Montreal is an island, and like all modern cities, people live on either shore. To get into Montreal they need to use bridges. One such bridge is the Victoria Bridge, named after the queen; this covered railroad bridge was built near 150 years ago. Only much later were wings attached to the side to allow cars to drive into Montreal as well. In the morning and evening rush hour, to expedite traffic, the bridge only allows for one way traffic. What is unique is that this bridge is also over a working lock. As this is the rapids in the river, ship traffic come to the lock to raised or lowered to the other side to continue their journey. So on occasion, people must wait as they close the bridge and stop traffic to one end or the other in order to raise or lower the bridge that allows for a ship to enter or leave on their journey.
One morning as I was driving into work, I noticed there were no cars following me. Nor was there any on the other side. There were still cars ahead of me but none behind. I was the last person out. Whatever had happened to shore was behind me. Like the last fleeing refugee, I was alone. Hard a Zombie hoard struck and killed the cars behind? Were they taken by an invading land force? Did they fall victim of a terrorist attack?
The trip was eerie as I would contently look behind me, seeking some sort of human existence to acknowledge where I had been and that, yes, it still existed. All that I had known, all that I knew, All that I had existed with were now gone. In a blink of an eye, I was the last man standing, well driving across that bridge. Unease overwhelmed me, disquiet surrounded my soul. What was it like to be that last one? Knowing all that behind you was lost. Gone. For whatever reason unable to escape, unable to continue on in their journey. Lost, trapped, would they be forgotten, or was I their only hope to spread the word of the disaster that befell the south side of Montreal’s shore line? Deep thoughts, heavy thinking, perhaps even threatening to over whelm me on my early morning journey.
Even as I pieced together, that I had simple been the last car to get ahead of the red light that stopped the rest from crossing the bridge so they could change the configuration to allow a ship entry into the lock. A simple, factual even empirical explanation, that even as my head laughed off my excess and mental indulgence into fantasy and fiction, my heart still beat that much faster as I pondered this very question, “What if I was the last man out of there?” What if indeed.