Too Late
Our Children Are Dead — A Flash Fiction
We knew better. But we didn’t want to believe it. We thought it was hope, but we were only fooling ourselves, and dooming our children. We believed in lies and now it is too late.
Our children are dead.
The few who survived are weak and damaged, their hearts and lungs ravaged by the virus. If they live long enough to have children of their own, it will be a miracle.
So few of us remain. The nursing homes are empty, the schools are ghost towns. When I drive to the last open grocery store, I keep half expecting a mob of zombies to swarm my car. They used to deliver the groceries, but with so few staff left, they can only handle curbside pick up now.
Nearly everyone wears masks now. We learned that lesson the hard way. Those who still refuse to do so are shunned by everyone else. They are the zombies.
We were once the most powerful country in the world, a shining beacon of hope. Now we are a post-apocalyptic wasteland, our population ravaged by plague. No one wants to come here and we cannot escape.
I know people who tried to sneak across the border, into Canada or Mexico. I don’t know what happened to them. Maybe they made it. I hope they did. I would do the same, but I started coughing yesterday and my throat is sore today. I couldn’t taste my coffee this morning. I think it’s too late for me now.
It may be too late for us all.
