The thumping began, muffled and heavy in the darkness, stirring the old man from his slumber. No one had visited his decrepit hilltop estate in a decade. The mansion stood apart from the rest of the city, its paint cracked and greenery wild.
Despite the tumult of wind and rain, something woke the old man. He had not heard the thumping, but he felt a foreign presence in his home.
“Is… Is someone there?” The old man called with an unsteady tremble in his voice. He had no friends, no family, and had long since stopped receiving visitors. But for the first time in years, he felt he wasn’t alone.
He sat still in his bed, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. His vision gradually sharpened in the dim moonlight and shadows, and at first, he saw no one. However, a lingering sense of unease tainted the air. His sanctum had been penetrated by someone, or something.
The soft thumping returned. A quiet thud from somewhere downstairs. With haste, he struck a match and lit the oil lantern beside his bed. A rational part of him wanted to lock his door and wait until morning. But this was his home. If there was an intruder, he needed to find them.
Venturing into the halls, he listened again for signs of life, but heard nothing. In an estate this immense, someone could live on the far side of the residence for days before he’d notice.
“Is anyone there?” he called. The only response was the echo of his own voice and the soft patter of rain. He held the lantern high, but the house only seemed to grow darker. Heavy shadows obscured the estate’s rich history, and without the moonlight, the windowless hall looked like a cave under the dull glow of his lantern.
An unmistakable thud came from downstairs, startling him. The old man moved quickly toward his stairwell, questions racing through his mind faster than his small legs could carry him. Did they come to loot, or for something more sinister? Revenge, perhaps. He wondered if they’d noticed his signs at the gate. These questions troubled him, as he had no weapon to defend himself with and couldn’t move with much haste.
He reached the bottom and saw no signs of entry. No people, no animals, no ghost of a former business partner covered in rattling chains.
Then, from the kitchen, the sounds began again, an uneven thumping as someone moved around, possibly going through his cabinets. He walked to the kitchen door and cleared his throat, wanting to sound two feet taller than he was.
“Is someone in there?” He said, with all the steadiness he could muster, before holding his breath in anticipation.
Silence.
He waited for a minute, then another. Building his resolve, he pushed the door open and stepped inside. From what he could see, the kitchen was empty. His shelves were unpilfered, and his knives were still in their block, but the room seemed different somehow. Then, he noticed a small pool of water on the floor.
As he inspected the puddle, a nearby window burst open, closed, and opened again, almost hard enough to break the glass, allowing the wind and rain from the storm to stream into the room. The old man shut the window and latched it. And with that, the house seemed to settle into itself again, safely sealed away from the world.
“Hello! Is anyone out there?” the old man called, wondering if an unlatched window had caused all this commotion. He heard nothing, and the house remained still. Needing to be sure, he moved from room to room, closet to closet, examining every space where a human might hide. He tried the bedrooms, the game room, the library, and the music room, all while shouting for any intruders to come out.
“Is anyone here? Anyone, I demand you come out!” he yelled. It took him over an hour, but he searched the entire home. Eventually, there was nowhere else to check, yet the old man continued to cry in frustration.
“Is anyone there? Please come out if you’re there,” he cried before running outside.
“Please, tell me if you’re there!” he screamed at the storm in pain and frustration, the tears on his cheeks mixing with the rain. Out front, he could see most of the city, along with the port full of long abandoned ships. He could also see all the tents set up by FEMA and the CDC, and, of course, the endless body bags. His eyes drifted over this husk of a city, praying that tonight he’d see a light, a lantern, any beacon telling him someone else was alive.
Years ago, he was prideful, boasting about how he was prepared for the plague before it hit. And when it did, the virus was merciless and unrelenting, killing anything it could jump to. With ease, it spread from person to person, species to species. The livestock died first, and people went not long after. It spared only the insects in the sky. The cities belonged to the flies.
He glanced at the signs by his gate.
‘SANCTUARY!’ ‘FOOD AND SHELTER INSIDE’
But the signs came too late. He’d stockpiled food, water, and medicine; everything he could need, except for people to share it with.
So, when things got bad, he shut his doors to the rest of the world. Neighbors came with their children pleading for help, but he didn’t dare open the doors. He’d told himself that this was their fault. If they wanted to live, they should have built their own bunkers.If only he’d known then what he knew now. There was no use to food with no one to feed, security with no one to protect, or sanctuary if it condemns you to a life spent in solitude.
INSTANT NOODLES 