The
next area of the house Misters Callahan and Smyth paid a visit to was the
kitchen. The kitchen in this house
was designed to feed either a family of twenty-two or four people whose love of
food could be measured in metric tons.
Mr. Smyth walked toward a granite countertop, running his hand over its
smooth, cool surface.
“Granite. Nice,” said Mr. Smyth.
“Yes,
indeed,” responded his cohort.
While
Mr. Smyth was getting his fingerprints on the counters, Mr. Callahan was
inspecting the knife collection.
There was a knife for every occasion: eating steak, slicing bread, peeling cucumbers, dissecting
peas, shearing the hairs on peaches.
Mr. Callahan did not know most of the knives’ purposes, but then again,
the knives probably did not know either.
He carefully removed a slender paring knife from its holder. He touched the tip of his finger to the
blade’s edge. A drop of ruby red
blood squeezed out from the miniature wound. Out of nowhere, a mosquito flew into the room and landed on
Mr. Callahan’s finger. It sucked
up the drop of blood and was gone before the victim even had time to comprehend
the misdeed performed against him.
“That
vermin stole my blood!” exclaimed the distraught Mr. Callahan.
“Disgusting,”
Mr. Smyth responded with a shake of his head.
“Honestly,
when we’re long gone off the face of the earth, the only things that will
remain will be mosquitoes and rutabagas.”
“Rutabagas?”
“Yes,
rutabagas. They’re the one thing
people won’t touch, which means they’ll survive the rampant destruction humans
will cause when we know our end is imminent.”
“That’s
a very dark outlook.”
“Maybe,
but at least the insect and the root will keep each other company.”
“True. You did afford the world that one
glimmer of hope.”
Mr.
Callahan slid the knife back into its rightful place and meandered over to the
gas stove. The pilot light was on.
“Curious,”
whispered Mr. Callahan.
“What
is?” asked Mr. Smyth.
“It’s
just interesting that here we are, walking through this abandoned house of
grandeur, and we haven’t stolen a single thing.”
“That’s
not true.”
“Are
you saying it isn’t abandoned?”
“No,
I’m saying we haven’t abstained from any robbery.”
Mr.
Callahan’s hand instinctively shot up to the jacket pocket where the old book
remained hidden. When he realized
what he had done, he slowly lowered his hand. He glanced up at his partner, but Mr. Smyth was oblivious to
the mental commotion that had just occurred a few feet away. He was completely occupied with
emptying his pockets of gewgaws and gadgets, thing-a-ma-jigs and baubles.
“Where
did you get all of those?” demanded Mr. Callahan accusatorily, though he felt a
pang of guilt as he did.
“Why
does it matter? We came here to
rob the place,” retorted Mr. Smyth.
“I
know that. It’s just that we
always share the loot. And it
looks like you were trying to hide those useless items from me.”
“Here. Take some.” Mr. Smyth took a handful of the worthless objects and placed
them directly into his partner’s pants pocket. “Now we’re even.”
“Yes. Yes, we are.”
The
two separated and continued exploring the crevices of the kitchen. Occasionally an appliance would catch
one of their attentions, but after a few minutes of toying with it, the
interested party carefully returned it back to its place. Mr. Smyth opened the refrigerator. It was empty. He let out a long sigh.
“Why
are we here?” asked Mr. Smyth.
“To
steal valuables,” answered Mr. Callahan automatically.
“Answer
me honestly. Are we just going to
walk aimlessly from room to room, pretending that these objects interest us?”
“Yes.”
“I
thought so.”
“Why
are you so frustrated? We do this
all the time, but you never complain.”
“It
just feels like we’re the mosquito and the rutabaga, as you put it
earlier. We’re the last things
alive, and we’re forced to go through this routine together, exploring an empty
house, snatching the only things that seem to interest us: meaningless trinkets.”
Mr.
Callahan turned away, not saying anything. Then, after several moments:
“I
call the mosquito.”
The Last Living Thing
Barren. Desolate. Empty.
Wasteland. Apocalyptic. The
Mosquito looked up from the thesaurus and stared at the land around him. All of the words accurately described
what he saw. Which would make
sense, because the Mosquito was the last thing alive.
The
Mosquito gave a long, sighing buzz and flew up into the air. It was time to search for something to
eat. Each day this necessary task
became more difficult. The
Mosquito did not know how much longer it would be able to survive. There was a lot of pressure being the
last living thing.
The
insect flew past vacated homes, ransacked storefronts, and bare forests. Just a few weeks ago, all of this had
been full of vibrant life. Now the
only sign of life was the puny Mosquito, hoping to find anything to prolong its
imminent demise. It was not afraid
of death; after all, everything else was no longer alive. Still, it enjoyed life and wanted to
prolong it as long as possible.
After
a few hours of unsuccessful searching, the Mosquito took a break and landed on
a broken light post. That was when
it spotted something new.
Something it had not seen since everything else ceased to exist. Life.
It
was a rutabaga. And it was still
alive. No, it was not much, but it
still counted for something. The
Mosquito could barely contain its excitement over the fact that it was no
longer the only thing alive. Then
its stomach rumbled. It was
starving.
Somewhat
guiltily, the Mosquito slowly flew over to the root and landed atop the
plant. It felt bad about killing
the only other living thing, but its survival instincts were relentless. It bent down to take a bite.
“What
do you think you’re doing?” screamed the Rutabaga.
“What? What do you mean?” said the flustered
Mosquito.
“I
should ask you the same thing.
You’re the one who’s trying to eat me, after all,” retorted the
Rutabaga.
“Yes,
but I need sustenance to survive.
I can’t survive on water and light alone like you.”
“That
just proves that I’m part of a more fit species.”
“How
can you argue that? We’re both
still alive.”
“But
I’m doing quite fine, and you’re starving to death. And would you really want the knowledge that you killed the
only other thing alive weighing down your conscience?”’
“No,”
admitted the Mosquito. “So what
happened to all the other rutabagas, if you’re so hardy?”
“The
same thing that happened to your brethren. They died,” stated the Rutabaga matter-of-factly.
“Then
how did you survive?”
“Luck,
I guess. Or fate. Depends which one you prescribe to.”
“Neither.”
“Then
it’s a miracle you survived.”
The
Mosquito shrugged as much as a mosquito can. It paused a moment to consider this new turn of events. Its stomach rumbled again. It slowly lowered its head in
preparation to take a bite out of the Rutabaga.
“Watch
it!” shouted the Rutabaga.
“I’m
sorry, it’s just that I’m so hungry.
And there’s nothing else to eat.
You’re it.”
“I’m
also ‘it’ in the sense that I’m one of the last living things.”
“The
penultimate living thing, if you will.”
“Why
do you say that?” asked the Rutabaga worriedly.
“Because
I’m the last.” And with that, the
Mosquito took a large bite out of the Rutabaga. Before it could change its mind, the Mosquito quickly
devoured the remainder of the root.
Soon, there was nothing left.
The
Mosquito took a breath. It had
never had such a filling and tasty meal in its life. It looked around.
Now it really was the last living thing.
Abandoned. Deserted. Vacant.
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