Fish love rotten flesh. Over such a large span of time, one begins to understand the art of the catch. No need to go scrounging around looking for inchworms, getting dirt shoved under fingernails, when an endless supply of Glutton meat litters the world as a perfectly replaceable substitute. The decaying, greasy texture of exposed muscle; that feeling is one Boulevard knows very well.
Fishing is a task that requires patience, concentration, and good shot calling; things that Boulevard is very well versed in. He begins each day at the same time. What time that is, he doesn't know. He doesn't think anyone knows what time or day it is. It's always the past, present, or future. But he's woken up and fallen asleep in such coordinated intervals that the sun is always overhead when he wakes, and the moon took its place when he slept.
His bedding on the top of the dented, old yacht was made up of clothing he "stole" from the Glutton's once living bodies. "The act of me taking their outerwear isn't theft." He thought. "If they're dead, I would have more use for their belongings. Besides, the area down under is corroded most of the time. That's what clothes were primarily made for, right?"
The only clothes Boulevard wore were given to him by an actual person five years ago. A bland, red t-shirt with lime green gym shorts. Besides that, there was nothing. Besides that, he was content enough.
On lazy days, when the breeze was cool and the water was cooler, he'd wander into the forest to find more bait naked. Not like there was anyone there to see him. The sand led to the dirt which led to the trees which led to more trees. The farthest he got before making Unmei National Park a home was the border of The City. From what Boulevard knows – and he doesn't wish to find out – The City is the heart of conflict.
Boulevard pondered killing himself soon, so a day trip to the unknown wasn't completely unfeasible. These thoughts - these invaders like flies on a corpse came and went during the hermit's stay at the park. Every single time, said insects were snuffed out. But every once in a while, they'd come back. More and more vigilant than ever before. But no matter the suffering, Boulevard knows one thing and one thing only. That he has to live.
He got up and pulled on his clothes to separate them from his sweat covered skin. As Boulevard travelled, so many smells have made their way into his airway. Sometimes, years from when he'd first encounter one, a sense of déjà vu from inhaling the same odor would appear. Rabbit soup was one earlier in his life he'd get from time to time. Gunpowder and smoke took its place in his high school years. Guts boiled by the sun were the next most prominent and it's stayed that way since. The scent of fresh air made his nose burn, getting detoxed by clean oxygen.
When Boulevard was gifted those clothes he currently wore every day, they were instantly ruined by those sun stewed entrails. The old lady who offered some hand me downs didn't know that if you cover yourself in their blood, the Gluttons won't notice you. He knew though; Boulevard knows a lot.
Raised in a world of constant survival of the fittest, he was handed down every trick in the book. A catalogue of knots from a boy scout leader – how to kill Gluttons efficiently by some army general – and how to plunge a knife into someone's chest from a random traveler who tried to end him around four years ago for seemingly no reason. A crazed girl just about Boulevard's age was the last human he had seen since.
In all honesty, Boulevard most likely knew all the knowledge the remaining world had to offer. As he meandered downstairs from the boat's rooftop, a maze of objects cluttered the bar and lounge area. It being called disorganized would be an understatement. Books of all types had ripped pages scattered across the floor and whatever Boulevard found interesting inhabited the walls.
Papers of major events in history like the signing of peace treaties between the two continents and when aliens first sent contact to the president were interspersed with other documents on the connected bulletin boards. There were flashy advertisements Boulevard liked to stare at from time to time and posters referencing television shows and video games he knew nothing of. The bulk of this personal canvas of the past were collections of things no one will ever experience again. A job application, a college acceptance letter, and divorce papers were remnants of an era that will never return.
Boulevard picked up his own scuffed Newton's Cradle from a shelf where alcohol once resided and was still sticky. He was thinking of going on a bait run. He knew exactly where he was at all times in this little oasis of land he's claimed as his own due to memorization of maps found in a park station. If life called for it, he could trek through The City as much as it would allow because he memorized all the roads, too.
After constantly repairing the electrical currents in his boat using coins and scrap and memorizing the first fourth of the dictionary, Boulevard stopped. He realized that knowing all this unrelated stuff couldn't fill the void in him. The void for something else.
Maybe if he went out and found some unique ways to kill the Gluttons, it would be considered fun by his instincts. Boulevard made traps triggered by the weight of a Glutton, Rube Goldberg style machines that would lead to a boulder making Glutton head reach toes in quick succession, and he even cut Gluttons open, skinning them in full to see if those school textbooks were lying or not. But nothing worked. And when nothing worked, what's left to do?
Feeling this never-ending dread spawned by boredom wasn't something Boulevard enjoyed. Even though he's seen many people side eye him for his unnatural behavior as a child and was abandoned on multiple occasions by groups due to him not contributing enough, he still thought thoughts and felt feelings. He was human.
Boulevard was born twenty years ago. The apocalypse began twenty years ago. On the exact day his life began, the world ended. And something he was able to truly know was that he wasn't the average man. And that he's never happy nowadays.
He didn't understand. There was one thing Boulevard never understood. Why was he the last human on the planet? He didn't know if he was the only member of humankind left, but it may as well be that way, as communities and families are near extinct in this modern age after the incidents.
What's so special about him? This question has been repeated millions of times in Boulevard's head over these four years.
In an unsuspecting instant, an absurd idea popped into Boulevard's mind. And - for some reason the hermit didn't have the strength to think about - that suggestion took up all his headspace. There was a fish. A rarity that no human has ever pressed against their taste buds somewhere out in the open blue. And Boulevard was the one to catch it.
Up until now, all he has done is tinker, think, and - most of all - fish. And he hasn't truly questioned it until today. Today is the day that those flies in his mind are riled up. The image of that mystical sea creature clouded those thoughts, if not for but a little bit. Yes, this was going to be some kind of adventure. Boulevard imagined it would be a pure white koi fish that tastes like bubblegum.
Feeling invigorated, Boulevard jumped into the freezing ocean. No diving or cheers of determination, he just jumped and let his face smash against the water.