Alex Merrill

A Lonely Hunter

Isaac wondered what he had done to deserve being the last man alive. A piercing, metallic ping brought his heavy steps to a halt in the middle of the street, fingers tightening on a long iron pipe as he scanned the empty faces of crumbling buildings. The clatter continued until the echoes died away. He had been a good man, a decent man. A man who did the right thing. He had done his job and loved his wife and daughter. How he missed their faces. How he missed any human face.