The last man on Earth sat alone in a room.There was a knock on the door.
It was one of those moments when the world stops breathing its rhythm, your ribs contract as if you
have collided with a rhinoceros, and your hear this grainy silence. From beneath his door, through
the gap, flowed a thick viscid liquid. Like a red carpet unrolling itself before his very eyes, it
conquered the gap between the man and the door. It seemed to be happening at an incredible speed,
unravelling its nasty surprises before the mentally fatigued man.
His languid complexion showed no emotion as the velvet blood threatened to overtake the floor on
which he trod. Leaning forward in his chair and putting down his palette of paint, he placed his
coarse fingers delicately on the pool of bodily fluid and placed it in his mouth. The skin of his
cheek contorted into terrible wrinkles, the the ridges relaxed. Slowly, supporting himself with his
arms, he slotted a shot into his shotgun and placed it at full cock.
But there was no sign of backing off at the door. No sudden scuttling of feet.
He threw his shoe at the door. No response.
Finally, with a quivering sight on his shotgun, he reached for the doorbell and twisted his wrist.
--Fredric Kong