The Last One Standing

I've been walking straight for fifteen days.

Nothing.

Overturned vehicles, abandoned tents, and a steel gray sky. The post-apocalypse is a black and white photograph where one can only notice red hues that tease the corners of the eyes.

I smell smoke. Not the typical electrical fire, burning rubber kind that I still can't get used to. But that smell of cooking.

Off the side of the gravel road I see smoke coming from a tin hut.

I see an gray old man like myself, jumping up and down, flailing his arms.

First person I've seen in 389 days.

I wave back, but his wave doesn't seem to be responding to mine. I do my best to holler. He stops.

Planting my cane into the caked earth, I start to make my way towards him. I holler again. This time, he disappears into the tin hut.

"Hello" I yell again.

He comes out. This time with a shotgun. He shoots in my direction at random.

"Stop. I come in peace" I scream.

With one hand on my cane and one hand up, I move my way towards him.

He shoots again, this time causing me to hit the ground near a well about ten feet from the hut.

"God dammit. I'm not hear to harm ya" I yell as I lay down.

I look up to see him standing right above me.

He has sunglasses on, except one of the lens has fallen out of the frame - to reveal an empty eye socket.

He seems to be speaking another language as I can't read his lips.

"I am deaf" I say.

He moves his lips again, this time the barrel of the shotgun drifts away from me enough so I can grab it and to bring him down. I get on top of him easily.

With him pinned, I grab his hand. He resists but I manage to bring his fingertips to my right ear. I then guide his hands away and make an "X" motion in the air with his.

I do the fingertips to the ear and the "X" motion again just for good measure. The old accountant in me still likes to double check everything.

The wrinkles on his face open up into this wide smile. His body shakes from laughter. I laugh too and get off of him.

With one hand on my cane as support, I use my other hand to lift him off the ground. He pats me on the shoulder and points towards the hut.

I follow his lead into the pitch black. I feel the dirt on the ground, and the sweat of his palms that I grip tightly. He puts two tin cans in my hand. We walk out together, hand in hand towards the back of the hut where the smoke I first saw back on the road.

The tin cans: Ravioli.

We sit on log, taking turns blowing into the smolder as the other laughs in familiarity.

As the fire recovers, he pulls out a can opener chained to his belt. I offer to open his can of Ravioli, but he firmly holds his can and wags his finger and points at himself.

I open mine.

I make an obvious inhaling sound and a "Mmmm". He puts his nose over his can, smiles and nods. We laugh again.

We move to the log and sit there huddled together, our shoulders connected in union, with a sometime slap on the back here and there.

And we eat our Ravioli.