THE WAY IT WENT DOWN: ISOLATION (Patreon)

What the others didn't understand is that it had won. It got out. We let it out. Though we didn't want to. We did it. We're the ones who killed the world. I told them. I told command. And what did they do? They sent me on my way. They waggled their fingers and threatened to send me upstate.  

The book was very clear. Skin to skin. Ingestion. Could it be airborne? Who knows? Last year I decided not to take the chance anymore. The respirator chafes sometimes, but it's better than the alternative. 

How much does it cost to retreat from all human contact? What's the price on that? Well, I'll tell you, it's much less than you might think. I didn't have anyone, really—it was one of the reasons they picked me, after all—and we had all split the cash from the last op. I sold the house. My car. Took the Champion bag filled with cash. Settled up with some stashes I knew outside of Chicago—guns, grenades, mines.

Good stuff. Military stuff.

I bought a lot of land out in the middle of butt-fuck. Strung up sensors and cameras. Solar. Water collection with scrubbers. A farm. Some animals. I didn't know how much work it would be, but I dove into it. It was like a fast-track, exhaustion filled Ph.D., and it shot by fast. How many years? More than it took for microbiology, that's for sure. 

I went into what they called town twice, and everything approximating the world was still there. The first time, it was late afternoon on what I realized was Christmas day, and hardly anything was open. 

Second time, people walked about and did things as if they were real. They looked at me and took the money I placed on the counter with my gloved hands as I wheezed through the respirator. The money was packed in plastic bags. Did you know a single bill can carry more germs than a toilet seat? Yeah, they don't tell you that. And if someone coughs in your face, you can get infected through your EYE.

They never tell you the important things.

The people leaned in as I filled my carts and talked about me in my funny getup. They watched me. 

I loaded up my truck with all the dry goods to last me the rest of my lifetime, and hell, if it didn't, I could come back when they were all corpses. Pick through the graveyard world, one Podunk town at a time like some trash picker. 

I didn't go back. I didn't need to. Out on the lot, I had everything I needed. How many real people were left? It was impossible to tell, really. The infection was subtle. I lived, and ate, and worked and lived some more. I had a good run. While it crept around the world; like night falling. Changing everything it touched. Airborne? Probably.

And we're here now. Who's here? Present. I am present. Probably the last one. 

Camera one lights and shows the van pass then goes dark again. Perimeter alarm 2 goes off. Something just crossed into the east paddock. Soon, they'll come across the bodies of the things that were once my cell-mates in the group. I burned them ten days ago. Or eleven? 

Is it Tuesday today already?

I'll give it to them, they were convincing. When I drew down on the Allison-thing and she said "Chad, no!" it was so heartfelt. So, real. It was almost like Allison was there. Like she hadn't fallen into shadow all those years back. Like she wasn't the one who wrote me up as crazy. Like she hadn't touched the book.

I open the door and step out with my hand on the radio detonator, and though you couldn't see it, I'm smiling. 

Man-things are waiting for me in black suits and balaclavas; mantises with glowing green eyes and red gossamer threads that slice the air. They creep forward, guns pointed at me, walking into the kill box. 

"HELLO FUCKERS," I scream, laughing and coughing in the mask. I never knew if I would feel happy, or sad, or afraid—or some combination of all of these things—at this final moment. But you know what I feel? I feel relief. 

I feel like coming home after a long, near-impossible day of work. 

I don't let them speak—