As Featured in Under the Wing by O.G. Rose
A Short Story
Listen for God’s sake! Now, like I was saying, first Wall Street crashed, the 401ks dried up, housing prices plummeted, student loans defaulted, mobs kidnapped Senators, a virus mutated, xenophobia intensified, the police militarized, the President died, China invaded the islands, Russia bombed — and then only two people were left.
One man.
One woman.
Standing on a highway all alone.
Being the last of all males, he was “the man,” and she, being the last of all females, was “the woman.” (They did, of course, have names.)
The world having ended, the man asked the woman if they could mate. To save humanity.
“You honestly think I’m raising children in this mess?” she replied. They stood on FDR drive bordered by the East River and smoldering skyscrapers of New York, which, regarding general atmosphere, at this point resembled Beijing, London, and Chicago (global unity). And she had a point: it was tough to raise kids without a working stove, let alone surrounded by bodies and beneath perpetual doom-clouds.
“Come on, for humanity,” the man in blue jeans and a 1980s Starship t-shirt begged. He was average height, in fair shape from police training, and blessed with bright red hair (miracle of miracles, gingers didn’t go extinct first). Over the last few who-knows-it-all-blurs, during post-omega supply runs — their home base was Peter Luger Steak House (they could finally get in) — the man alluded to the possibility of procreation, and usually, he wasn’t persistent. However, he was done risking a dormant cruise missile detonating or a precise lightning bolt finishing the woman off and murdering sex. After centuries of hard work, human reproduction deserved better.
The woman had beige skin, long brown hair, and, amazingly, didn’t resemble a character from Mad Max. “You’d say anything to get in my pants.”
“You’re not wearing any pants,” the man noted. A burnt tablecloth hung loosely around the woman’s hips under her white t-shirt. She slapped him, stormed up the parkway near where a B-2 bomber had smashed into an ice-cream truck, and picked up a page of The Walking Dead containing copyright information. Informed about publication laws, she then released the remains of the bestseller into the wasteland-breeze. Fortunately, there was a plastered cover of Pride and Prejudice sticking to the road that she could review without bending over. The man walked up behind her and tried to lace his fingers into hers, though they bounced off her sealed fist.
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