Against the inexorable forces of time, will humanity leave any lasting mark?
The last man on Earth knew not that he was. Nor would he have cared. He had met very few other humans in his life, and none since his woman coughed herself into silence. How long ago that happened, he did not know either. He kept no count of years, nor of anything else. She lay blurred in his memory, but so did most that was more than a few days past. Day-by-day survival took all his wits and strength, such as they were.
She had not been the last woman. That one had died in Novosibirsk. To her it was nameless; the crumbling buildings simply provided dens, and fuel against the winters, with a stock of rats and other small game for her to trap. Her family had laired there until, one by one, sickness or accident overtook each and they became food for the rest. A brother lived long enough that his feeble attentions got her pregnant, but it was a stillbirth and she ate it also. Nevertheless it left her weakened. When she fell and, broke a leg she was helpless and starved to death. The small creatures cleaned, liar bones The last man was likewise born in what had been a city, in his case Atlanta. He fled it when gang of cannibals arrived and settled in to stalk its streets and hallways for meat. Several generations ago their sort had been common, but the prey dwindled fast. These few soon perished in various ways. By that time the last man was elsewhere, and thus missed the satisfaction of learning about their fates.
