He returned to consciousness, and with heavy hand stilled the irritating noise of the alarm clock. His head was fuzzy and his mouth dry. With a groan he sat up in bed, rubbed his eyes, and pawed vainly at a shock of hair. Heaving another groan he climbed slowly out of bed, and made for the wash stand.
It was then he realised something was missing. He paused stupidly, and pondered. Then he had it! There were no noises from the street! He walked over to the window and looked out. The street was empty, nothing moved, no traffic, no pedestrians, nothing. An air of deadness hung over the scene. It seemed that nothing had ever moved in the road below, that it had always been so deserted and still as it was now.
Shaking his head, as if to clear the last numbing vestige of sleep from his brain, the man returned to the washstand, and splashed some water on to his face. Funny, he thought, the street was usually busy on Monday. As he washed he became worried, still drying his face he opened the door of his room and looked down the stairs. The passage was empty, none of the usual bustle, no one was cleaning, no one rushing off to work, no one at all. He closed the door and stood for a moment. Perhaps it was just a coincidecne. yes, that was it. By now the street would be filled with traffic and pedestrians. He crossed again to the window. The scene was unchanged, nothing stirred.
He began to theorise. Could the whole population of London have overslept? Perhaps a "purple cloud" had come during the night, and killed everyone but him? Possibly the water had become poisoned? He had drunk no water the previous night, which would account for his immunity. Where had he been last night? Oh yes, at the White Horse, with some fellow fans, celebrating a demob. He wondered if they were still alive, possibly they were, as far as he could remember they hadn't bothered with water last night, either. With an effort he made up his mind to investigate.
Feeling as if he were desecrating a tomb, he crept downstairs. Suddenly the hairs along the back of his neck stood upright. A door opposite him began to open. The homely face of his landlady appeared. "Whatever are you doing up so early on Sunday, Mr. Smith?" she asked.
Data entry by Judy Bemis
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