 What was the only thing that mattered to Charles near the end?
There should be an epitaph for every man, big or little, but a really grand and special one for Loner Charlie. A year ago she had been unattainable, a face to conjure with in erotic dreams, far beyond his ken. And he had been a nobody, full of a nobody's idle hopes and schemes. He touched buttons by the edge of the bed and the illumination quieted to a soft glow, wrapping her in a radiant halo. New York lay quietly below him. It was the hour of indecision when day has not quite made up its mind to leave and night has not yet attacked in force. She had given of herself freely, warmly, and Charles had accepted. She would have given herself to any man— His thoughts beat a rapid crescendo, activating emotions, stimulating sensations of angry rage. To any man, WHO HAPPENED TO BE THE LAST MAN ON EARTH! I just don't know—" A paroxysm of sobbing shook his body. In spite of the sharp pain that raced through his system, in spite of the bright, warm, red stream that trickled down his face, he knelt by the window for several minutes. " Buildings were taller, men were healthier, most of the problems of humanity seemed licked, or nearly so. It was a time of free power, each small unit of population, each section of town operating on perpetual, ever-lasting, automatic atomic piles. Life was fun, just a bowl of cherries, until...."
 Making it to his cave
 Leaving one last note  Making it to his cave  Fighting the disease  Getting a final meal