Clark glared down Main Street with his hands in his pockets, gazing over the hills of the once blithesome city. All would have been copacetic five days ago, before the water supply was vitiated with a virus that caused hyperacute liver failure. Now, all that prevailed was Clark, as far as he understood.

Biological warfare had transcended society. Yes, the "perfect society." The labs plighted it was safe, until something went misconstrued during a test, leaking the virus into the ground and, ultimately, the water supply.

Once the virus began to proliferate, the townspeople went berserk. In summation, they raped, pillaged, and plundered. The city was cauterized to the ground. The fires spread throughout the vicinity, as far as Clark could see, and the firefighters were all dead. Bodies lined the streets, their yellow, glazed eyes stared unseeingly up at Clark as he passed, and the stench of singed flesh stung his nostrils. He never incurred the virus.

Now he was the only one left. He peered down the street and over the horizon at the smoke-filled crimson skies. He brought out the .38 caliber automatic revolver from his belt loop. He aimed the gun to his right temple, but did not pull. What if there are others, he reminisced hopefully.

Clark extracted a coin from his pocket. "I'll flip," he whispered. "Heads, I search. Tails, I die." He flipped it, and the coin descended on his arm. With bated breath, he waited until ready to recognize his fate.