by Dottie Taylor
Marco held his hand against the steaming glass, searing the flesh but it would heal. He was still alive.
The sun burned relentlessly those first days. He survived the blast by the grace of the unholy, confined as he was. His hunger spiked.
At three weeks, hunger made him take what he had never before, but the blood was warm. How long could he survive this way? How long before he was forced to seek the humanity he hoped had survived?
At two months, he could no longer stand the confinement. His blood stores long depleted, not even garbage rats scurried from their holes. His mind broken from starvation, the bloodlust rode him now.
As one sun fell below the horizon, the other burned, given birth by the blast. It held him in it's fiery flame. He kept to the shadows, slinking through the rumble, seeking movement of the living. Was he the last of any kind?
At five months, nothing was left of the thing he once was. Every expedition into the night scorched his skin. He no longer healed, feeding from his own body. Insanity and inhumanity were his only friends. He waited for the night when he no longer rose.
At one year, his skeletal body no longer cared if his flesh peeled away. He roamed endlessly, despairingly, yet undyingly.
At two years, the Earth was reborn with the first bud of life.
There weren't any eyes left to see it. He had plucked his out.