrounded them, and as far as the remainder of the group were concerned, they couldn't go without giving Crawford the indignity they believed he deserved. Vengeance, for all he had done. That's what he deserved.

"I'd call this irony." He was addressing a pregnant woman, noting her eyes filled with tears, and her expression laden with guilt. "Not the fact that you're doing this, and you'll live longer than me, of course. I mean the fact that I told you all children would be a downfall, and what happened? One child that won't even survive caused the downfall of this group."

He looked at the other people behind her, avoiding his gaze, but clearly angered by his words. "I find it incredibly funny, honestly. Your sacrifice, this entire group, all for nothing. All for an infant who won't be born. An unborn child who doesn't care about anyone. Well, go ahead, throw me away, all for some ungrateful fetus who has done nothing for you, and never will."

The ringer of the bell was removed, and the rope that once held it was wrapped around his throat. Behind him was a drop, and he knew what was coming. Death was a frightening aspect of life, but he hadn't expected it to be so soon. "Any last words?" A man spoke, "Before you're nothing but a bad dream?"

Crawford looked at the downfall of his kingdom. A single woman with a child who wasn't going to survive the outbreak she caused. "It's funny. You spoke of my lack of care, my lack of mercy, my lack of compassion. Tell me this, you cow. Is it not compassionate to kill the weak, before they die? Would it not have been less cruel to get rid of it with a pill, than have it eaten alive? Would it have been worth all the deaths, if it HAD survived?"

His last words went ignored.

The man who had spoken before kicked him off the ledge, and he was hung. His neck didn't snap.

They watched in silence as he struggled, his struggle dying down slowly, as he kicked feebly in the air, clawing at the rope uselessly. He was a dead man, already, so such struggles were pointless, but human instinct took over. Eventually, his kicking was reduced to foot twitching, then limpness.

Seconds of silence passed, before he started to gurgle, clawing at the people around him. Dead, but moving. Ringing the bell, until the remains of the group he once led succumbed to the dead.