Lucifer by Roger Zelazny (Worlds of Tomorrow, June 1964) opens with Carlson in the middle of a deserted (presumably post-collapse/apocalypse) city on his way to a building where he used to work. When he gets there he repairs and fuels the broadcast generators that power the city, and then, for a short period of time (93 seconds), he powers up the streets and buildings:
He was staring out beyond the wide drop of the acropolis and down into the city. His city.
The lights were not like the stars. They beat the stars all to hell. They were the gay, regularized constellation of a city where men made their homes: even rows of streetlamps, advertisements, lighted windows in the cheesebox-apartments, a random solitaire of bright squares running up the sides of skyscraper-needles, a searchlight swiveling its luminous antenna through cloudbanks that hung over the city.
He dashed to another window, feeling the high night breezes comb at his beard. Belts were humming below; he heard their wry monologues rattling through the city’s deepest canyons. He pictured the people in their homes, in theaters, in bars—talking to each other, sharing a common amusement, playing clarinets, holding hands, eating an evening snack. Sleeping ro-cars awakened and rushed past each other on the levels above the belts; the background hum of the city told him its story of production, of function, of movement and service to its inhabitants. The sky seemed to wheel overhead, as though the city were its turning hub and the universe its outer rim.
Then the lights dimmed from white to yellow and he hurried, with desperate steps, to another window. p. 84
The story ends with Carlson leaving the city and promising to himself—again—that he will never come back.
An okay mood piece, I guess, but minor Zelazny.
** (Average). 1,950 words. Story link.