The occupant’s former king smiles at me, his sawed-off shotgun literally death-gripped and pointed right at me. Thankfully, skeletons can’t do anything besides smile. The remains of his bathrobe have tattered away and are so heavy with dust, its almost impossible to tell it apart from the yellowed bones.

I’m not sure what killed him. Or...her. It's kind of hard to tell without skin. It looks like they had a pretty good set up. Books, magazines, and newspapers are huddled around the armed corpse like some kind of fucked-up shrine. The candle on the table beside him burned out long ago, but it still stands tall. Always carry matches can be rule number four for surviving the apocalypse. The mask keeps the smell of sulfur muted, and it takes several seconds before its bright enough to go grave robbing.

Holy shit.

All I wanted growing up was four walls, but this place has walls within walls. Dozens of jugs of fresh water line the wall. Holstering my gun, I double-back and lock the door before continuing through the penthouse. There’s two bedrooms, both with walk-in closet. Instead of clothes, though, one is filled with canned foods and rations, the other assault weapons and ammo.

I haven’t felt excitement like this in…well, ever. Walking back to the living room I stare at the skeleton and wonder again how they died. The candle hadn't burned much and there’s no sign of violence. Heart attack maybe?

Doesn’t matter, dead is dead. I pitch the recliner forward, raising a cloud of dust and decaying calcium before flopping in the chair. Pleasure races up my feet as the leather reclines back and races up my spine, releasing a low groan from my mouth. Stretching, my hand comes in contact with glass. Something tips on the table, and I snatch it up before it can fall.

An old bottle of whiskey. Aged twenty years…plus at least ten more based on the newspaper dates. I never had alcohol before. Never could afford it, either in dollars or sense. Nothing kills you faster than slowed reactions and impaired judgement.

The author's content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

But now? Now I’m a king.

And kings don’t answer to anyone.

I work the thick gloves off my hands, revealing liver-spotted flesh I don’t recognize. I reach for my mask, even though it’s a death sentence. My fingers glance against the bumpy row of tumors on my throat, reminds me it doesn’t matter. Whatever in the air that killed everything else is already inside me. What’s the point of being the last man standing now if I don’t treat myself? I don't how much time I have left, but I'm going out in style.

I suck my first gulp of unfiltered air in years. Something clogs in my throat and I hack and gag. The coughing continues for agonizing minutes, but every breath makes it worse. For fuck’s sake! Don’t tell me I survived all this, just to be the second victim of a goddamned Lay-Z Boy?!

Finally, the obstruction comes free in a jagged cough that echoes in my ears. I stare down at the ball of snot and dust and cover my mouth with my hand. I was so eager to try a sip of booze I forgot about the thick dust and grime in the air. Laughing at my own stupidity, I head to the window to get some fresh—

FLASH!

It’s so bright all thought dies , replaced with nothing but instinct. I can’t hear anything over the broken glass, but its too loud just to be the bottle. Too loud to be anything but an explosion. My whole body is bruised from the sound alone, but I manage to hold the gun in my hand. I try to walk to the window but pain stabs through my chest, and drags me to my knees.

Thought returns just in time to piece together what happened. The windows are shattered, turned into shrapnel as a result of the blast. A shard as long as my forearm is buried in my chest. Blood lurches up my throat and out my mouth. It's the only thing keeping me from screaming.

The gun gains a thousand pounds and flops to the floor. I manage to crawl the short distance to the window, but its agony pulling myself up from the ground. I know I’m dead, my heart just hasn’t realized it yet. But, goddammit, I’m not going to die not knowing what killed me.

Mushroom cloud doesn’t even begin to describe the horizon. The radiated chemicals have risen into a wall of death and destruction. I guess I wasn’t the only one left alive. And the greedy motherfucker wanted to take the world with him.

And I guess I was wrong about one more thing. It does matter how you die.

“No,” I growl and dig my nails into the window seals. “You can’t have it! This is my caste, my home! Mine! You hear me? I'm a fucking king!”

The cloud doesn’t bow. It only swallows everything in its path.