The Last Witness
By Olivia Salter
Word Count: 1,864
The city felt smaller now, swallowed by silence. Logan Kane moved down what used to be 8th Avenue, his shadow stretching long under the broken neon lights. He kicked an empty can across the cracked pavement, the sound echoing in a way that made him flinch. Funny how the absence of people had amplified everything—his senses, his regrets, his memories.
It had been—what?—a year since the outbreak? Maybe two. He stopped keeping track after the last person he knew died. Days blurred into nights, and the only constant was the weight of being the one left behind.
The small Hispanic grocery store came into view, its sign barely hanging on, the letters faded but still faintly reading “Fernando’s Market.” He’d scavenged it before, but he checked it every few months. Most of the food had been looted early, but sometimes he got lucky.
Inside, the air was heavy with mildew and decay. Logan rummaged through the shelves, pushing aside broken glass and cans with rusted labels. His fingers brushed against a can of peaches, dusty but intact. He stared at it for a long moment, then slipped it into his pack.
Before leaving, he paused by the counter. The mirror behind it was still there, though cracked from some long-forgotten looter’s bat. His reflection stared back, hollow-eyed, bearded, his cheeks drawn tight. He barely recognized himself anymore.
A voice startled him.
“Still scavenging, huh?”
Logan spun around so fast he tripped over a box of old candy bars. He hit the ground hard, his heart pounding.
But no one was there. Just shadows.
He stayed frozen for a long moment, breathing hard. “I’m losing it,” he whispered to himself. It wasn’t the first time he’d thought it. He talked to himself more these days, filling the silence with anything to keep his sanity intact.
The voice came again, softer this time. “Logan.”
It was unmistakable. Her voice. Ava.
His hands trembled as he got to his feet, scanning the room. “Who’s there?” he called out, though he already knew.
No answer. Just the wind outside, whistling through broken windows. He turned back toward the mirror.
And there she was.
Ava stood in the reflection, her face pale but her expression almost serene. She looked the way she had on their honeymoon, her hair loose around her shoulders, her favorite dress swaying like there was a breeze only she could feel.
But something was off. Her eyes were too dark, her smile too still.
Logan’s breath caught in his throat. “You’re not real,” he said, his voice shaking.
Her head tilted, her smile fading. “Is that what you tell yourself?”
He backed away from the counter, but her image stayed in the mirror, watching him. “You’re not here,” he said again, louder this time, like he could drown her out.
“I never left, Logan,” she said softly. “You brought me here.”
He felt the walls closing in, the room suddenly too small. “This is just... it’s guilt,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. “I’m tired. I’m... I’m alone, and I’m tired, and this is just—”
“You’re not alone,” Ava interrupted. Her voice was calm, almost tender. “Not entirely.”
He froze. The way she said it made something cold crawl up his spine.
“What do you mean?” he whispered.
Ava stepped closer in the mirror, though her reflection didn’t match the room around her anymore. It was like she was in a different place entirely—one with soft light and shifting shadows.
“You think you’re the last man,” she said. “But you’re not. You’re the last witness.”
The words hit him like a punch to the gut. He shook his head. “I don’t... I don’t understand.”
Her expression darkened, her voice sharper now. “You do.”
The memories flooded back: the lab, the sleepless nights, the serum. He’d told himself it was for humanity, but deep down, he’d known it was for her. Ava had been sick, one of the first infected. He’d promised her he’d fix it, that he’d save her.
“I didn’t know,” he choked out, tears welling in his eyes. “I didn’t know it would—”
“You didn’t listen,” she snapped. “I told you to stop. I begged you.”
“I was trying to save you!” he shouted, his voice breaking.
“And what did you save, Logan?” Her figure began to crack, her edges blurring like a broken signal. “Not me. Not them. Just yourself.”
He staggered back, tripping over debris. “It wasn’t supposed to end like this,” he whispered.
Her reflection fractured further, but her voice remained steady. “You didn’t stop when you should have. You didn’t think you could fail. And now you’re all that’s left to see what you’ve done.”
The mirror shattered, sending shards raining to the floor. Logan dropped to his knees, staring at the pieces. Ava was gone, but her words lingered, heavy in the silence.
He stayed there for what felt like hours, the wind whistling through the broken windows. When he finally moved, it was to pick up the can of peaches. He held it in his hands, staring at his distorted reflection in the metal.
The city was still quiet. Too quiet.
As he stood to leave, a faint sound caught his ear—a whisper, soft and distant. It was Ava’s voice.
“You’re not alone.”
Logan looked around, his heart pounding. For the first time in months, he felt something close to fear. He turned toward the door, his steps quickening as the whispers grew louder.
Outside, the wind carried the sound of something moving, something alive. Or maybe not alive at all.
***
Logan kept moving, the weight of his pack pulling at his shoulders as the whispers grew louder. His boots struck the pavement in hurried, uneven steps. The city’s silence had always been suffocating, but now it was worse—broken by something he couldn’t place.
Every alley seemed darker. Every shadow felt alive. He glanced over his shoulder, his heart racing.
Nothing.
“Just keep walking,” he muttered to himself. His voice sounded small in the expanse of empty buildings. “You’re imagining things. It’s just the wind.”
The can of peaches shifted softly against the inside of his pack, a small, grounding reminder of reality. He focused on it, the promise of a meal he didn’t have to fight for. It was something solid, something real.
But Ava’s voice cut through the noise of his thoughts.
“You think it’s the wind, Logan?”
He froze mid-step, his breath catching in his throat. The voice hadn’t come from behind him this time. It was closer—right beside him.
“Stop it,” he hissed, gripping the straps of his pack. He quickened his pace, his eyes darting to the windows of the buildings around him. Most were shattered, their interiors dark and empty, but every so often, he thought he saw movement in the corner of his vision.
“Ava’s not here,” he whispered. “Ava’s gone.”
But the whispers didn’t stop. They multiplied.
Voices—faint, overlapping, too quiet to understand—seem to seep out of the walls, the ground, the very air. Logan clamped his hands over his ears, his pace breaking into a jog. The sound followed him,
“Logan... you don’t deserve to be here.”
His foot caught on a piece of rubble, and he fell hard, scraping his palms on the pavement. He scrambled to his feet, ignoring the sting of the wound. The whispers were almost deafening now, a chorus of accusations, fragments of sentences that sliced into him like shards of glass.
“You could have stopped it.”
“You let us die.”
“You only cared about her.”
“No!” Logan shouted, spinning in a circle. “I didn’t— I was trying to help! I didn’t mean for this to happen!”
The voices fell silent all at once, leaving only the sound of his ragged breathing. He dropped to his knees, clutching his head.
When he looked up, he wasn’t alone.
Figures stood in the distance, their shapes blurry and wrong, like people distorted through frosted glass. They didn’t move, but he could feel their eyes—hundreds of them—locked on him.
He stumbled backward, his hands scrabbling for the pack he’d dropped. His fingers found the can of peaches, and for some reason, he held onto it like a lifeline.
“Who are you?” he demanded, his voice shaking.
The figures didn’t respond. They just stood there, silent and still, their edges flickering like a failing signal.
Logan took a step back, then another, his muscles tensing as the distance between them seemed to shrink despite his retreat.
“You’re not real,” he said, his voice breaking. “None of this is real.”
One of the figures took a step forward. The motion was smooth, unnatural, as though it wasn’t walking but sliding across the ground.
“Witness,” it said, the single word echoed in a voice that sounded like it came from deep underwater.
Logan turned and ran.
***
The city blurred around him as he sprinted, his lungs burning, his legs screaming for rest. He didn’t look back, didn’t dare. He could still hear the whispers, faint but ever-present, chasing him down streets that seemed unfamiliar despite the months he’d spent wandering them.
He finally ducked into a doorway, pressing himself against the cold concrete wall, trying to catch his breath. He slid down to the ground, clutching the can of peaches like it was the last piece of the world he could hold onto.
The whispers were gone. For now.
His mind raced. Those figures—what were they? Hallucinations? The virus? Some remnant of the people he’d failed to save?
“Ava,” he whispered, closing his eyes. “What’s happening to me?”
When he opened them, she was there again, sitting across from him on the broken steps of the building. She looked... different this time. Softer. Less like a ghost and more like the woman he’d loved.
“You’re running,” she said simply.
“What else am I supposed to do?” he snapped, his voice cracking.
Ava tilted her head, her eyes searching his face. “You can’t run forever, Logan. You know that.”
He looked away, staring down at the can in his hands. “Then what am I supposed to do?”
“Face it,” she said.
Her words hit him like a blow. He shook his head, his grip tightening on the can. “Face what? There’s nothing left to face. Everyone’s gone. You’re gone.”
Ava leaned forward, her voice soft but unyielding. “You think the end was an accident? That you just... got lucky?”
His stomach churned. “What are you talking about?”
“You weren’t immune, Logan,” she said, her gaze steady. “You were chosen. The virus didn’t spare you. It marked you.”
The whispers returned, faint and insidious, crawling into his ears. Ava stood, her figure flickering like a candle in a draft.
“Face it, Logan,” she said one last time before vanishing.
***
Logan sat there, frozen, as the whispers swirled around him. The can of peaches slipped from his grasp, rolling to a stop at the edge of the doorway.
Somewhere in the distance, a voice—deep, resonant, and inhuman—called his name.
And this time, Logan stood up to face it.
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