Heres an ode to a classic by the name of, Knock, also known as one of the shortest short stories ever written. Heres Deaths Knock Written by Joel C. Rodriguez Harold Albenson, or Dr. Harold Albenson had been chased by death all of his life. At age five, he was hit by a vehicle when on his bicycle and put in a coma for a month. Once when he was fifteen, Harold was sick at home with the flu and unable to attend the party his parents and sister were on their way to... His entire family died in a car crash. At age twenty-five, he was caught in a gas explosion in his university’s chemistry department when some jokester thought it would be funny to put several firecrackers in the gas line for the burners. At age thirty-three, after accepting his first Nobel Prize, he was in another vehicle accident, this time riding a motorcycle. The list goes on and on for Harold’s near death experiences, but none have been as grave as the most recent. Death refused to be beaten by Harold. It was a wicked game of chess the two were playing, and death found his only way to win was to knock the board to the ground. The date was October 27th, 2041, exactly twelve years after “The Pestilence.” Twelve years of research, twelve years of solitude, twelve years of life entirely alone… all for nothing. “Today’s the day!” Harold said reassuringly to himself as he stepped out of bed. Like every other day, he threw on his slippers and robe and made his way out to the porch of his flat, overlooking the beautiful forested London before him. Although bringing nothing but death to humanity, “The Pestilence” in the air seemed to rapidly increase the growth of all vegetative species, at least in the immediate area. After the virus went airborne and wiped out humanity, Harold refused to travel outside of London. Although it was only his summer home, there truly was no way back to the United States with no airplanes soaring through the sky or ships streaming across the oceans. “Good morning, sir,” the artificial intelligence greeted as Dr. Albenson sealed the doors to his basement laboratory. “Good morning, Clyde. How are last week’s specimens fairing?” “Despite being injected with the latest strand, all four specimens have shown very little or no positive reactions to the vaccine.” “Ah, I see. Well, could I view them, please?” “Sir, the specimens are still in their early morning state. At this time, they are usually hunting and may be quite aggressive.” “Clyde, I would like to view them… please.” The artificial intelligence was silent for a moment. “As you wish, sir.” Suddenly, the seemingly pitch black glass window to the right of Dr. Albenson lit up, revealing the remnants of humanity that survived the pestilence. The disease seemed to cover the humans in a series of consistently growing and popping blisters that hardened their already chipped away skin. Most of the creatures seemed to have also been stricken blind and deaf, a strange effect of the illness. Screams echoed throughout the chamber, although slightly suppressed by the thick glass of the containment area. The creatures staggered over towards the glass, clawing at it and the walls with their long finger nails. Suddenly, they became a bit more vicious, bashing their deformed skulls against the glass, each thud crushing in their mushy skulls and bones. “I’ve seen enough. Incinerate them, make sure there is nothing left.” “Yes sir, right away.” In a matter of seconds, the entire chamber was filled with a blaze that entirely consumed the specimens. They were no longer visible past the flames, but still audible by their screams of terror and agony. Dr. Albenson watched as they all burned until he jumped back at the sight of a single hand smacking against the window, and then slowly dragging down from the embrace of death upon the body. The flamethrowers set in the corners of the room continued until all matter outside the scanning positions had been disintegrated into nothing more than ash. Dr. Albenson made his way back upstairs to his home, upset about the day’s turnout. It was only eight in the morning, and he had already failed once again. Dr. Albenson quickly made his way back upstairs, being sure to lock all of the safety doors on his way back up, in case any small critter finds their way into his home; a common occurrence with minimal pest control. He wandered outside to the large garden and checked both the gasoline and oil of his row of 7500W Subaru generators before turning them on to provide electricity to the average sized home. As the generators roared and quickly brought life to the house, he made his way back inside and over to the living room where he had his surround sound system wired up to an old Pioneer receiver and a small iPod. Suddenly, the home was filled with the soothing compositions of Frederic Chopin, his particular favorite being “Raindrop Prelude, Op. 28, No. 15”, a classic that was recognized by all generations before the decimation of man. The doctor’s breakfast was often nothing more than freeze-dried toast in addition to a glass of purified rainwater; something that would be considered a delicacy if he was not the only one left. The bitter tasting bread crumbled in his mouth as he ingested the little nourishment this world could offer, the rest only being canned goods which he usually saved for his candle lit dinners. After his breakfast was finished, the doctor made his way out into the overgrown streets of London, taking in a breath of nature’s fresh air in the outskirts of the vast and silent city. In the distance, he could see a small gathering deer crossing the street into the winding suburbs. He took a seat on the steps and then pulled out his notepad, where he dotted down hundreds of equations that most could not comprehend in an attempt to think up some kind of vaccine to bring back those who suffered from the disease without the mercy of death. “I just… I can’t…” the doctor said as he continue scribbling notes about all over the paper, often tearing out and crumpling pages before tossing them into a small pile at the bottom of the steps. “What am I doing wrong!?” he screamed as he threw his notebook and pencil to the ground. Tears dropped from his eyes as he jumped off the front steps and began kicking and punching the nearby objects on the street in a fit of rage and self loathing. After he got his energy and anger out, the doctor continued back inside and collapsed down onto the couch, his mind woeful and motivation collapsing. “How did this happen…” he muttered out in between sobs, “Why am I the only one…” The doctor, the last man on Earth, sat alone in the living room, crying for hours as his sanity slowly slipped away. Before he knew it, the sun was setting and an entire day that could have gone towards developing a vaccine had been nothing more than endless crying and screaming. The last man on Earth sat alone in the living room, when suddenly; there was a knock on the door.
Posted on: Sun, 16 Mar 2014 04:42:27 +0000
Trending Topics
Recently Viewed Topics
© 2015