Starved

At first, I figured I was dead. What else could explain the swirling sky and indigo haze that enveloped the entirety of my surroundings. Even so, it was no afterlife that I had ever heard of; no golden gates; no sunny fields or Elysium; no new body, for I still held my own; and I had clearly not simply ceased to exist. I recognized the hollowed remains of my neighborhood. As I wandered, I could see doors hanging open and handbags dropped on walkways, vehicles careened into storefronts and traffic signs, skateboards and children’s toys scattered and abandoned. Indeed, maybe I had found myself in some form of Hell utterly alone with only the memories of society to keep me company. A Hell in which I was to suffer hunger. A hell in which I was to suffer exhaustion and a persistent wind chill. A hell where I had to abandon my ideologies and social construct to satisfy my base human needs.

I wanted to believe that I was dead, that would be easier for my mind to accept, and yet still I clung to the trapping of survival. If I were dead what was the need? Still, I ate. I slept and sought warmth. I left a note in every house I ransacked with a list of what I took and an addendum: "Thought I was the only one left. Will pay you back. Headed toward the Capitol Sector," signed Jeramiah Milcaster. With no other stimuli, my activities turned into a mindless darg in which I awoke at sunup, ate, packed, and traveled until just after midday, searched for shelter, scavenged until sundown, and then entertained myself with whatever my most recent temporary residence could offer.

I had lost count of how many days rolled by. What was the point in keeping track? I had no schedules to keep. Not holidays to observe. No birthdays to celebrate.

That is what I tried to convince myself of, anyway. I knew well how many days it had been. The day before I had awoken in that "Hell" I had just finished planning my own birthday outing. The day had been marked and the invitations sent. That was twenty-eight days ago. We were all supposed to meet up in the Capitol for fun, sightseeing, and hopefully minor vulgarity, and yet there I was, breaking into yet another house and rummaging around for any spirits I could find so that I could sulk and drink alone.

For once, "Hell" seemed to be on my side as I broke off a closet door handle to find a small rack of various bottles resting beneath an eccentric array of costumes. Initially I just took a bottle and nursed it while wheeling a chair around the small home-office like room, pulling various books from shelves and skimming through an assorted collection of high fantasies. Silent reading slowly evolved into out loud narration and then into acting. From there...well, someone had to put those costumes to use.

Near empty bottle in hand, stripped down naked all but a luxurious cape, heavy fur gauntlets on my forearms and shins, and horned helmet far too big for my head, I clambered up from the house's balcony to the roof and screamed at the top of my lungs, "I am the last of mankind. I know no equal," and pointed out across the street toward the apartment complex before me, "if any would dare challenge me, come forth!"

"Uh, hi?"

The voice came from below me. I turned toward the noise, leaning forward to get a better look from whence it came. They started waving their arms frantically.

"Wait! Don't lea-- oh fu--"