Ficlets

It was like King’s Captain Trips. Or Crichton’s Andromeda Strain. Or the historic Black Plague. There are no humans left. None. I’m down to my last page of paper, my last can of food, my last match, my last paper and pen, my last hope. No, that hope died long ago. I’ve been everywhere I could go, realistically. Most of the States, some of Canada, and down into South America. I can still fly, but I already know what I’d find in Europe and Asia. Anyway, they were all dead when I found them. Or so close, it didn’t matter. I’m next. I do not understand these people, their customs, or their methodologies. The food is poison, the air is stale, and I am nearly spent. I can not leave. I was meant to come, mingle, provide hope, and to help prepare for a cultural friendship. But instead they died. I do not know why. When I fail to report in, someone else will come and see how we failed, and so brought about the destruction of the homo sapiens. I weep for our arrogance. Alas for myself and all mankind. We came in peace.