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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Flash Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
My entry for the Booksie 2017 Flash Fiction Writing Contest.

Submitted: March 10, 2017

A A A | A A A

Submitted: March 10, 2017



"Not if you were the last man on Earth."

Harsh, perhaps, but I'd meant it. It wasn't his fault, I guess. He could have been Mr Universe and he would have had the same answer. I was above him, you see. Above everyone. Seems ridiculous now.

Nobody knew what the sirens were; it had been so long since they'd been sounded. He’d worked it out, and of the hundreds in the bar, he’d chosen to save me. I still don't know why he did that. Perhaps I'll ask him.

It was the first time I'd ridden on a motorcycle - first time for a number of things it seems. The last broadcast said that they'd hit Manchester, London and Birmingham simultaneously. He'd taken us to Westdale Bay, South Wales; probably the only place in the United kingdom that stood any chance of avoiding both the blasts and the drift. Of course, the radiation reached us eventually, but it only made he and I nauseous for a while. The others were less fortunate. Fate, I guess.

"Not if you were the last man on Earth,"  I'd said. Now, here we are, and he would be just that...

...if he were real.

© Copyright 2018 Adrian Hunt. All rights reserved.

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