Summary: Fraser's the last man on earth.

 Notes/Warnings: Not beta read, and I don't usually write due South stuff. This is a death story. There's no fun here. Assumes a prior RayK/Fraser relationship. Feedback of all sorts is welcome :)

 * * *

I am the last man on earth.

 I'm not sure how I know this, and part of me berates myself for the arrogance of thinking that I would be the last one.

 It's true, though. I feel it inside me. It's an itch.

 Ray died days ago, twitching and clutching at me and bleeding from his ears.

 Before that, Diefenbaker left, suddenly, and I know he will not be returning. I think he sensed the illness and could not bear to be near it.

 I understand the feeling.

 We lasted longer than most. As word spread of the outbreak and the death tolls began to rise, I packed up Ray, Diefenbaker, as many supplies as possible, and dragged them here. I thought perhaps the isolation of the Territories would slow infection rates, and let us survive a little longer, until there was a cure, or a vaccine.

 There will be no cure. The doctors and researchers and lab technicians died too fast for that. We listened to the radio for updates until, one day, the airwaves were all silent.

 Still, we lasted a while longer, until Ray stumbled across a dying hunter while he was out setting small animal snares. He returned to the cabin empty handed and pale as a ghost, terrified.

 He died, I buried him, and now I'm alone. The last man on earth.

 The fire is blazing cheerfully in front of me. Even in shock, I perform the basic necessities to keep alive. I wonder why I bother.

 The knock on the door provides the answer.

 * * *

 Dazed, I open the sturdy wooden door, and almost laugh when I realise who it is. Instead, I smile slightly, and step out of the way, gesturing to invite her in.

 Her long hair is tangled and dirty. Her eyes are sunken and dull. She's weak, hungry, so I set her on the bed and go to the kitchen, intent on making porridge.

 Of course, if I am the last man, it only makes sense that she would be the last woman.

 * * *

 When I return with food, she is sitting exactly as I left her. I hold a spoonful to her mouth, and she eats, swallowing slowly. She takes a few mouthfuls and then pushes my hand away, but looks at my face. Her voice a harsh whisper, she grates out, "Ben." She falls back onto the bed, and I rearrange her so she lies against me, warm.

 She drinks some water, and then some more. Finally, she starts to speak, slowly, brokenly. She tells me she knew, somehow, that I'd survive. She tells me of her journey to the cabin, the horror of going through towns littered with rotting, bloated corpses. She speaks of packs of wild dogs running through the streets.

 She says how awful it was to scavenge through empty houses for supplies. The silence nearly drove her mad. She pushed on because she hoped she would find me. Her hope for me kept her alive.

 I hold her close, stroking her dirty hair, feeling the curls, soft despite days without shampoo. So different from Ray's hair.

 After a while, she pauses to drink some more water. I think perhaps she is done talking and would like to sleep, so I start to move away. She pulls me back in, close, and starts speaking again.

 She says after she left on the train, she went into hiding, meeting others living underground existences. She speaks of radicals obsessed with global population concerns, and how they sheltered her. In return, she helped their cause, helped with the stealing of components and supplies, organising tactics and strategies.

 She says it was supposed to be a controlled release of the virus. Pockets of overpopulation were to be targeted for infection. The end result would be a more feasible population burden for the planet, one which would relieve environmental pressure.

 They hadn't accounted for virulence, or the fact that the virus would mutate to become airborne as well as waterborne.

 There was a vaccine in the works, and she volunteered for testing. The researchers died before they could manufacture sufficient amounts for it to self-replicate.

 She's shaking now, tears falling down her face. I hold her tighter, rocking slowly. I think about holding Ray like this, as he died. He shook too, but from cold. Liquid ran down his face, but it was tinged with blood.

 I think about how her actions have, once again, upended my world. Only this time, there is no going back.

 I wipe her face for her, smoothing away the tears. She looks up at me, her face grateful and full of relief and hope. It contrasts with the last cognizant look Ray gave me, grateful for my presence, full of pain, full of love.

 She begins to speak again, talk of children and searches for others. If I survived, if I have a natural immunity, perhaps others do. Perhaps together, we can begin to right the wrongs she helped perpetrate. I smile at her, thinking that she can never right the wrong of taking Ray from me, of forcing him to die in such a terrible manner.

 But I nod. She says she always wanted children. Imagine how beautiful our children would be? I nod again. They would be beautiful.

 She says she loves me, that she always loved me.

 I think of Ray.

 I lift her up slightly and turn her until she is facing me. I take her face in my hands and grin quickly. I know my teeth look sharp in the light of the fire. She looks at my mouth, and begins to grin back. Then she looks up at my eyes. I know what she sees there, hatred and hunger and anger. She tries to back away, but my hands tighten in her hair.

 Her journey has made her weak, physically and emotionally. She doesn't have much fight in her. I remember when she would be trying to claw my eyes out at this point. Instead, she tries to shrink back, and all the hope in her eyes, the hope I've let her build for herself, dies.

 I grin wider, let her see that I'm glad of her pain, then quickly flex and twist my arms, snapping her slender and dirty neck.

 Her body falls to the bed, her hair obscuring her face.

 My veins itch, and I want to believe it's from the kill.

 I remember Ray, days after he found the hunter, restlessly walking around the cabin complaining of the itch in his veins. By the next day, he was howling with pain, screaming that the itch had turned to knives.

 It won't be long now, Ray. I itch.

 End