The graveyards were full and there was no place for Amber to bury her father. Not that one more body would make a difference, she thought as she pried open her father's cold fingers, unlocking them from her own. Amber slowly lifted her father's lifeless hand towards her face and placed her cheek in his palm. There was once warmth there, she thought as a solitary tear, despite her best efforts, escaped, and fled down her flushed cheek. She promised she wouldn't cry.
Amber stared into her father's now glassy, large blue eyes, beautifully accented with long, brown eyelashes, much like her own. She drew in a deep breath as she remembered the animation those eyes once held, especially when they would turn to her. Now, those same eyes refused to close. And Amber was proud. Proud of her father. Proud of his strength. Proud that he fought and never stopped. Even now, it looked as if he were still fighting, eyes wide open, fists clenched.
This came as no surprise to Amber, for her father had always been a fighter. Even when the virus struck. Even when the virus won.
The cemeteries weren't the only overpopulated places. Hospitals, churches, drugstores were cluttered with the remains of adults, who, in their final moment, sought a miracle cure, or last minute redemption.
It had been pure panic and mayhem in those last days before the evacuation, Amber remembered. Looting and rioting. Fires on every other street corner. Reports of mass suicides. Children crying at the thought of being separated from their parents. Parents literally forcing their children on the buses destined for evacuation. Children agreeing to leave only on the terms that their parents would promise to find a cure for themselves.
Amber forced her eyes shut at the reflection and pushed the memory far away from her. Her father had made her the same promise.
The virus had spread quickly in the very beginning, evolving into a global epidemic which had wiped out the entire adult population in a matter of months, leaving the children of the world to fend for themselves in the remains of a once flourishing society.
Now, Amber thought, that world which once offered so much hope, especially for her generation, was gone, and in an instant, was replaced with a primitive one with only a small remnant of the inhabitants from the old world left. To Amber, the situation seemed entirely hopeless.
It was not like Amber to give up hope. Even in the direst of circumstances. Even when she had to be separated from her father, Amber held on to the hope that her father, the fighter, would, by chance find a miracle cure for himself. That he would be okay. Her hope was so real that, even upon her return to the city, she half-expected him to meet her standing in the driveway of their two-story home, arms wide open, ready and waiting for her return with a kiss and embrace.
Instead, Amber found her father as he was now. Eyes wide open, fists clenched. Fighting till his last breath. Leaving her in the delimma that she found herself in now. There was no place to bury him.
Her father had always been an example to her. And even now, with all hope seemingly lost, Amber looked to her father's lifeless body for guidance. He had fought, and she had been proud. And now, Amber would fight too. She would fight for him to have a proper burial. She had always made way with the most difficult circumstances in the past. There was no need to change now.
Amber drew in a deep breath, and then exhaled. She leaned over, kissed her father's forehead and made him a secret promise. Not only would she continue to fight now, but, like her father, eyes wide open, fists clenched, she would continue to fight till her last dying breath.
