ewis Stillman wondered, as he bolted
the door. He placed the box of tinned goods on a wooden table and lit
the tall lamp nearby. Its flickering orange glow illumined the narrow,
low-ceilinged room as Stillman seated himself on one of three chairs
facing the table.

Twice tonight, his mind told him, twice you've escaped them--and they
could have seen you easily on both occasions if they had been watching
for you. They don't know you're alive. But when they find out ...

He forced his thoughts away from the scene in his mind away from the
horror; quickly he stood up and began to unload the box, placing the
cans on a long shelf along the far side of the room.

He began to think of women, of a girl named Joan, and of how much he had
loved her ...

* * * * *

The world of Lewis Stillman was damp and lightless; it was narrow and
its cold stone walls pressed in upon him as he moved. He had been
walking for several hours; sometimes he would run, because he knew his
leg muscles must be kept strong, but he was walking now, following the
thin yellow beam of his hooded lantern. He was searching.

Tonight, he thought, I might find another like myself. Surely, _someone_
is down here; I'll find someone if I keep searching. I _must_ find
someone!

But he knew he would not. He knew he would find only chill emptiness
ahead of him in the tunnels.

For three long years he had been searching for another man or woman down
here in this world under the city. For three years he had prowled the
seven hundred miles of storm drains which threaded their way under the
skin of Los Angeles like the veins in a giant's body--and he had found
nothing. _Nothing._

Even now, after all the days and nights of search, he could not really
accept the fact that he was alone, that he was the last man alive in a
city of seven million, that all the others were dead.

He paused, resting his back against the cold stone. Some of them were
moving over the street above his head. He listened to the sharp
scuffling sounds on the pavement and swore bitterly.

"Damn you," said Lewis Stillman levelly. "Damn all of you!"

* * * * *

Lewis Stillman was running down the long tunnels. Behind him a tide of
midget shadows washed from wall to wall; high keening cries, doubled and
tripled by echoes, rang in his ears. Claws reached for him; he felt
panting breath, like hot smoke, on the back of his neck; hi