Level 7

I am dying, and the world is dying with me. I am the last man on earth, the sole surviving specimen of homo sapiens. Sapiens indeed!

It is lonely here. I wish I had someone to talk to. Even a dying soldier deserted on the battle-field cannot have felt as lonely as I feel. He had his comrades to think of, his family—people he was dying for, or thought he was dying for. But I have nobody to die for. Nobody to think of. They are all dead. No one outside, no one in the ex-enemy shelter, no one on Level 7.

Does everybody feel as lonely as this when he dies? I wonder if it makes any difference to have family and friends around you. I wish I had.

I would give anything to have some people around me! The only face I can see belongs to the clock on the wall.

But I can listen to some music—I can just reach the switch if I stretch my arm far enough.

Done! Beethoven’s ‘Eroica’. It sounds wonderful. Even now. Is it human or divine? It will last longer than I shall,

It is no good. I tried, and I could not reach the switch, longer than humanity. If that reactor does not break down again the tape will go on playing for years. In twelve days’ time, when I am dead, the ‘Eroica’ will sound in this room again. In twenty-four days’ time too, in thirty-six, in forty-eight…. And outside the sun will rise and set with no one there to watch it.

I am dying, and humanity dies with me. I am the dying humanity. But let the tape revolve, let the music last. I do not know why, but I want something to last.

I have been sick again. It has left me very weak. I can hardly keep the pen from slipping out of my fingers.

I must stay conscious. Like in that nightmare. I have to. For my sake. For humanity’s sake. I am the last creature alive. I must go on living. Let the music go on, and let me listen. But I feel faint.

I think I must have passed out. The clock seems to have moved very fast. It is now 16.00 hours. Four o’clock in the afternoon. The music still goes on. It will go on for ever.

It makes me feel worse, thinking about it. I am going to die. Why should anything go on when I am dead? That music—why should that outlive me? What is the point of music that nobody can hear? I shall turn it off.

So it will go on playing. It is a funny thought, that. All right, let the tape revolve.

I do not think I can write any more. But I must try hard. This is my contact with—with what was.

Sunshine was. Does the sun still shine?

I cannot read the clock across the room. But it is still light.

No. Dark.

I         cannot         see         Oh         friends         people         mother         sun         I         I^{1}