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THE LAST MAN ON EARTH

Raine Weaver

2

Warning

This e-book may contain sexually explicit scenes and adult language that may be
considered offensive to some readers.

This e-book is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical
events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either the
product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to
actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely
coincidental.

Copyright © October 2006 by Raine Weaver

All rights reserved. No part of this e-book may be reproduced or shared in any form,
including, but not limited to, printing, photocopying, faxing, or e-mailing without written
permission from the author.

THE LAST MAN ON EARTH

Raine Weaver

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O N E A R T H

by

Raine Weaver

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C H A P T E R 1

“It was a dark and stormy night.”

“I can’t believe you really said that.”

Iris cringed as the monstrous peal of thunder rumbled over, and nestled closer to Russ. There was something disquieting about this particular tempest, something that seemed to unnerve her as storms rarely did. It had been going on for hours now, with layers of beating sleet sealing the house in an icy shroud, and thunder playing about the heavens like an angry, evangelical voice.

But here, relaxing with him, all was safe, warm, and secure.

Playfully wriggling her toasting toes, she rubbed her bare feet against his and noted the frown on his face as the television screen went snowy with static. “Captain!” she called frantically in her best Scottish accent. “We seem to be losing power to the dilithium crystals!”

He stared at the screen, suppressing a smile. “Your voice sounds rather high-pitched of late, Mr. Scott. I would order you to requisition larger underwear; but you’re wearing a red shirt.

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According to Star Trek lore, that means you probably won’t live through the night anyway.”

She jumped at the sound of another clap of thunder, so deafening it might have been the explosion of a nearby cannon. “I’m not sure it was such a good idea to watch this Star Trek marathon tonight. I’ve already got the creeps.”

“It’s Halloween. And it’s nearly midnight. You’re supposed to feel creepy.” He nodded, satisfied, as the picture cleared. “Besides—would you rather be in here, all cozy and comfy, or out in that storm?”

He had a point. Right now, there was no place she’d rather be, or anyone she’d rather be with. There was a comfort in being here with her best friend, even with the lights turned off, the wind howling like a crazed beast, and sharp, noisy shards of ice pelting the old house on the hill. All of that seemed somehow beyond them, as if nothing from the outside world could touch them. They had a hearty blaze crackling in the fireplace, the remnants of their won-ton soup and fortune cookies, two large mixing bowls of hot buttered popcorn, and three bottles of champagne on ice to share between them.

Life could, occasionally, be good.

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She moved restlessly beside him as they watched a grotesque creature with suction-cupped fingers creep across the screen. “Well, we’ve seen two movies about the end of the world, one about dead people coming back to life—and now this. I’ve never really been into this horror-Sci-Fi thing. Couldn’t we find something else to watch?”

“Let’s check it out.” He pointed the remote and clicked, and the channels cruised quickly by. “’Nightmare on Elm Street’… ‘The Texas Chainsaw Massacre’… ‘Scream’… ‘Invasion of the Bodysnatchers’…good stuff.”

“Never mind. Star Trek is looking better and better.” She watched him frown as the picture shivered apart, came back, went blank, and popped into focus again. “Your satellite dish is catching hell up on the roof. Fortunately,” she sighed, retrieving a crystal goblet, “there’s enough champagne to keep me from caring. Why so much, Russ? Three bottles?”

“We’re celebrating. Remember? One year in business. I think we’ve done pretty well.”

She had to agree. And a very good year it had been. Oh, she still had to keep her day job; but working at the craft store hadn’t seemed such a chore since she’d started pulling in a healthy second
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income. And now she had hope that she might actually be able to do what she loved for a living one day.

It had been Russell’s idea to have her do decorative paintings on the intricate wood and silk screens he created; and, after a year of mouth-to-mouth advertising, they already had a backlog of customers eager to purchase their work. Russ was a natural with creating the one-of-a-kind designs, and she thoroughly enjoyed painting both the wood and silk with motifs ranging from Oriental to African to Cubism.

Iris snuggled closer. “Aren’t you worried about all this lightning coming through your television, man?

“Dammit, Jim, I’m an entrepreneur, not a weatherman!”

She studied him in the light of the fire, grinning to herself. No one could look less like an entrepreneur than Russell Carr. His hair was cornrowed, and a rich ridge of sideburns merged with the two-to-three day growth of beard he always seemed to have. He wore his trademark black teeshirt with baggy jeans and a tiny golden hoop through the lobe of his left ear. He was the epitome of tall, dark and gorgeous, wide across the shoulders and narrow in the hips, a strong man of dry wit and relatively few words. A master craftsman when it
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came to his woodwork, he could do incredible things with his hands—although verbal self-expression often rendered him stuttering and frustrated. He could carve an animal frozen in the act of springing, tiny toys and massive totems, complex designs of infinite care—but he couldn’t find the words for a breathtaking sunset, or describe his feelings for a friend. He expressed himself with his hands, with his work—and nobody did it better.

But it was his attitude, his uncaring swagger, that had always impressed her, even when they were children and he ran with her brother. He was relaxed and comfortable with himself, not concerned about money or success. In fact, he often kept his most beautiful pieces, refusing to sell them, even when offered a small fortune. He knew who he was, and damn anybody who didn’t like it. That was why he’d always been self-employed, and successfully so.

And why half of the women in Corinth, Ohio chased him shamelessly around town.

“I can hear you thinking,” he murmured, nudging her shoulder with his.

“You’re right. I am.”

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“Well, stop it. The monster bitch is about to suck all of the salt out of Kirk’s body, and…”

“I’m thinking about ending the drought, Russ.”

He sat forward on the sofa, staring at her. “What? What drought? Oh, you mean…you don’t mean…”

“I’m thinking about ending my celibacy.”

He reached for his cigarettes, lit one, and poured the remnants of the first bottle into their two glasses. “And what, may I ask, brought this on? You’ve been at it for about a year. Why stop now?”

“That’s just it. I haven’t been at it for a year now.” She tasted the champagne, loving the way it fizzed against her lips. “I’m afraid I’m only human, partner. I’m lonely. Oh, the work keeps me busy—which is probably why you asked me to join you, of course. And the occasional evening out with the girls is fine. But I still have to go home to an empty bed at night. Sheets get awfully cold this time of year, and there’s nobody to warm my feet.”

The cigarette seeped smoke between his fingers. “I’ll buy you a hot water bottle.”

“Cute. It isn’t quite the same thing. And ever since Bluto died…” She stopped, swallowing a great gulp of the frothy liquid. She
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despised women who put on public displays of emotion; but she still couldn’t talk about her beloved dog without getting choked up. “Let’s just say that little condo seems pretty empty. Pretty lonely.”

“I see.” He blew a blast of smoke toward the ceiling. “And exactly who were you planning to invite to this little coming-out party?”

“Well…” She hesitated, puzzled by the sarcastic hostility she sensed from him. What was wrong? Hadn’t they always been able to discuss anything? “I was considering Christopher Harris.”

“Pig.”

“Or Edward Swann.”

“Pimp.”

“Okay. There’s always Milton Edwards…”

“Good old silver-tongued Milton? Been in the joint twice, and might be going for three from what he told me.”

“Milton? You talked to Milton?” She stared at him, surprised.

“I thought you couldn’t stand him.”

“I can’t. I…we…” He scowled in frustration. “I just hired him to do a little job for me. Trying to give the man a chance, that’s all.

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Some new enterprise of his. And I figured that, since you two were so close and all—”

“Close?” Where was all this coming from? “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I haven’t seen Milton since…”

“He took you to your prom.”

Mr. Spock was pummeling the creature and shouting, desperately trying to make Dr. McCoy understand. “He took me to my prom. And?”

“Well, we all know what goes on prom night, don’t we?”

“Just because your class rented a few private suites and played musical bedrooms doesn’t mean everybody did,” she murmured into her drink. “I did not sleep with Milton Edwards. I didn’t even want to sleep with Milton Edwards. It was a last-minute-arrangement-sort-of-thingy.”

Russell gave her leg a patronizing pat, angering her even more.

“You don’t have to tell me everything. I understand. But I can tell you one thing: he’s still bad news. He actually wanted me to pay for his little service by giving him The Screen.”

She nearly smiled at that. The idea of Russell giving ‘The Screen’ to anyone was ludicrous. It was his most prized possession.

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It had taken him nearly two years to hand-carve the exquisite treasure from the finest burled wood, a seven-foot, three-panel piece of art featuring erotic figures frozen in passionate poses, very like the ones of the Khajuraho Temples of India. He considered it the greatest work of his life, and kept it locked away in an upstairs closet. Even Iris had only seen it twice since he’d finished it last year.

“If the best you can do is somebody like Milton Edwards, you’ll have to do without,” he concluded quietly. “You need a man you can trust. He ain’t the one, and don’t let me catch you near him.”

“Then I guess I can’t think of anybody who’d meet with your approval,” she huffed. “Maybe I’ll just pick up somebody in a bar!”

“Try it, and I’ll give you a sound spanking—after I finish breaking his neck.”

And he would. She knew her Russ. She could feel her buttocks tingling already. The man did not play that way. He’d always been far more protective of her than even her own brother had. She’d made it through school without a single catfight, and her brother had never had to brawl. When Russell quietly asked somebody to step aside, they moved. “You can threaten all you want, but I’ve made up my mind. I’m going to do this.”

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“Then why go shopping? Why not just go back to Barry…or Kerry…or Gary, or whatever the hell his name was?”

The mere mention of the name made her lip curl. “Not if he were the last man on earth! May I remind you that he ran out on me.