Solitary

Solitary

It’s September 11, 2050, two months since biological weapons were released in the United States. I’m not sure why I still track the date. It really means nothing anymore.

We always thought nuclear weapons were the most dangerous threat we faced. In the end, it was something so small that a microscope was needed to see it. Carried by stealth missiles, a biological weapon was released in all our major waterways. Our government ridiculed the attack at first, believing that the vital targets had been missed. Days later, people started to become severely ill.

Scientists at the Centers for Disease Control learned a few things about the bioweapon before they became sick themselves. They said it was a virulent species of a spore-forming bacteria similar to anthrax. It was resistant to destruction by antibiotics, disinfectants, and sterilization. Spread through our water supply, the microbe infected people when they showered, bathed or ingested it. For some unknown reason, I never became sick.

It was different for the rest of my family; they all contracted the disease. I tried to halt its’ course, but nothing worked. All I could do was offer them comfort and company as they lay dying. I lost my parents and three sisters. Overwhelmed by their deaths, I was filled with despair and sadness.

It was a blessing that the disease progressed so rapidly. It started with a rash covering the face, which then spread to cover the entire body. The rash turned into boils which were horribly painful and ultimately, ruptured and bled. A hoarse cough followed. When the person began to bleed from the eyes, nose, and mouth, death was imminent. The illness lasted about a week, and the suffering was pure hell for those infected.

No one was available to help me bury my family. At first, I thought I would leave them in their beds and cover each one with a blanket. This plan didn’t seem appropriate, but what else could I do? Other than Corky, my goldfish, I had never buried anything in my life. “That’s no excuse,” I chided myself. “My family deserves better!”

I knew there was a large equipment store nearby and decided to walk there and return with an earthmover of some type. The store was unlocked and deserted, so I helped myself to the keys on hooks near the cash register. I picked a mini excavator because I saw my dad use one once. With a bit of difficulty, I managed to start the equipment and drive it home. After practicing for hours, I succeeded in digging a large hole. I carried my sisters out of the house and lowered them into the grave. Each one was buried with their favorite stuffed animal. Moving my parents was more difficult. I used a wheelbarrow to carry them out of the house and lowered them gently into the ground. I didn’t trust myself to use the excavator to cover them with dirt so used a shovel from the garage instead. I planted daffodil and hyacinth bulbs above them in the loose dirt. Mom loved to see flowers bloom in the spring. Once done, I laid down on top of their grave wishing I was buried with them.

The next day, I watered the bulbs then lobbed a rope over a sturdy lower branch of the maple tree growing close to where my family was buried. I attempted to fashion a noose and placed it around my neck. When I stepped off one of the lawn chairs, my head slipped out of the noose. All I managed to do was smack my head on the ground and get a brush-burn on my neck. I sat down on the swing at the back of the yard and wept.

One thing I knew for sure, I couldn’t live in our home anymore. It was too painful to stay there. I packed a bag of clothes and food, grabbed a sleeping bag, and started to walk down the highway. I camped in the woods at night, hoping a puma or bear would come along and finish me off. No such luck. It was then I realized I hadn’t heard or seen a single forest creature during my walk. Not one bird, squirrel, rabbit, or chipmunk. “Had the bacteria which killed the people, killed the animals, as well?” I wondered.

A few months ago, my future looked dazzling. I was preparing to enter my senior year in high school. At seventeen, I had wonderful plans for my life; attend the prom, finish high school, graduate from university, start my career and marry a magnificent man. We would spend the rest of our lives together, just like my mom and dad did, enjoying all the beautiful things life had to offer. Now I know those plans will never materialize. I will likely spend the rest of my life alone.

I am furious with whatever government created this bacterial destroyer. I am enraged by the suffering my family and millions of Americans endured. And I am livid that I didn’t contract the disease and die. I’ve spent weeks now wishing for death. I couldn’t help but wonder if there was a reason I was spared or if it was simply a quirk of fate. “Was I the last person alive in the country? Would I spend the rest of my life wandering from place to place, eating just enough to sustain me on my wretched journey?”

After ten days of hiking, I was close to the city of Boston. The first thing I noticed was total silence. Not a single sound; no car engines, honking, or voices. “Are you sure you want to enter this city?” I asked myself. No easy answer was forthcoming. I realized a large city would be my best chance of finding a soul who survived the bioweapon. I also knew everyone might already be dead. Up to this point, I hadn’t met another living person since leaving home.

Some people say that being alone renews and restores them. I had to smile bitterly at the thought. It might be true for a long weekend, but not when you are completely alone, possibly forever. I may not ever encounter another human being for the rest of my life. “Would being alone drive me crazy,” I wondered. “Would being crazy be better than my current circumstances?”

I continued on the highway and crossed the Bunker Hill Memorial bridge. As I entered the city, the strong smell of death floated toward me. I turned to my side and vomited. The skyscrapers of the city hovered over me, like silent giants “Is anyone here,” I screamed. Silence. I noticed the sky had begun to darken and thunder was rumbling overhead. “I need to find food and shelter before a storm hits.”

I found a convenience store a couple blocks away and the door was unlocked. The odor of rotten food hit me when I opened the door causing my stomach to lurch. Luckily, the food in packages and cans was still edible. That night, I feasted on canned fruits, vegetables, and meat. After several days of eating only energy bars, this food tasted delightful!

I decided to spend the night in the store as it had begun to rain. After spreading out my sleeping bag and curling up inside, memories of my family came flooding back. There were campouts at Sparrow Pond, hikes through the woods, picnics in the backyard, hugs from mom and dad, the giggles of my younger sisters. The tears flowed. I missed them all terribly!

I woke up the next morning with a new idea; I needed to find a police station. With any luck, there would be a map of the city and a bullhorn. The map would prevent me from walking in circles, and the bullhorn would amplify my voice as I called out to anyone still alive. No luck on the first day, but the next I found a police station and walked in. There was a policeman lying behind the main desk who had obviously died there. “Loyal to the last,” I thought as I passed by, trying not to look at his face. Further back in the station, I found police equipment but no bullhorn. Then it struck me. The most likely spot for a bullhorn would be in the trunk of a police car. I returned to the front desk looking for car keys and managed to find a few sets inside a drawer. I moved out to the parking lot and tried the keys in a number of vehicles but came up empty.

I looked at the map again and found that police stations were clearly indicated on the drawing. One appeared close by, so I started to walk towards it. The police station door was open and the building was empty. I walked into the equipment room and found what I was looking for. I immediately walked outside and called out, “can anyone hear me? Is anyone in this city still alive?” No answer.

I continued to walk through the city, calling out in a systematic manner. I hoped to hear someone call back and break the silence. Days of disappointment turned into weeks, then a month. Winter was coming and I needed to obtain warmer clothes, a coat, and boots. I found a department store and walked to the women’s department. I picked out a beautiful red coat in my former size and put it on. It was at least two sizes too large. I looked at the price tag and realized it was five times the price I usually paid for a coat. “Finally, a perk for being the last person alive in America,” I thought sarcastically.

I continued down the aisle and caught the reflection of a woman in a nearby mirror. I called out and ran towards the person. As I got closer, I realized that the person I had seen was me. It was no wonder I didn’t recognize myself; I had obviously allowed the conventions of polite society to slip away. My hair was a tangled mess, my face was smudged with dirt, and my clothes had the remnants of previously eaten meals. My face was so thin. I looked haggard and twenty years older than my age. As I stared, I realized that something unusual was on my cheek. I stepped closer to the mirror and saw the rash. I lifted my bangs and found that angry-looking red dots had covered my forehead and progressed to my left cheek. When I accepted what it was, I slipped down the mirror to the floor. I wasn’t sure how to feel about what was happening to me. I was so cold; I pulled the beautiful winter coat closer around me. “Time to go home,” I said to no one. I stuffed my bag with winter clothes and started to walk.

The End