The Last Clock On Earth

Rapidly, instinctively, he stuffed his few supplies into his pack and floated through the dark hallways to the stairs listening for anything that could indicate the presence of the intruder. Nothing. Only the wind and the rain covering what ever warning he might have been able to decipher. He managed his way in the black not from memory, but from something older and was 10 flights down before he thought the better of it. Up instead... 30 flights up... the roof, a rifle in the rain... more waiting. He covered himself in a slicker and stared through the sight waiting for the dot to disappear.

Sheets of rain seemed continuous papering him like a soggy tissue gapped only by the stronger gusts of wind then everything stopped. Everything dripped and the sun seemed to be rising but wasn't. It was as if there were light but there was none. The dark glowed. The red dot on the door blinked. He fired and something screamed then whimpered away. Another shot but not his own, a streak of glimmering heat not yet pain awoke in him and took aim. He ran toward something he had not seen but knew would be standing their waiting to disappear.

The man sensed his approach the way he sensed everything as an annoyance, a yellow stain on a white shirt, a smudge of grease on the perfect glass, as something that should not be there. He sensed the gun pointed at his skull and simply slipped away to nurse his wound, and to descend a thousand stairs, vanish again. Today was not the day after all. There would be others. There always were. People get tired. People forget things. Lanterns are left on, shadows are cast. Even prayers can be whispered too loudly. life itself gives the living away. In this world breathing can be a bad idea.