END OF THE LINE

END OF THE LINE
by Louise Zedda-Sampson

They’re handin’ out the rations and today my baby’s there instead of me. All four-teen years of him. Six-foot-one, skin ’n bone, lanky as an unfed stray, but Davie stands in that line like a pro. Enough to make a mother proud, it is. And maybe, if it all works out, once he grabs those rations—

The klaxon sounds.

“This is a non-urgent announcement: Gates close in twenty minutes. Get your rations and return to your bunkers.”

—we can leave. Find somethin’ better. Anyways, he’s near the front. Ten more to go and he’ll have the rations. There’s a place they say is safe, better. I try and study the map. But I can’t stop watchin’ him. He’s so full of himself, first time in that line. Like a man, he says. Shoulders square, full of sass. He ain’t no man yet.  But, parents gotta let the young un’s grow. It’s tough out there and he’s gotta learn.

They say it’s pretty bad now. More of ‘em come in every day. We dunno where they’re from, but they’re bad news. Those dark shapes stay fixed in my mind, pictures I seen from when we had the telly. Fear crawls up my spine, for me, for Davie more. I shake my head, move on. Count my blessin’s instead. Lookin’ at my boy, my heart swells big as my backpack. I’m lucky orright.

But in a flash, it changes. The stoopid kid… he’s turned around, wavin’. Didn’t he listen? I wave back, my arms like windmills. ‘Turn back,’ I yell, but he don’t hear. Jus’ keeps wearin’ that goofy grin.

The klaxon sounds.

“This is a non-urgent announcement. Gates close in fifteen minutes. If you are not in line for rations, return to your bunkers.”

And when he’s turned back, that one step outta line is enough to lose his place. Those men, those wolves, they close the gap like the pack they are.

Like he was never there. He don’t even try to get back his spot, my boy ain’t no dummy. Well, most times, anyways.  Shoulders slouched, despairing, he turns to the back of the line. Then stops, halfways.

“Whatcha doin’!?” I yell. I can see him, but I can’t see it all. They’re all turning now, lookin’ at the fence—

The klaxon sounds.

“This is not a drill. Return to your bunkers.  Return to your—”

—lookin’ at what’s left of the fence. Somethin’s comin’ through it. Big shapes on thick legs with huntin’ eyes and hungry jaws, just like those shapes on telly, but worse, and they’re lookin’ at the line like they’re the rations. Behind, in front. Everywhere.

“Davie!” I lurch forward, but there ain’t nowhere to go. There’s a wall of shiftin’ fur with barbs of ivory teeth and claws. And lots of blood and—

The piece of paper I’m holdin’ drops to the ground. There ain’t no escapin’ anymore.

The klaxon sounds.

And sounds.

Fiction © Copyright Louise Zedda-Sampson
Image by Jody Davis from Pixabay