Later on, he said.
But there was something else to do ... something to do immediately, if he could just remember.
He stood and looked around the room, cataloguing its contents.
Chairs, drapes, a desk, the table, the imitation fireplace....
That was it, the fireplace.
He walked across the room to stand in front of it. Reaching up, he took down the bottle from the mantel, the bottle with the black silk bow tied around its neck. The bottle for the last man's club.
And he was the last man, there was no doubt of it. The very last of all.
He had not been in the pact, of course, but he would carry out the pact. It was melodrama, undoubtedly, but there are times, he told himself, when a little melodrama may be excusable.
He uncorked the bottle and swung around to face the room. He raised the bottle in salute—salute to the gaping, blackened frame that had held the painting, to the dead man on the floor, to the thing that mewed in a far, dark corner.
He tried to think of a word to say, but couldn't. And there had to be a word to say, there simply had to be.