Only One End

In 2010 scientists studying HIV accidentally created an airborne strain of the virus.
Or so the legend goes. I don't think anyone actually knows, just like I don't know if 2010 was three or ten years ago. All I know is the further from 2010 we go the less time I have. The less time our species has. There's only one end to this, the one where everyone dies.
I try to get away with doing as little as I can, especially when sharp things are involved. Opening cans is always a scary thing. All our names go into a hat. The loser gets the honours of opening the can. It's a little game we call Russcan Roulette; a horrible pun for a horrible world.
"Becky!" I hear my name shouted by one of my compatriots.
"What‽ " I shout back.
" You and I are on scavenge duty t'day, c'mon."
With more than a little reluctance I get up from the couch (and the springs of which I often fear will cut me.) and leave the comfort of this house we long since claimed as base camp.
Each day we grow a little weaker, AIDS has a way of doing that to you, or is it still just HIV? I think it's AIDS.
Like his shadow I follow as he does the majority of our job. I pick up things here and there, sort of a facade of the job I'm supposed to take up. I look around for others, but we don't see others so much anymore.
He talks about if we hold out just a bit longer the government will come and fly in a cure. I don't remember the last time Australia's government (or any other government for that matter) did anything so heroic. Besides that would require someone to get off their a*s, and if I'm any indication then people like sitting on their asses.
It always get dark out sooner than we expect. We used to retreat from the stars and the moon when they'd decide to risk a peek at the Earth but we long since stopped caring, we don't have the energy to outrun the night anymore anyway.
We return sometime later and it should come as no surprise that I don't know exactly how many hours later. Just a normal day.
There used to be coffee table here, a remnant of a time when Columbia sold coffee and cocaine, now there's a fire pit. We sit around it and watch the hat shake in an eerily ritualistic manner. A hand enters the void empty, it reemerges with a small slip of paper.
"Becky."
I've done this before. It's all fine.
I grab the can opener and the can we've agreed to dine upon tonight.
You just slip the blade here, and make a little saw like motion. Just be cautious of the edge, ever so cau... The blood ebbs from the side of my hand.
My friends put antibiotics on the wound and treat it with a bandage, the effort is a waste.
Within a few days I can't move. It doesn't hurt, I don't feel a thing in fact. I let my eyes look around one last time before closing them.
My body grows numb and I feel like I'm rocking with the waves, as though I were on a ship. But the waves slowly dissipate, and then I'm left floating and then there's nothing.
But none of this comes as a shock to you I'm sure. I already told you, there's only one end to this, the one where everyone dies.