The kids float along the field, arms stretch out to their side, and they sore between the long grass like fighter pilots. They weave around the undead, laughter bouncing off the empty buildings, banking close and as the Zombies’ fingers reach for them, the children take off again. When they become bored they climb trees and drop rocks on them; whatever they can fit in their pockets, talk about what they are going to be when they grow up; Doctors, Astronauts; Candlestick makers. When the field is clear, and the sun bleeds red along the forgotten streets, they travel back to the old school. They walk in pairs, hand in hand, a younger one with an older one. The adults are a distant memory now for some, and to others non-existent. Quickly and naturally fallen into roles, they are mothers and fathers, brothers and sisters; teachers, police; great plains hunters and gatherers, vanquishers of grumbling boogymen who hide under beds, and in closets. They sleep in piles like puppies, for warmth and security and human interaction. It is sunsets and giggles, and then worry and anguish. In the weight of the dying world they are a future’s salvation at a loss of innocence. They are of past mistakes and hopeful redemption, and are growing up far too fast.