The last lines that land, closing moments from thousands of vintage SF stories. Mind the spoilers, and follow any that stop you into the full read.
The Grass has found another seam in the deck.
But already, it was too late.
He did. At twelve noon, Eastern Daylight Saving Time, every woman and girl on Earth dropped dead."
The only coarse, insensitive, unfinished instrument we bring back--is man.
Horribly, Number One, the last of the dictators, did not go mad again; not exactly, but he laughed, and laughed and laughed....
And me? I never look at the stars.
Then they reached him.
The music was beautiful.
Laughter drifted out the window into the dead city.
"_I keep the tryst!_"
What woman on earth could bring herself to marry a man with no navel ... and two heads?
Then, Lazarus laughed....
Someone cared for her. That was the important thing. _Someone cared._
As his panicky lungs filled with air for the last time, Gordy knew what animal had screamed in the depths of the Coal Measure forest.
Not blood, but high-grade machine oil.
Then this world passed, and the glory of it.
He looked up, and was alone in the night.
And then the glade was empty.
He should have waited instead of grabbing.
As if in answer, Small's eyes seemed to pop out of his head, while his finger pointed. Alice shrieked, and in her voice there was the expression of stark tragedy such as Aristotle had never known, of the ultimate outrage of a malignant and remorseless fate: "_He isn't housebroken!_"
But there was no one to hear.
And then the great foot came down.
This reincarnation sure as hell beats life insurance, doesn't it?
"_God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen!_" the voices of a dead choir roared out upon the silent city.
But not ... far ... enough....
The lights went out.
_"For the love of God, Montresor! For the love of God!"_
"Henry," said the mechanical thing.
They never reached the cabin.
He should have ordered a cup or glass, Morrison thought, lying on his back with open mouth.