Alone

by Alexander Tonkin

The man stepped out onto the buckled, overgrown pavement that had once been Oxford Street. He let out a sigh, and watched the steam from his mouth spiral up into the cool, crisp December morning. The sun was just poking out over the top of the opposite buildings, bathing the street in a harsh, weak light. The tawny haired adult began to walk down the grassy pavement, stick in hand, not making a sound except for the muffled click of shoe on grass. The whole street was dead quiet. Past the downed airship HMS Innovative; past the husk of a biological bomb; past the wreckage of a war that had scattered mankind to Pacific islands or Mars.

A low moan swept across the street, amplified by the buildings. The man paused, gripping the hilt of his stick. A hand shot out of an open doorway, groping around for something. A horrible, disfigured face followed, trying to form words but failing. The man relaxed and flicked a knowledge chicken bone towards the poor creature. His offering was accepted by the poor thing. The man must be especially resistant to the virus to survive this long. He did not count himself "lucky" to be immune. In some ways it was a curse. Only two years ago a cluster of disfigured infected would gather around his door, moaning. Now they were dead. A shriek cut through the air. The infected wretch was writhing around, the bone lying on the palm of its twitching hand. The man walked on. Already the creature's flesh was dissolving into a sticky, brown goo, its immune system dissolving with it.

The man lowered himself onto a rickety bench. It shuddered and gave a groaning sound, but stayed firm. He sighed. He could almost see what it was like before the biological bombs. He saw the parks, the clean skyscrapers, not the crumbling things they were today. His vision shifted to the war, where vast airships exchanged blows and small hovercraft dashed here and there, and side of biological bombs hissed open to spray their deadly payload over the city. He was back where he was now, tears streaming down his face, eyes red from sobbing. A sharp crack cut through the air. A vast skyscraper, that had been hit during the war, gave a sigh, and fell. "I had never visited it," the man thought. "I never will." He stood up, and walked on.

He strolled through the piteous wreckage of London, back to the house he had claimed as his own. The man felt more melancholy than usual. Perhaps it was the buildings, trapping his melancholy in. Or maybe it was because this area of London was not that damaged by the war. Or maybe this or that. He shook his head. All he knew was that all of mankind's labours, every last one to do with freedom, justice and democracy were in vain, because of one war.