Last One Standing

• Emilia Webb, Grade 8
• Short Story
• 2022

I slowly drag my feet across the stone. The walk was endless. The grey slab of rock seemed to have no end. I take a step and then another, gradually continuing the walk. I hear the shriek of a bird, carried on the wind. I hope it doesn’t come over here looking for prey. My feet keep taking short shuffles along the plain coloured expanse of rock. I yawn, my arms stretching towards the clouds drifting around the sky. I was drained. Exhaustion lay heavy on all my features. My mind kept wondering off and then suddenly, I’m cast back to that dreadful day.
Shouts echo around the cavern. People are shoving against each other. Booms keep sounding. Explosions are rocketing across the earth. I was running. My arms flying and my feet barely touching the ground. I was almost there. Almost at the rocket stealing the space in the cavern. I hear a voice echoing throughout the room, counting down seconds. “Five” the word sends shivers down my spine. I speed up, running forever to my life source. “One” the voice finishes. I fall stunned, slamming into the uneven ground. I manage to look around the room and see I am the only one left as the rocket shoots skyward and away from me.
I gasp and then gratefully I’m back in the present. I wish I had someone to talk to as I start to stagger along the infinite path. Someone for me to exchange words with as we walk along together. I was lonely, so very lonely. I was facing the fact that there was no-one for me to walk with along this endless journey. There wouldn’t be ever again. Tears threaten to fall down my face as I move along. My feet struggle in the effort to take another step. A breath of wind blows across my back making me stumble. A silent tear drops as I regain my balance. Another follows and I stop, shivering. Tears are now flowing freely down my face as I stand there, my body shaking. I am still standing there, tears pouring down my cheeks as the wind picks up again and I falter and fall to the hard rock. I lay there, sprawled on the stone, breathing rapidly. I speak out weakly although I knew no-one was coming. “Help,” I whisper again in a raspy breath.
I give up calling out and try to think of what I had been doing around this time last year. I remember sitting in my favourite armchair by the fire that was blowing little ash flakes into the air. I had been making a slow-cooked beef stew for myself to sit, eat and enjoy in front of a good movie. I was wrapped in my favourite rug and the smell of beef was wafting through the room. If only I could go back there, away from this dry, deserted land. Back to life. Back to happiness.