We marched
on.
After
the bombs discharged, after the planes crashed, after the bullets were
all spent, after the fires burnt themselves out, after the animals were
rot on the ground, after there was no one left to riot.
After
all of it, we marched on.
The
viruses hadn’t killed us, so feeding on the dead dogs wouldn’t
either. Nobody could find any cats. Cats go into hiding to die.
We
made it, so there had to be others.
Months
had passed when we heard them coming. Footsteps in formation filled
the world like thunder.
We
were silent and we hid, but it did no good. They had crude mechanical
weapons and sophisticated chemical ones. We didn’t even have shoes
anymore.
We
fell in line. We marched on.
Over
dirt, over rubble, over bones. So much dust in the sky, you couldn’t
pinpoint the sun.
If
we couldn’t move, we were left on the ground. We died on our empty
stomachs, hands stretched forward, half buried in the dirt.
We
found others. They were filthy, black with soot, toothless and hairless,
eyes nearly crusted shut, mouths silent.
They
marched too.
What
year is it, now? What year was it, before? We don’t know how to
ask the questions anymore.
Even
if we could find food or water, our throats have scabbed over, our insides
have fused together.
Still,
we marched on.
Where?
It didn’t occur to us to ask. We can’t think like that anymore.
We can’t think at all any more. We can’t eat, we can’t
sleep, we can’t work or play, we can’t love or hate. We can’t
breathe.
We
can march. And we do.
