"Ashes, Shadows, and Dust" by Garon E. Whited

            The streets are full of shadows and dust, pretending to be human.  I hear them, walking and talking as if they were real, but there is no soul inside.  Shells of people, drained of everything that makes them more than organic machines, slip through the night like dreams in the depths of sleep, and with as much substance.

            I am real.  I am alive.  But for how much longer?  It has taken the hearts and minds of my fellows.  Am I the last?  Is it coming for me, the only one who remains free of that diabolical living death?

            Sometimes I hear it, like a tiger breathing in the dark, like a chill wind across barren earth.  Can it see me?  Can it smell me?  Does it know where I am, or does it simply wait for me to pass by so it can spring?

            I have no answers, only the living terror that I will not be here tomorrow.

            It is useless to record what I have seen, what I have done, for no one will believe it.  Worse than that, when I am gone, there will be no one who remembers the truth.  This whole world, built upon my lonely perceptions, will wither away to nothingness.  Even this record, written upon enduring paper in the medium of indelible ink, is merely the whim of thought and memory, to crumble when my consciousness does.

            I am afraid of what I have seen.  I am afraid of the truth.  And I am afraid of what humanity will become.

            Understand me clearly; the world is not as it was, nor is it as it will be.  Or, rather, it is not as it should be.  No, that, too, is incorrect.  Let me say, then, that the world is no longer upon its destined course, but has been diverted to a future that was never meant to be.

            I am Johnathan Salk, and I am the last living human being on Earth.

*   *   *

            When I graduated from University with a degree in physics, my only real concern in life was to find suitable employment as a researcher.  My only love was to wrest abstruse bits of knowledge from the fabric of the Universe.  I could never abide secrets.  Even as a child, I would secretly unwrap presents, then carefully wrap them again.

            My dream of being a researcher was fulfilled when I was accepted at the Max Planck Institute in Eureka, Oregon.  I and a dozen colleagues poked and prodded at the fabric of space and time, watching it ripple and wave in response.  Together, we hypothesized, tested, experimented, and theorized.  Space became interwoven with time, and with matter, and then energy.  Laboratory experiments yielded amazing possibilities, but we ignored many side issues, leaving them for other minds to explore.  We were closing in on the greatest of Grails:  The Unified Field Theorem.

            The only thing to stop us was the rest of the world.

            It was early in the morning for us.  Half of us were three floors below the ground, calibrating the controls of our subterranean particle accelerator.  The ground shook, and there was a noise like thunder.  The lights went out and the emergency power came on.

            As one, we hurried up, only to find the upper floors blocked by fallen rubble and broken concrete.  We could not go up there, but the particle accelerator was a huge installation; there were other ways up along the border of its gigantic circle.  We proceeded along the underground corridor to the first of the ladderways.  This, too, was blocked—at least, the steel door would not move.  The next, however, yielded to our hands, and we opened it.

            Desolation, vast and smoky, greeted our wondering eyes.  A tower of smoke in the distance proclaimed the destruction to be brought about by the hand of Man, for the mushroom shape, while distorted with time, was yet a grim aftermath of the devastation.

            It was some time before I and my fellows could bring ourselves to do more than stare or weep, as befit our individual natures.  At last, roused from our immobility by the slow fall of ash, we descended once more to avoid fallout and other radiation hazards.  We returned to the control center to see what news might be available.

            I wish now that we had died in the initial holocaust, or that we had been left in ignorance of what truly happened.

            Our communications at the Institute were always excellent; a combination of satellite links and underground cabling tied us to the information network of the world.  Something of those links yet remained, allowing us to see beyond the tiny shell of stone and steel that was all that remained of our home.

            One of those little wars had become a large one in a matter of moments.  Some tiny nation, in possession of a nuclear device, decided that using it was preferable to defeat.  Someone in a larger nation decided that a retaliation in kind was called for.  An ally of the tiny nation warned, then threatened, and, when those deterrents failed to prevent the retaliation, carried out the threats.  More nuclear weapons detonated like popcorn exploding in a fire, like madness spreading through a crowd, until the superpowers themselves were turning launch keys and pressing buttons.

            A blanket of smoke from the pyre of a planet circled the globe like a shroud.

            I daresay that any other group of people would have been crushed by the news.  Indeed, we were crushed, driven down into a black despair the likes of which might very well have killed us.  Yet, there lives within the human spirit something that refuses death, even when it seems inevitable.  As a race, we do not go quietly into that good night, but go only if we must, and then kicking, clawing, and scratching all the way.

            Sometimes, the scratching works.

            I had a radical idea, one that had occurred to me long before, but I had never voiced for fear of derision and ridicule by my colleagues.  Our equations, interpreted correctly, might be transformed into something entirely new—something of which Einstein had never conceived.  A plenum might be generated, a sort of sub-universe within a universe, where certain heretofore immutable laws might be altered.

            Now I voiced my idea.  No one would listen, being more absorbed in their own feelings of black despair.  Yet I still explained, drew diagrams, wrote equations.  Some feeble interest was sparked, but nothing approaching enthusiasm.

            I left the cold equations there to chill their fevered brains.  My hands, however, were of more use in obtaining from the particle accelerator the pieces of equipment I might need to take mathematical equations and turn them into a form of reality.

            The process was slow, and tiring, but I labored on for many hours.  I was joined by Maxwell, who labored silently with me, either from a belief that I might succeed, or from a need to absorb himself in some activity.  For whatever reason he aided me, I was grateful.

            After long hours, I returned to the control room to find a heated debate raging.  In their despondency, they had turned from the facts of the world to the theories of the mind, debating, discussing, dissecting my equations.  Mathematics covered the whiteboard, the papers of the control room, and much of the walls.

            I was too weary to participate, and though they asked me questions, I gave them only the answers I could muster, then fell into a sleep full of dreams of fire.

*   *   *

            When I awoke from my slumbers, I found much had been done.  Equations, written alone upon the control panel by some sharp instrument, stood pristine and pure from all others.  The solution to my theories had been hacked from the hidden mysteries of the universe by a group of madmen, and stood defiantly before me.  I adored it for many minutes, enfolding the complexity, the simplicity, the elegance of the ultimate solution.

            The clangor of metal on metal brought me back to myself.  I hurried out to see what was the matter, and immediately saw the beginnings of a universe.  It was nothing more than a platform surrounded by electromagnets, but the purpose was clear.

            Refreshed from my sleep, energized by the vision of hope, I ignored my hunger and fell to work.

            For six days we labored, aligning, calibrating, modifying, coding.  Hunger haunted us all, for all we had with us was a vending machine one floor up.  Money was not an issue, for no vending machine was ever made that could withstand a hungry primate armed with a lever and determination.  Water was slightly better, as another machine held many bottles, and a water cooler had survived the initial shock.

            We worked busily, determinedly, because we thought we were saving the world.

            Our machine grew, mounting high and wide, as we disassembled what equipment we had to provide for it.  A control computer was placed inside, along with every capacitor and accumulator we could lay hands on.  A trapdoor was rigged for the subject to stand on.

            If we were right, we could create a tiny universe inside the machine, one where the laws of time and space would be subject to manipulation.  We would all be inside it, ready to send our small universe across time to link with the larger universe at some earlier point.  Since we would be moving outside our own universe, we needed all the power we could bring with us, since the emergency generators would not be coming along.  Even so, we would not have much time inside our own bubble of space-time before the power was depleted and we were drawn back to our own space and time.

            So, we would cast off from our universe, leaping, as it were, into the past.  For those precious few seconds, we would be at a time before the destruction of our world.  After a few calibration runs, one of us would fall through the trapdoor, to be left in the past, while the rest of us were snapped back to the theoretical present.  Then we would see if any change had been effected; if not, we would recharge our power reserves and try again.

            There were six of us.  We drew straws for the order of our attempts.  My own straw was the longest, thus I was the last.  A dubious honor, that, as my timing would have to be precise if I wished to activate the controls, achieve transition, and exit the plenum before power failed.  If all the others failed to alter the past, I might be ripped apart, scattered over the width of several weeks,

            We never considered sending just two people to test it.  If it went horribly wrong, they would die.  Whether they would be the lucky ones, or if the survivors would be the lucky ones, we were not competent to judge.

            Our initial run saw all six of us in the plenum chamber, pressed against the walls.  The hum of electricity surrounded us as we charged the capacitors and cut loose from the moorings of the world.

            The concrete floor gave way to small horses on a vast plain, startled, running from us, and then the underground laboratory of six mad scientists once more.

            The capacitors charged again, and I adjusted the control settings.  Huge trees, moonlight, and the smell of leafmold, then we returned.

            Four more times, we skipped momentarily backward along the track of the universe, each time landing closer to our own age.  The last test run saw shocked men with axes and huge, two-man saws.

            A tiny adjustment, the barest nudge forward, and we were ready.

            One by one, my colleagues vanished into the past, each dropping into an historical moment of time.  Exactly when, exactly where, it was impossible to tell.  Our equipment was too imprecise, too improvised.  But into the past they went, each determined to avert what was to come.

            Maxwell went first, and when we returned to our lair, we all hoped that we would see only the cold concrete floor and the harsh lights of fluorescent tubes.  But no, there were the tools and the wires, the scratches of heavy components, the smell of burned solder.

            Joan was next.  Again, we returned to a laboratory in an unchanged present.

            Alexander also vanished without effect.

            Marcus followed.

            Yasunori also vanished through the hole, swallowed by the past, but not without effect.  When I returned to the present, things had changed.

            First and foremost, there was no plenum generator; the parts that made it up were still emplaced in the particle accelerator.  Had I not been directly over the main acceleration coil, I would have fallen a considerable distance.  As it was, I landed well on top of it, then slid down the side to the floor.

            The lights were all on.  The air smelled cool and fresh.  I hurried upstairs.

            When a man, filthy, wild-eyed, and sporting a six-day growth of beard come rushing out of a secure area, security takes notice.  I was taken into custody, briefly, until my identity could be verified.  Then I was given a ride home.

            My home was other than I remembered it.  Many things were other than I remembered them.  I did not recognize my wife, for I never remembered being married.  Nor did I recognize my children, for much the same reason.

            Still, I bluffed my way through my “homecoming” and cleaned myself up.  I ate all I could hold, slept for fourteen hours, ate again, and hurried back to the Institute.

            I consulted the directory and found I was the Director of Research at the Maxwell Brennon Institute.

            Things had changed remarkably.

            Once safely ensconced in my office, I immediately began familiarizing myself with the changes in the world.  The most obvious, to me, was the change in the electronics.  Instead of the usual logos on the various equipment, everything had a stylized “Y” logo.

            I discovered why when my secretary—a pretty thing who kept making eyes at me—buzzed to tell me I had a visitor.

            The visitor was an immensely old Oriental and two of his sons.  We all traded bows before the younger men assisted their elder to a chair.  The old man dismissed the youngsters and eyed me.

            I started to say something about my recent illness and overwork, but he told me to relax, and introduced himself as Yasunori.

            It was a shock.  He explained that he had disembarked many years earlier and has used his knowledge of superior technology to become a financial power.  The Institute, for example, he had financed in memory of our own Maxwell, rather than in honor of Planck.  But, through his efforts on multiple fronts, the minor-league wars had failed to spark a giant one.  Superior radiation detection was only one of these.  Superior communications, more globalized thinking, economic benefits to impoverished nations, even outright financial aid in the interests of stabilizing small countries had worked a cumulative effect that was enormous.

Of the others, he had seen no sign.

We spoke for a long time about his past, and my future.  I was about to be promoted to another facility, where my lack of familiarity with things mundane would not be so noticeable.  He had it all planned, and I accepted the help of my friend without reservation.

Now I live in a beautiful house, with a beautiful wife and beautiful children.  These are good things.  The world is not a perfect place, but it is, perhaps, slightly more civilized than the world I remember.

My only trouble is that it is the world I remember.

Here and now, I have a wife and children.  Who did she marry?  Who fathered the children?  I did not, for I can cast my mind back along the intervening years and find no trace of them.

Who was that man?

What became of him who was?  Did he cease to exist when I came to be?  Or, by some trick of plenum physics on consciousness, am I that man with other memories?

No.  I cannot doubt my own memory.  I know who I am, and Yasunori agrees with my remembrance.  We exist in a world we created.  Or, we exist in a world we changed.

Now, Yasunori has passed away, dead at the ripe old age of thirty-one.  My wife, the kind stranger, was with me at the funeral.  I was surrounded by others, equally strange, from random faces to a President I never knew.  They do not exist, not to me.  I am the only real person in a sea of not-people.  I am the last of the true human race.  How long will it be before I am gone?  How long before the last of the world vanishes with me?  And what am I leaving behind?  A false world, a fabrication, a thing made to cheat Destiny, or defy God.  We destroyed the world, and then we took it back.

None of these people are real.  They are silhouettes done in heat-flash on the walls of houses, shadows of people cast forward in Time.  They are dust from the blaze of atomic fire and ashes scattered on the hot breath of the nuclear dragon.  I am the only survivor of the end of the world, and I am surrounded by ashes, shadows, and dust.