While you’re in the bathroom, World War III appears, and a nuclear shockwave demolishes New York City, which is where the United Nations headquarters is. You are instant killed without even realizing there’s a number of problems. Soon every other metropoli on Earth is toos deleted by nuclear hellfire.
Within times, a world population of billions is reduced to millions. The survivors struggle on for several decades, their numbers continually diminishing due to radiation sickness and famine caused by nuclear winter. The few that survive are often infertile from constant background irradiation.
Fifty years after World War III, fewer than 100,000 humans remain alive on the face of the Earth, subsisting in scattered hunter-gatherer tribes. They eke out a tough actuality on the lethal straw of the Earth, but even those thickened nomad parties are gradually killed off by the godforsaken wasteland.
Five hundred years after World War III, simply two humans are left on Earth, a mother and her son. They live on the outskirts of the radioactive break of what was once announced Cincinnati, devouring cockroaches to survive. She croaks of cancer when the son is 10 years old. He lives the rest of his life alone on a dead planet, representing up imaginary sidekicks to impede himself companionship. He succumbs at persons under the age of 49 from an untreated tooth infection.
This tragic fate befell humanity because you couldn’t hold in your feces for a few minutes before using the lavatory. It didn’t have to be this way.