End of the world -- Fiction; Epidemics -- Fiction; Regression (Civilization) -- Fiction; Science fiction
“But the third day disillusioned us. I can never forget the night
preceding it. I had charge of the night guards from eight to twelve,
and from the roof of the building I watched the passing of all man's
glorious works. So terrible were the local conflagrations that all the
sky was lighted up. One could read the finest print in the red glare.
All the world seemed wrapped in flames. San Francisco spouted smoke and
fire from a score of vast conflagrations that were like so many active
volcanoes. Oakland, San Leandro, Haywards--all were burning; and to the
northward, clear to Point Richmond, other fires were at work. It was an
awe-inspiring spectacle. Civilization, my grandsons, civilization was
passing in a sheet of flame and a breath of death. At ten o'clock that
night, the great powder magazines at Point Pinole exploded in rapid
succession. So terrific were the concussions that the strong building
rocked as in an earthquake, while every pane of glass was broken. It was
then that I left the roof and went down the long corridors, from room to
room, quieting the alarmed women and telling them what had happened.
“An hour later, at a window on the ground floor, I heard pandemonium
break out in the camps of the prowlers. There were cries and screams,
and shots from many pistols. As we afterward conjectured, this fight had
been precipitated by an attempt on the part of those that were well
to drive out those that were sick. At any rate, a number of the
plague-stricken prowlers escaped across the campus and drifted against
our doors. We warned them back, but they cursed us and discharged a
fusillade from their pistols. Professor Merryweather, at one of the
windows, was instantly killed, the bullet striking him squarely between
the eyes. We opened fire in turn, and all the prowlers fled away with
the exception of three. One was a woman. The plague was on them and they
were reckless. Like foul fiends, there in the red glare from the skies,
with faces blazing, they continued to curse us and fire at us. One of
the men I shot with my own hand. After that the other man and the woman,
still cursing us, lay down under our windows, where we were compelled to
watch them die of the plague.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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