Day One

I’m the last man alive. I have been fifty miles in every direction of my own home. I have mapped each and every inch of the lands around me. I have examined every square foot of every room. I have not seen anyone since my father died all those years ago. I have seen everything from human corpses with revolting appendages, grown from mutation, to dogs unchanged by the skyfall, and this is what disturbs me the most.

There is a footprint in my garden.

And it’s not mine.

I know this because I walk the same route to my derelict fence every morning, never deviating. The footprint is in the shape of a bare foot, very small and feminine, meaning no shoes. I wear boots. I could not have left that print. Someone is out here, and I’m determined to find them.

I saw this print after leaving my house for what felt like the millionth time. It’s funny how when you see the same scene every day of your life, you notice when there’s something insignificant that has changed. What changed then was my whole life. My whole attitude to living was to survive, and to thrive on what I could find, kill, cook, eat and drink. Now all I wanted to do was find whoever this woman was. I left the pathway to take a look at the print. Shallow, slightly smeared, and more imprinted towards to front of the foot. She was running, and knew how to run; driving herself with her forefoot, never leaving her heel hit the ground properly. She skipped my fence like it was nothing.  Hurdling was an old sport before the war, taking set height obstacles at a run, but the way her foot skimmed over the earth illustrates the sheer speed that which she was moving, and continued to move. She was used to running.

That poses the questions; why was she running so quickly, where has she run from, where is she running to, and what is she running away from. Noone runs that quickly unless they are being chased, followed or late. There aren’t many things to be late for this weather, so I assume she was being followed. Now I have multiple individuals to account for. Who was chasing her and why?

My head spun at this new exercise of unsolved mystery. I was used to solitary activity; reading, hunting, music and my latest distraction; meditation. For the first time I was thinking about how I could not be alone.

 I slung my rifle over my shoulder and strapped my goggles over my eyes. I stepped over my gate and took in what I could from what I could see. I judged from the footprint that she was running west, the direction my house faced, and it was last night. I knew nothing about her, her size, stamina and weight to imagine how far she may have gone or come from. Outside my gate there was no soil, only hard shattered concrete that left no footprint. I looked to the direction she ran; assuming she kept a good bead in that direction it put her in the valley. My house sits facing a valley from the west, and has a rough and rapid drop to the east. She climbed up the rough cliff face and ran west. So far so good. I was heading west today anyway.

I checked my bag for anything I might need. I had my usual gear with me. My rifle, an old British service rifle from another age, slung over my shoulder. My knives, two that served me different purpose, one for killing and one for the work after, were strapped to my waist. My telescopic sight I had for the rifle lay in my bag. I had a water bottle that always remained half empty; I usually try and fill it when I pass some kind of pure source. My “chow” as my father called it, dried dog meat that I can chew when I get hungry, or can’t find anything to kill. Ten bullets for the SMLE, and a foot-long bayonet that I liked more for antiquity sake then for anything else lay in the side pouch of my bag. I heaved the bag up onto my shoulder and over my back and set out west.

I make a habit of being loud. Walking, talking to myself and whistling, singing, often quite tunelessly, and working the bolt of my rifle to make sure there are no predators around. It served a double purpose today, which was to let that woman know I’m here, though I did leave the bolt of my rifle alone, wrong impressions and all that. The smell of my house faded. A mixture between old sodden wood and a smell I can’t describe. Every building or room has a smell. Soon after I hit the valley I was aware of a smell that was new. Pungent, and unbearable. I pulled up my scarf over my nose and carried on. The smell was carried on the wind, which was moving against me, which hinted at activity up ahead. The rocks all around me shaped into a deep corridor, I dared myself to go in there, as I was hemmed in and easily surrounded.   As I moved towards the smell I caught sight of movement ahead. My heart raced and my breath quickened; the wrong thing to happen if I need to start shooting. I dropped to one knee and breathed heavily, forcing my heart rate to drop, and myself to calm down.

I moved quietly over the rough ground and knelt next to a small pile of rocks, concealing myself. I poked my rifle over the top of the rock, taking aim through the tiny sights, and slowing my breath even further. The longest shot I would have to make here would be about a hundred feet, but I was taking no chances.

“Who’s there?” I shouted. The shout echoed throughout the valley and came back again so late that I was afraid it was someone else. My voice so strange to me, so aggressive that I shouted a second time to make sure it was still me.

“I’m not going to hurt you. I just need to see you.” The sheer absurdity of my comment made me smile strangely. My hand was shaking, and my eyes were watering with nerves. I didn’t fear for my own life, I feared I would kill the only person that I had met in nearly fifteen years.

A shape darted from one rock to another. I followed it with my sights. It moved back the direction it came, and as it moved I couldn’t see exactly what it was.

“Show yourself! I have nothing to give you!” My panicked shout was such that it embarrassed me to no end. I decided enough was enough. I stood and walked to the open, arms open, rifle down by my side.

“Look! I mean no harm. I just want to talk.” I stood there in silence for more than a minute. The shape, whatever it was stopped darting, and remained behind a rock face. I stepped forward and raised my rifle to my waist. I looked down to the ground and noted my shadow. The sun was in front of me, and was blinding. It left me in an awful spot to defend myself. I prepared to go on the defensive. I’ve never had to defend against a human before, let alone one so obviously quick. I move back to the rocks where I took aim before, and sat there waiting. A tense few moments passed which felt like a lifetime, until I saw my adversary for the first time. Out from the rocks, as if nothing had taken place, padded a dog.

I let out an immense sigh that deflated me entirely. I took quick, sharp aim and put a bullet through the eye of the dog. The recoil kicked hard in my shoulder, and the bullet exited the dogs head with a pink splash. Dead before he hit the ground. I took my smaller knife from my belt, and set about my work. I had done it a hundred times before and it gave me time to think. The smell of the air was dry and bare. There was no one else here. I could taste the solitude of my life in the dry air, and it made me gag. I finished up with the dog. Small strips of skin and the larger muscles of the hind quarters made for meals to go for a few days. Enough was enough for this afternoon.

When I made it back to the house I sat in my chair facing out my window. The window overlooked the back of my house, which stretched on over mountains and the remains of whatever was there before the war. At the sight of the ruins, I always let my eyes flick to my books. My most treasured possessions, and the ones that taught me almost all that I know. My father taught me the rest. I lay back and endured the heavy weight of my eyelids upon themselves and prepared for a decent rest.