Hot sweat burst from his body. He could feel it running down his face, streaming through his hair, along his backbone, under his arms, and into his crotch. He had never been fit and the last days had not added to his endurance. He was dry swallowing air but it felt as if he was in the act of delivering a baby, a very large one. In the course of all this, some clouds had passed over the sun. The temperature eased, but he could not appreciate their intervention.
Time doesn’t matter in situations like this; not that this was a situation. Situations suggested frequency, regular occurrences, ‘previousness’. Was that a word? Did it matter? Who would notice his ill use of the language? He was indulging in ‘bollocktivity’, his word for nonsensical appreciation of things that did not necessarily make any sense. Industrial pollen! Now that didn’t make any sense. None at all.
For some time, they had been worried about the bees. Hadn’t he heard that if bees died out, the world would die with them. How about that, Honey? There was lots of end-of-the-world crap floating about on the internet, and he had read and believed some of it. The bee thing, he had put on the trash pile, screwed it up and thrown it into the Fake News Basket. Now, he was not so sure. When was the last time he had seen a bee?
Flies were different. Flies enjoyed these times. It was as if they had won the golden ticket to the Last Day All You Can Eat Buffet.
When he had crowned himself as the last living thing on Earth he had never considered flies. For him, flies were not living things, but the manifestation of death. They lived off shit and puke and rotting flesh. They laid their eggs in turds, in decaying food and decomposing bodies. This was now a fly haven and sooner or later he would be on their menu.
He thought about bees:
“To be or not to bee,” and it brought a dry smile from within.