Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.

<passage>:
By JAMES McCONNELL There should be an epitaph for every man, big or little, but a really grand Charles turned over on his side to look at her. She lay quietly in the perfection, exquisitely shaped, and the rich promise of her body was exposed to his view. "Why?" he thought as he looked at her. "Why did it have to happen like the day. And he had been a nobody, full of a nobody's idle hopes and schemes. A thought teased at him. Charles looked at the woman again and decided freely, warmly, and Charles had accepted. But then he had known that she would. It was not him, it was the circumstances. Under the circumstances, she would have given herself to any man— She would have given herself to any man— His thoughts beat a rapid crescendo, activating emotions, stimulating sensations of angry rage. He wanted to cry, to weep angry tears of To any man, WHO HAPPENED TO BE THE LAST MAN ON EARTH! flesh. Charles ignored it. Even smells had lost their customary meanings. He felt the rage build up inside again, tearing at his viscera. His "But I don't want to be the last man alive!" he shouted. "I don't know Maybe I'm not the last! " The thought struck him with suddenness, promisingly, edged with swelling comfort to fill his emptiness. Charles got up slowly, noticing for the first time that his fingers and dangled from the edge of the bed like a crazy pendulum. Charles smashed, stores looted, gyro-cars wrecked, proud buildings defaced. "That was it," he said to himself. "Pride. We called this the 'Proud Era.' Everything was better and bigger and nicer to have. 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 the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals committed suicide. Within a year it was obvious to everyone that man was the only animal left on earth. "I've got to find out," Charles told himself. He meant it, of course, walked on down the bloody street. Before the plague the Bureau of Vital Statistics had been one of man's In all of his life, Charles had never once glanced at The Index. Reaching the gigantic building, Charles pushed aside the body of a during the first month of their life. And again at the age of 10 each child returned to the Bureau for a recheck. It was for this latter recording that Charles had come to the Bureau some twenty-two years room. The impression of intense activity, of organized confusion, of mechanical wonder had remained with him the rest of his life. not because she liked him, but because.... The main screen focused itself, the patterns shifting into a recognizable perceptual image. Charles stopped talking and forced his eyes upwards. Peripheral vision continued to move, slowly, reluctantly. They caught the over-all relief of Greater New York City—and then concentrated on the single, shining dot at the very heart of the map—and he understood. His eyes stabbed quickly for the counter above the screen. Charles was by himself, the last person alive in all of New York City. Charles screamed. Why? Such a simple question, but in those three letters lay the essence of human nature. Why. The drive of curiosity. Stronger, in a way, than the so-called "basic" drives: hunger, thirst, sex, shelter, warmth, companionship, elimination. Certainly more decisive in the history of the race. Man began to think, to differentiate himself from the other animals, when he first asked the question: "Why?" But thinking about "why" didn't answer the question itself, Charles Why. His mind kept returning to the question. Of all the people on earth, me. The last. Why me? Average, that's what he was. Height: 5'11". Weight: 165. Age: 32. member, but not a good one. Could that be it? Could the most normal be the most perfect? Had he led the best of all possible lives? Was that it? Had God, in His infinite wisdom and mercy, spared his life, saved him, singled him out because he was most nearly a saint, most nearly Christ-like, most nearly.... Lies—His mind snapped back to reality. He half smiled. Saint? Christ? He was no saint. Charles sighed. What about—? Chance. That was it! The laws of probability, the bell-shaped curve, normal distribution, rectilinear regression. More people per square to be the last to go and that was— "No," Charles said, standing up in the quiet of the spring evening. Charles stopped walking suddenly. No cave, he thought. No place to sleep out the long one, no place to rest while time came to change things around and make them for the better. No place to hide. And suddenly it was the most important thing in life to him to find his "It ought to be something impressive," he thought out loud. "Something fitting the occasion." What did one say on these situations? There was so little chance to THE LAST MAN ON EARTH Charles was hungry. He got up and started for one of the restaurants of granite and move it to the plot. He could spend his free time carving on it, copying the inscription. He would make it into a real shrine maybe he would practice up a bit and try to carve a statue to go with the stone. Somehow, though, since things were ready and it didn't make too much difference, it seemed to Charles that he'd probably have a long time smallpox. The vaccination never took. That's probably it." He smiled. Strange, but now he wanted very much to go on living, alone or not. There were things he could do, ways to keep occupied. He wouldn't mind it so much. But he wanted more and more desperately with each passing second to retain his foothold on the tenuous path of physical existence. The tantalizing thought of "why" puzzled its way back into his mind. But it seemed less pressing now that he had almost come to the conclusion that he would live for a long time. Later, in a few days perhaps, he would think about it. In a little while he'd have plenty of opportunity for hunting down the answer. This seemed good to him, for now he thought he almost had the answer, if there were an answer. He thought he had seen the solution peering out at him from the recesses of his mind, and he didn't like the expression on its face. Better to to the restaurant. This was the way the plague began, but—His mind quickly repressed the idea. It couldn't be the plague. He was immune! He wanted to protest, but there was no one to listen to him. He appealed to every divinity he knew, all the time knowing it would be useless. His body, out of his voluntary control, tried to run off in Charles struggled to end his body's disorganized responses, to meant nothing to him. It was not a matter of measuring seconds and minutes. It was a matter of forgetting time and measuring space. He concentrated on the grave he forced his body to become an unwilling Charles refused to think. Machines, especially half-broken machines, do not think they only work. Sweating, straining, bleeding, retching, he pushed himself towards his goal, trying to add one final touch of grace and custom to the rude irrationalness of it all. for the grave. And then he was upon it. One arm reached out for grass, and clutched bare space instead. He gathered energy from his final reservoirs of strength for one final movement that would throw him headlong into the shallow grave. He Instantly the thought struck him with paralyzing devastation. The answer to it all poked its face out from the recesses of his mind and sapped the last bit of his energy, corroding his nerves and dying The world will end, not with a bang, nor with a whimper, but with the last man's anguished cry at the unreasonableness of it all. Charles screamed. "It is finished?" asked the second. "Beautiful," said the first. "It went according to the strictest THE LAST MAN ON EARTH—

<question>:
Why did Charles think he was the last person alive?

<options>:
A His sickness was taking longer
B He had some sort of immunity
C He was the reason for the plague
D He was meant for greater things

<answer>:

B