He stood his ground. Listening to his own labored breathing against the background of the rushing wind above him. His back was to the drying lake. His lungs hurt. His side hurt. Wow… did it hurt.
He looked down at his bloody hand, then up again at the horde closing in silently around him. He raised his lance. It had enough charge left for one last pulse.
They stopped, hesitated before the final charge.
His fingers flexed on the handle. He watched the sky above fading, it was already dark blue. His breath was short now in the thinning air. The sun was hot on his stinging, wet face. He tried to wipe the blood and sweat from his eyes with what was left of his left arm.
The sun was bright. He though about his family, remembered his wife’s smile, the laughter of his kids, their eyes. He thought of people, milling, socializing, loving each other, growing. He thought of history. He chuckled to himself. He thought of the Romans in their silly helmets, and Hitler. He thought of Great Britain, America, of empires, of politicians. Then he thought of money, the farmer’s market, fresh tomatoes, working in the garden, flowers. Then he thought of his daughter, clouds and the blue sky behind her, the blue sky that even now was blowing away.
So it all comes down to this, he thought. He laughed inside. Imagine being the last human being. Hard to believe it.
He scanned the gray line of soldiers as they raised their weapons.
He held out his lance, roaring as he squeezed the trigger.
There was a bright flash of light and pain.
