The last man
on Earth sat alone in a room. There was a knock on the door. The knock was low, polite on the
oaken door. The faint echo of the knock faded away as he tried to concentrate
on the journal in front of his hand. He squinted to read the handwriting in the
small candle light. There was a certain damp in the air, his breathing turning
heavy every minute. The knock was unnatural; a bead of sweat trickled down his
brow. He sipped the whisky off the jade glass. His throat was still dry though,
the chill in the air made him shiver. His strong lower jaw clattered against
the upper, was it from fear or the air . . . he wasn’t certain.
There was another knock—a heavy
hand by the sound of it, this time the wall mount of a tiger loosened away,
hanging perilously on the hook. The journal he was reading was that of his
linguist friend, Joshua.
The doom, the Xhaka, the
indigenous tribals believed that a fair devil would walk on these lands. His
minions following him, little would he know that the wheel of destruction would
be rolled on his kind. The Xhaka. . .
Everybody had laughed off Joshua,
feeling that the meek guy would piss his pants when he read his journal. Eddard
had listened to him but he had never paid him much attention.
He was right though, every word
of it. He’d seen deaths of all his
family, his friends . . . plague they called it, but he knew it was the
curse. The ship brought news of the bubonic plague, spread across the known
world, taking living souls cheap. This though was not any vermin’s work, the
dead!—he squirmed in pain clutching his temples. He felt spent, the fear had
numbed him. He couldn’t feel it, the ache in his temples was more excruciating
to feel that. He was more frustrated, End
it you bastard . . . end it! I’m waiting.
This was the same room in his
villa where he lived with his wife . . . the scent of her still hung in that
room. Was she there outside!
She came back for me? Thoughts
and tears swelled up, with a quavering voice he asked, “Who’s there? Mary? Are
you there? Do you remember your Eddard’s voice?”
There was a knock again.
“Seven Hells! Go away, go away!”
he shouted, he flung the jade glass towards the door. The fever was taking toll
on his body; his senses seemed to desert him. He tried to read again.
. . . the path of destruction
would be laid by him, the agents -- fair devil’s own minions. The bloodless
revenge for his people, one would kill the other for flesh . . . devouring the
meat. Abomination, these minions would be.
There was again thumping on the
door; this time it was three slaps on the door. He didn’t dare to open the
door, he was suddenly feeling frightened. Was it death or something else, he
couldn’t decide on that. He could sense the anger of whatever entity was beyond
the door.
The candle light flickered as his
heart pounded, he could hear the silence. The
dead . . . , he remembered
with index finger rolling the forehead.
It can’t be, they are dead . . .
I’m alive, I’m the last man. No, no, no. This time there were more bangs
on the door, the muffled sounds as if they were calling someone. The Xhakaaaa , he whispered under his breath.
Sitting on the chair, he cursed .
. . but couldn’t hear his own voice. The bangs on the door were more prominent;
the heavy oaken door started vibrating. He realized whatever the entity was; it
was trying to break in. The door now creaked with the thuds on the door, every
passing minute the door was giving in just like his will. His brow was now
covered with sweat; he felt his legs becoming water. He could not think of any
other thing. Minutes prior he wanted it to end, but now he wanted some more
time. The fever made him sickly, his stomach churned and the headache.
The room was now becoming darker,
the candle’s glow slowly diminishing. The pounding the door was taking made
loud voice; he chose to ignore it then. He returned to the journal amidst the
chaos
The dead would rise again, the
revenge bloodless. The wheels of destruction in flow.
With a loud thump the door fell
on the floor. The sudden wind blew away the candle. There were black figure,
men and women alike staring at him with the hollows in their skull. He could
sense the goose bumps on his arm, he felt his bowels out of control and sensed
the sphincter had released. The figures were still looking at him, none
talking. The room now stank of the waste, he could smell it.
Rising from his chair weakly
Eddard Bolton walked towards the figures, accepting his fate—his death. As he
moved forward, there was a glow of light from the other side—a lantern judging
its shape. This felt odd, a figure moved towards him from the other direction
with the lantern. He was aghast to find that it was Joyce, his maid. She looked
the same—the closed set eyes, small mouth and slender frame. But something was
wrong; she was seeing past him . . . he felt something strange.
He looked back; a sudden spark
went through his forehead. The chair . . . How
could . . . him! Me! He laughed
hard, laughed hard until he broke down crying on the floor. He saw Eddard
Bolton on the chair, the jade glass by his side and the book in his hand lay
dead.
***
Sir Eddard Bolton, (1580 – 1621)
resident of Jamestown, Virginia. Author and Philosopher. He was an
insomniac and was supposed to have split personality disorder which was an
unknown entity in those times. Joshua, his alternate personality through whom
he wrote about the Powhatan Tribes and their culture. There were suspicions
about the death of his wife, Mary Bolton during the winter of 1609. Mary Bolton
was rumoured to be murdered by Eddard Bolton for his Cannibalistic theory of
Pleasure. Since his wife’s death, he was locked in a room by his nephew, Robert
Bolton and attended by Joyce, the maid who brought him food and looked after
him. The journal written by him was thought to be his confessions about his
crime but every work of Sir Bolton was burned by his nephew who owned the
sprawling mansion.
