The wind whistles over a cold and empty street as you come to a child-sized metal fixture you remember as a "fire hydrant."
You recall men once used these to put out fires, a job many regarded as lazy and somewhat useless. This makes you chuckle as you look around at the charred remnants of the city. All around, brick, mortar, wood and steel has been reduced to black ash.
The simple problems become catastrophes with no one left to solve them.
You sit a spell, letting the hydrant bear your weight. Figuring this is as good a time as any for a bit of entertainment, your retrieve your copy of I Am Legend from your pack. It is difficult to draw parallels between your current situation and the trials and tribulations of Robert Neville, but even so the masturbatory nature of your literary undertaking is not lost upon you.
Neville had a mission, though, you think.
To think the world has become so still and lonely as you would look upon ritualistic murder as enviable almost brings you to tears. Almost. Tears are to be seen, and there is no one around to behold your sorrow. No one is coming to put a hand on your shoulder and whisper "It will be okay." Fitting, you tell yourself, as any such reassurance would be a lie.
You are all that is left. There is nothing left. You are not legend.
You are nothing.