This is how it ends, or at least how it ends for me. I don't know if I'm the last man alive or not, but I could be. I haven't seen another person for at least two winters I guess, but I could be wrong since it's always winter.
A long time ago, there was something that happened. The blast, as it was called, but it was actually a war that used what is called a nuclear weapon. The war destroyed the planet, or at least everything alive; either all at once or over time.
I don't know why I'm even writing this, it won't be read by anyone else. Maybe it reminds me of the time before the war, or I'm trying to make peace in some way. My story isn't anything special, before the war, I was just a mechanic. I wasn't the smartest or the fastest or the best of anything, just a regular guy. The only reason I'm even alive is nothing but luck.
Some of that luck was earned, and I've seen things, and done things to survive that I never thought I would ever be a part of. I could be the last man alive, but humanity died a long time ago. The last person I saw, was a woman who was starving like me. She saw me pull my can of chili out of my bag, and she tried to take it from me. I had to fight for my chili, and ended up bashing her skull into mush to keep it.
All this over a can of goddamn chili. Canned food is the only kind left, and you can't go the store or hunt. Most of the animals are dead, I haven't seen one alive in several months. The plants are dead, so you can't grow anything. You have to wonder and search for your next meal, if you're lucky enough to find any, you guard it with your life.
Wondering is how I can write anything at all, I was exploring the mountains in somewhere I don't know. When I came across a house in decent shape, it was an old house but better than a shack or anything like that. I went in to find some food or anything else I could use. As I was exploring, I found the remains of a person in the floor of the master bedroom, with a pistol next to the body. The wall beside the body, looked like it was splashed with a rusty kinda paint. It had a hole in it too, so I looked down at the skull and there was a hole in the side of it.
Whoever this person was, they took their own life. I didn't find any food in the house, so maybe he decided to end his life than die of hunger. But this house is a mansion in the world now, and I decided to stay. Whoever that person was, they must have liked to write because I found this old typewriter in one of the other rooms. That is how I'm writing this now.
I went to check the pistol next to the body, and found it had seven bullets in the clip. I was excited, because this is the quickest and easiest way to defend yourself, but the best way to die. I only have seven cans of food left and I don't have the energy to hunt for more. I was lucky to make it up the mountains.
I'm not going to lie, I've fought long enough. Whatever is left of this world isn't worth staying alive for. When I was younger, my granny used to take me to church and the preacher would take about how hell awaits the sinner outside the grace of God in the next life. The preacher died before the war, but if he lived, he would have seen hell on Earth.
After my seven cans of food are gone, I will starve completely. My fate will be just like the person I found in this house. He didn't write anything before he died, maybe there wasn't anything worth writing anymore. He might be right, but I'm still writing so I could just be insane.
There is no point in living, there is nothing but silence. I've survived this long, but I'm nothing but a shell. Tonight I'm going to take that pistol, and follow the previous owner of the house. There is so much I want to say, but my words can't describe all that I want to say. Better men have been dead a long time now, those who could give a voice to the silence.
The last thing I could say is that if anyone is left alive and does read this, is that if you decide to go on; cherish the good times that you've had. Because when the end comes, that is all you will have. Let those final thoughts be the best you've ever had, otherwise, the best of who are will never be known ever again.
So if you are the last of us, don't let the end rob you of that final bit of strength, that passion that made us human and gave us joy. Don't let the final thoughts of mankind, be of pain, loss, hunger or anything else.
In high school, we read a poet named Dylan Thomas. I want his words to be my last. "Rage against the dying of the light."