A man walked down the street of a town somewhere in the Eastern US. The man had a name, but it didn't matter anymore. He was going to die. Such formalities as names become trivial at that point. The man was wearing loose-fitting jeans (His son had stretched them out. He was growing so fast.) and a Michigan sweatshirt. It was May, but it had been unusually cold for that time of year. He walked fast down the road, lined with small and large stores. He passed a car with the parking meter expired, and the man clicked his tongue disapprovingly. The man was very conservative, and an orthodox Jew. He had been raised Roman Catholic, but had converted in his late 20s. Judaism just suited him better. It fit, like a tight glove.
His sons' birthday was that afternoon and the man was on his way to pick up a cake. He passed a record store, briefly looking in to notice with a small burst of pride that his sons' band had had a record released. The owner of the store had been a close friend of the man, and he pulled some strings to get it publicly released. It was good that in such violent times as these a person could still create and express his views, through any medium.
The mans' icy blue eyes scanned the road as he went to cross. The light was red, and so he briskly jogged across. He turned left at the corner bakery and around to the other side, where the door was located. He pulled it open and a bell jingled somewhere inside. A portly man stood behind the counter serving a woman who strongly resembled a chicken. He didn't like to think of people in that way, but he just couldn't help it. Maybe it was in the way she held herself. He wasn't sure. She just had that look about her. She picked up her cake and left, though she would never eat it. And neither would the man. His son would never see sixteen.
After picking up the cake, the man stepped out into the street and looked up to see a plane going by in the distance. This wasn't unusual, because of the current situation overseas. The earth had been in constant turmoil for several years. Many called it World War III. Others called it the Apocalypse.
The plane flew off, and the man resumed his walk back home, passing the same car, which a police officer was giving a ticket to, the man observed with a small guilty delight. He looked straight ahead and the smile was replaced by a look of confusion mixed with horror. What he saw in front of him would be the last thing he would ever witness, and he knew it. There was a huge flash of light and a blast of energy, the town dead before they heard the sound. The chicken-woman's molecular structure was pasted against a brick wall, creating an eerie shadow that would remain forever. Her cake was vaporized. The man knew he would never see home again. He knew his family would never see him again. He knew they would be next. The whole town had died. The man realized this in the split second before he was impersonally slaughtered, like the billions of other who would receive the same fate. In that split second a tear came to his eye, though it was vaporized before anyone he noticed it was there. As his body broke and crumpled under the blast, as buildings were sucked into the mushroom cloud, the world outside his slowly continued, before stopping all together. Nuclear bombs were launched all over the world. The world slowly descended into nuclear winter, and cockroaches reigned supreme. Humanity died. It killed itself, perpetrating a final act of suicidal genocide.
The man's youngest son was one of the few survivors. He was only eight. The radiation slowly consumed him, and after a week he was dead. His skin had slowly peeled off. He knew we would die. He knew he would never become an astronaut. He knew he would never discover how well he did on his spelling test. His school probably didn't exist. It's matter mingling with his father's tear.
In his final moments he heard a radio broadcast, one of the last ones until the radios went silent. The announcer said only one thing before the boy died: May we enjoy the morbid oasis we have created for ourselves. The boy's tears welled up, and plummeted down his face. His tears would never be remembered. He was lost from history. His name was David, and his fathers' John. But it did not matter, because no one was alive to speak it.