Can't Argue

I can't argue.

When the world ended and the dead roamed the earth one year ago, I couldn't argue with who took me in and kept me safe, my Marine dad, and this weird not-so-government group called Red America. It's really just whatever's left of the U.S Army telling everyone left what to do. My dad loves them. Me? Well, I can't argue.

I can't argue about them giving me less and less by the day gross food rations. It made me lose 50 pounds. Eating nothing but MRE's and small potatoes is apparently good for a slim body.

I can't argue with the cramped sleeping spaces I'm in. Makes me more social. You have to be when you sleep three feet away from six other people, falling asleep to the lulling moans of the undead on the other side of the wall.

I can't argue with the military here. Just about everyone has a gun, and everyone does guard and "Zombie Culling" duty and yet they still keep coming, and we keep losing… people, camps, entire bases. The radio guy keeps talking over and over about how many brave soldiers we lost the day before. Can't argue for anything else to be played over the radio. It's all his and the military's show.

I can't argue that I haven't been able to use toilet paper for three months. They say luxuries like that are reserved for the troops, but I saw troops trading away their rolls for cigarettes and ration tickets. I could have traded mine, but I can't argue with putting food in my belly over wipes.

I can't argue about the drills to teach me how to kill every day. They say it's for the zombies, but I would argue it's for anyone who rebels.

Our neighbors in the west sound even worse, I would argue. They said they're going to go to war with us soon, yet reports say they still struggle with zombie attacks and starvation. Can't argue that people still need to fight each other even after the undead apocalypse.

Can't argue with anything, really.

Today I got a package. It was from my mom. I haven't seen her since six months before the apocalypse. Dad even told me she was dead. How she knew where I was and how that caravan trader knew to give it to me was miraculous, almost like an angel was sent to me.

I knew it was her, because inside was a cheap heart shaped locket. We got matching lockets when I was in middle school. I still carry mine in my back pocket for luck. Inside was a batch of her chocolate chip cookies, mom's baking was the best, and a letter. She was in some place called "The Scouts Republic" in Southern California.

They don't worry about food. They have acres of it.

Not everyone does guard duty of zombie killing.

Zombies aren't even a problem.

There's enough space for people to have their own homes.

People have normal jobs again. Mom runs a convenience store.

They even have places that make toilet paper, tampons, and ice cream again.

They have internet, TV shows, and new music on their radios

And no one is fighting each other or anything stupid.

I can't argue that this sounded too good to be true, but then there was the very last sentence

The very last sentence was "I hope you can bring this back to me. It'll be worth it, I swear."

"Hey, you little brat! No hogging supplies! All food supplies must go to the troops first! You'd be sorry I reported for this, instead I'll just take this!"

I can't argue with that.