Three of us remain: he and she and I. I want him, so I lie in wait, crouched in shadow near the only fresh-water source for miles.
The sky is as gray as the land, with a wide ellipse of turbulent crimson, dotted with darker gray — always churning.
She comes, bucket in hand, and I leap from the darkness, slashing with my scythe. Gouts of blood float in seeming slow-motion as she falls to the ground — gray on red on gray again.
I’ve won, securing for myself the second-to-last man on earth by elimination of the last woman.