The fading light stretched through the wall of windows, painting the apartment orange. He sat in his chair, facing the sunset, his rifle resting upon his lap.
“The world’s last night,” he whispered.
Before him, the sky was fiery red, blazing like an inferno. The sun would rise again, the clockwork of the universe ticking away forever, and yet, he knew, this night would last forever, for any day which would come after would never be seen by man.
“If the sun rises, and no one’s alive to know, does it make a morning?”
Below, in the shadowed streets, they were already moving. He wondered if they knew he could see them, if they cared. When it started, they wouldn’t get close. They’d cower in corners and avoid people. It was hard to believe the rumors then, but gradually, their numbers grew. Suddenly, there were so many of them. They didn’t run away or cower anymore, and those whispered stories became undeniable, unless you worked in the news. Everyone knew.
The dark things amassed below. He could see them filing into the building. There was no escape, no rescue. Not even a real battle, he thought. Just one man standing against the darkness.
As night fell over the city, he could hear them in the hallway, bursting open doors, searching the rooms for him.
“It’s not good that man should be alone,” he said, rising from his chair.
He unlatched the door and stepped out into the darkness.
Tale Told 
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