Mr. Henderson lay back in his hospital bed, writing. He had been writing for days, weeks, maybe even months, but he knew that he wasn’t going to finish his masterpiece. He was mere chapters from the end of his book, but his health had gotten in the way of yet another of his endeavors. He was going to die before finishing it.

Mr. Henderson had been sick for a long time. He was 95 and he had been bedridden since he was 92. Being taken off of life support would mean death within minutes, but he felt like he still needed to accomplish something. He had lived a full life, but a feeling of uselessness permeated his thoughts constantly. He needed to contribute… but he never would. He had a week, maybe two, to live, and that just wasn’t enough time.
“Mr. Henderson?” A young woman stood in the door to his room.
“I’m busy.” he replied. He really didn’t have time to be bothered by people.
“Please give me just a minute of your time.” He was busy, but she was rather attractive, and he knew that some human interaction would cheer him up.
“Fine, but make it quick.”
She walked into the room and sat down in the chair beside his bed. She had long, dark hair and she was dressed like a business-woman. Her eyes were… hungry? Regardless, Mr. Henderson envied her youth and vitality, and he enjoyed her company. He truly felt a mix of emotions.
“Is that your book?”
“Yes. It is.”
“It’s a shame you’ll never be able to finish it.” That phrase struck hard, because it’s exactly what he’d been thinking all day. But how did she know about his dwindling life? About the work that still needed to be done on his book? He began to feel a little uncomfortable.
“Enough small talk. What do you want?”
She sighed. “You really want to get back to work. Don’t you? Do you not enjoy my company?” No reply. “Very well. Let’s get down to business. What would you say if I told you you could finish that book?” Incredulous stare. “Well you can.”
“What? How?”
“I can make you live longer.”
“Are you a doctor?”
“No, but I’m not unfamiliar with lives, ehem, hanging in the balance.” That sounded a bit ominous, but Mr. Henderson’s curiosity was piqued.
“Tell me more.”
She grinned. “I can make you live longer, healthier, younger, for however long you want.”
“What will it cost me?”
“Nothing. Nothing at all.”
“What? So you’ll just be giving me free minutes of life?”
“Not exactly. This is where it gets tricky.”
“Why?”
“Well. I can’t just make minutes of life. The only way to give them to you is to take them from someone else.”
“That sounds evil.”
“Don’t you think that finishing your book is more important than there menial lives?” She gestured out of the window. “Who really needs those minutes more?”
He paused for a long time. “I do,” he whispered.
“Unfortunately, the exchange isn’t always equivalent, because each person lives each minute differently.”
“What does that mean?”
“Well, if we just take random minutes from random people, you might get one minute of health and youth, but you might get one of sleep, one of sickness. For all I know, it might end up killing you faster.”
“Is there another way?” She had gotten him so hopeful, and now he was desperate.
“The only way to make sure that every minute you get is the best it can be is to take each minute not from one person, but from many.”
“Why?”
“If we take the minutes of life from several people, we take the best parts from each minute.”
“How many minutes should I take?” He was hungry for life.
“What level of quality do you want?”
“As good as possible!” he shouted. She smiled widely, and stood up.
“It is done.” She turned, and left.
Almost immediately, Mr. Henderson started feeling younger, stronger, more alive. He sat up and pulled off his life support equipment. He felt fine.
He left the hospital. He ran. He lived. He did everything he’d wanted to do. He started feeling a little guilty, because he knew that he should just finish his book, and let himself die, but the sudden feeling of life had overwhelmed him, and was it really so long to enjoy a couple of minutes that someone else would have wasted. Of course not! He stayed out and lived the life he’d wished he’d had. He didn't return to the hospital, to his book, until about a month had passed.
He arrived at the hospital, but something eerie was going on. The hospital was empty. Mr. Henderson went into his room, and it was just the way he had left it. He gathered his manuscript, and as he left, he noticed a television still playing the news in one of the rooms.
“The population count is still dropping rapidly. The last of the hospitals has been shut down. Why are people dying a month before their lives should end? Why are babies being conceived with what can only be described as a negative life span? Where is this time going? Will mankind survive this epidemic?”
Mr. Henderson threw up. He knew that it was his fault. He was taking minutes from all of mankind. Even babies! He that he had to die to save everyone else, but he was determined that the people he’d killed already wouldn't die in vain. They had died so that he could finish his book, so he was going to finish it. He moved with a new determination.
He worked for two months, paying no attention to the outside world as it might distract him from his work.
Meanwhile, people started to feel hunted. As far as they were concerned, they were dying at random, dropping like flies. People left their jobs and hid in uninhabited areas. Soon people stopped caring for each and relying on each other, because they felt like it was hopeless. All social services were halted. Society crumbled into anarchy. Mankind effectively shortened their own lifespans even further.
He was on the brink of finishing his book when the woman arrived at his house. “One minute. I’m almost done with my book, and then I can die.”
“I want to show you something. Come on.”
Mr. Henderson had a feeling that what she was saying was important, so he followed her into the world. They walked, and as she explained everything, Mr. Henderson felt sick. He got over it. He had sacrificed too much to stop. It was at that point that his insanity really took over. As he looked at people starving in the streets, he knew that their suffering was his salvation. He felt so powerful.
“Mankind is dying out. What do you want to do?”
“I’ll keep going. I’ve sacrificed too much to give up now!” Definitely crazy. “But wait, these people are having terrible minutes. Will that affect me?”
“Eventually.”
“That won’t do. Can I fix it?”
“Of course you can. You just have to take extra minutes.”
“I’ll do it.”
“Very well.”
Now he wandered the streets, gazing at the devastation around him. He knew that he ruled this land. He felt so much stronger than everyone else and he reveled in it. They were dying quickly now. Very quickly. Quite a lot of time passed as his insanity ruled his mind.
Eventually, he started to feel weak. He realized that even with the vast number of humanity’s minutes he was eating up, they were too weak. He was dying.
Mr. Henderson panicked. He knew that he didn’t have long to live. He remembered his book. He rushed back to his house and quickly began writing. He got weaker and weaker as mankind died off, but he was determined. Even as his mind deteriorated, he continued to scrawl the words in his steadily messier and messier longhand. Tears streamed down his face, because he started to realize that everything was his fault.
Just as he finished his masterpiece, he died, along with the rest of humanity. His finished manuscript fell to the ground. “The Value of a Minute”

Dunnnn Dunnnnn DUNNNNNNNNN!!!!
(fade to black)