Where am I this time?
From habit, I scan the square. Nothing. Not even a scabrous pigeon lives.
I steady the image from memory, force back the darkness a few scant yards.
Each time somewhere new; my mind drags me relentlessly through the monochrome album of my life, scouring the silent cities of the world for anyone, anything, that had survived my apocalyptic rage.
I’d cursed them, screamed my throat raw for them to leave me. Then the lightning flashed in my head - and they were gone.
Pain floods in again like the rain. I shiver, mind and body drowning in rank, brackish waters of guilt.
Wait! A faint voice, familiar somehow, whispers from the encroaching darkness.
“What’s that? It asks.
“Couldn’t that be something?”
“That? No, it’s just residual electrical activity, Mrs Grey. Now, if you’re ready, that’s the switch, there.