The Last Men on Earth by Mike Murphy

The bombs had fallen. The people had died – billions of them.

#

Forty-seven-year-old Walter Gibson, The Last Man on Earth, sat in his second-floor apartment listening to Mozart and watching Martha, his goldfish, swim peacefully in her tank. Why he had escaped the destruction of the brief war three months ago is unknown and, with no scientists alive to investigate, will remain so.

His stores were plentiful. He had no reason to worry about food (human or fish), heat, and electricity for the foreseeable future. Always having been a loner, the solitude suited him.

There was a sudden, loud rapping at his door. “What the–” he said, springing up from his rocking chair.

Walter heard the urgent voice of a man. “Open up, please!” he pleaded from the hall. “If there’s anyone in there, in the name of God, please open up!”

“I’m coming!” Walter called, hurrying to the door. He unlocked it, and the man entered uninvited. What was once a suit hung on him like rags. His face and hair were filthy, and he sported an unkempt beard. He held a tattered backpack in one hand. He looked at Walter in amazement, tears welling in his eyes.

“Oh, thank God!” he said, trying to catch his breath. “I never thought I’d see another living person! I heard your music and took a chance. Let me hug you!”

“I’d rather n–” Walter began, before realizing that the choice was not his. “Could you please let go of me?” he asked, finding it difficult to breathe.

His visitor reluctantly did. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but I thought I’d never see another human being again. It’s been months! You have no idea.”

“I don’t? I survived the war as well.”

“Of course you did,” the bearded man went on, “and thank God for that.” He ran a hand through his hair and asked, “What’s your name?”

“I’m–”

“Hold on! I want to prepare myself for this.”

“To hear my name?”

“Yes.” He paused, sighed, and said, “OK. Lay it on me.”

“Walter Gibson.”

“So good to hear a new name! I’m Mark Gallagher.” He offered a dirty hand, which Walter pretended not to see. Suddenly, Gallagher got an excited look on his face. “Hey,” he said, “we’re both Gs!”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Gs!” Gallagher explained, seemingly amazed that Gibson didn’t understand. “Gibson and Gallagher,” he said, “both start with the letter G. It’s a sign!”

“Yes,” Gibson suggested. “It means that the other 25 letters of the alphabet are currently going begging.”

Gallagher chuckled and slapped one knee. “I haven’t heard a joke in months! Of course, there hasn’t been much to joke about – what with World War III and all.” He glanced around the apartment before continuing. “Wally. . . May I call you ‘Wally?'”

“I’d rather W–”

“Wally,” Gallagher continued, beginning to pace, “I was all alone when the bombs fell. I’ve been wandering the streets ever since, looking for anyone else alive. I fought the dogs for food scraps.” He got a quizzical look on his face and asked, “Why do you suppose the animals are still alive?”

“I don’t have the–”

“Forget them, why are we still alive?” He stopped pacing and looked right at his new friend. “After months of searching, I’ve finally found another living soul.”

“How fortunate for you,” Walter replied sarcastically.

“I’ll say!” he went on. “Have you looked for other people?”

“Not much. I’ve been busy setting up this place and gathering the necessities.”

“It’s a swell place,” he said, stopping by Martha’s tank and briefly tapping on the glass. “You’ve got a fish and everything.”

“Her name is Martha.”

“You gave her a name?” Gallagher asked. He walked to Gibson’s stuffed bookcases. “You certainly have a lot of books.”

“I enjoy reading.”

“What’s that music?” he asked, apparently noticing, for the first time, the CD playing.

“Mozart.”

“It’s pretty high brow for me,” Mark said dismissively.

“You don’t say?” Gibson said under his breath. “I find it relaxing.”

“Don’t you worry, Wally,” Gallagher continued. “I’ll go down to the store and pick up some rock and roll CDs before I move in. They’re all there for the pickings, you know?” He chuckled a bit and continued, “Don’t have to think about my credit limit anymore.”

“Excuse me,” Gibson said, walking closer to Mark, “did you say ‘move in?'”

A big smile creased Gallagher’s face. “I sure did!” he said. “It will be nice to have someone to talk to.”

“But–”

“I only have what’s in my backpack.” He glanced around the apartment again. “Do you have another bedroom?” he asked.

“No.”

“Oh well. I can crash on the couch while we listen to Elvis sing ‘Blue Hawaii.'”

“Elvis?” Gibson inquired, swallowing hard.

Gallagher walked to the door and opened it. “I’ll be back in a bit,” he told his new friend. “We have so much to talk about.” He stepped out, but turned on his heal and continued, “We survivors have to stick together, after all.”

He pulled the door shut behind him. Gibson listened to him walk down the stairs and out the main entrance of the building.

Do we? he wondered.

#

“That was good chow. Thanks,” the newly cleaned-up Gallagher said, wiping this mouth on the sleeve of a shirt he had brought back from his CD excursion.

“You’re welcome for the. . . ‘chow,'” Walter said, collecting the dishes.

“Where’d you learn to cook?”

“The Everston School of Culinary Arts.”

“You were a cook before all hell broke loose?”

“I was head chef at Chez Millar.”

“Never heard of it,” Mark said, half-heartedly attempting to muffle a burp. He watched Walter taking the dishes to the kitchen and said, “You don’t actually wash those?”

“Of course I do.”

Gallagher quickly got up and followed Gibson. “But why?” he asked. “With all the dishes on the store shelves free for the taking, you’d never have to wash another one again. After you use them, throw ’em down the garbage chute.”

“These dishes are special,” Walter explained. “They belonged to–”

Gallagher snatched a bowl from the stack and dashed it to the floor. “See,” he said. “Much easier.”

“–my mother,” Gibson finished. “The dishes belonged to my mother.” He looked down at the shards and said, “Just because they survived World War III, I don’t suppose that makes them indestructible.”

“What’s on the boob tube tonight?”

“I think you’ll find that television is no more.”

“You don’t have a DVD player?” Gallagher inquired, surprised.

“Nor a TV. I never had much use for it.”

“I loved it myself. I’ll have to pick us up some.”

“I can hardly wait,” Walter replied sarcastically.

“Think of all the great stuff we can watch.”

“I suppose,” Gibson said, trying to be a glass-half-full kind of a guy, “there are some wonderful documentaries and concerts that have been preserved on DVD.”

“And Death Wish.”

“What?”

“There’s nothing more American than watching Charlie Bronson knock off some thugs! After we get through Bronson’s movies, there’s always Clint Eastwood.”

#

The night was interminable. Gallagher snored like a buzz saw, keeping both Walter and Martha awake. Walter fell asleep for a few minutes here and there, but was startled back to consciousness by images of Charles Bronson brandishing a gun at him. He contemplated leaving the apartment but–no–this was his home. He would regain his serenity.

No matter what measures he had to take.

#

Brick in hand, Walter looked up and down the street. What am I looking for? he asked himself. There aren’t any more police officers. He tossed the brick through the grimy glass door of Taylor’s Gun Shop and walked inside.

#

His home was a disaster! DVD boxes and loose discs were strewn all over the floor, along with empty beer cans and chip bags. Mark sat in Walter’s rocking chair, watching Death Wish at a volume not meant for human ears. “Hi, Wally,” he said casually, noticing he had company. “Want a brew?”

Gibson angrily grabbed the remote and turned off the TV. “Hey!” Gallagher protested. “That was the best part.”

“There are no best parts!”

“You sure you don’t want a beer?” he asked. “You seem upset.”

“Of course I am!” Walter bellowed. “This is unacceptable.”

“What is?”

“Have you no eyes?” an astonished Gibson asked, gesturing at the floor.

“I suppose it is a little messy,” Mark agreed, after taking in the scene.

“I will not allow this. You have turned my tranquil home upside down.”

“Sorry, Wally.”

“My name is Walter.”

“I was gonna clean up later,” Gallagher told him.

“I want you to leave.”

“Leave?” Mark asked, amazed. “But we’re the last two people on Earth.”

“And we cannot be under the same roof.” Walter removed the gun from his inside jacket pocket and pointed it at his reluctant roommate.

“OK. I’ll…I’ll go,” Gallagher said nervously, rising slowly from the rocker. “What will I do?”

“There are plenty of other places to live. Bring in all the DVDs you can carry. Get yourself a fish. I want my old life back, and I can’t have that with you here!”

“But our friendship?”

“We never had one. Now go!”

#

The serenity was bliss!

Walter threw all of Mark’s junk into the apartment next door, sat down in his rocking chair, and turned on Beethoven. Martha swam peacefully in her tank beside him. She seemed relieved too.

But then, with the growing wind, something broke the peace: a banging. The front door. That fool must have left it open. Walter sighed and got up. He’d have to close it. Once he did, he told himself, he would be shutting the door on the memory of Mark Gallagher forever.

#

On the second step, he slipped on something and fell down the flight of metal stairs. He landed, unconscious, with a thud just shy of the wind-blown door.

When he came to moments later, his first sight was what he had slipped on: A DVD case. He silently cursed Gallagher and began to rise.

He couldn’t.

The pain in his back was intense, and his legs refused to obey him. His head pulsed. He touched it and, when he looked at his hand, saw the blood. I’m going to die here, he thought, as a panic attack started setting in.

“Someone help me!” he yelled, which made his head throb even more.

He knew what he must do. There was only one person possibly within the sound of his voice. He swallowed his pride. “Gallagher! Help me!” He began to weep.

“Gallagher!”

#

Gallagher walked alone in the afternoon heat.

If Wally wanted to live that way, the hell with him. Mark would find someone else to be friends with. Someone who appreciated him. Surely, at least one other person had survived the war.

Mark Gallagher–The Last Man on Earth–would keep looking.

—

Mike has had over 150 audio plays produced in the U.S. and overseas. He’s won five Moondance International Film Festival awards in their TV pilot, audio play, short screenplay, and short story categories.

His prose work has appeared in several magazines and anthologies. In 2015, his script “The Candy Man” was produced as a short film under the title DARK CHOCOLATE. In 2013, he won the inaugural Marion Thauer Brown Audio Drama Scriptwriting Competition.

Mike keeps a blog at audioauthor.blogspot.com.

Image by Darryl Darwent