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of the blame, and even more difficult to forgive Scott Penton for pulling the trigger. Frank imagined so many ways to get back at him, each worse than the last, and all against his grain.
    Watching a stranger assassinate his only child had changed him.
    He pulled a pack of Pall Mall’s from the center console and pinched a cigarette between his lips. He struck a match and the sulfuric smell reminded him of gunpowder and the filthy bathroom where Holly died. A ruptured aneurysm took his wife, Marjorie, and Scott had shot Holly point blank. He was alone and without purpose. Looking out over the run-down remains of St. Margaret’s cemetery, he wondered how long he had until he was among them. Not interred, as there was no one left to do him that last act of kindness, but deceased and likely left to rot where he fell. Most days, he prayed for that peace.
    He reached across the cluttered passenger’s seat and opened the glove compartment. His heartbeat fluttered and he held his hand to his chest, breathing slowly until the dizziness passed. His pacemaker was failing. Having gone through a lead replacement already, he knew the symptoms. He waited for the faintness to pass, and when it did, he grabbed the pistol and the half-used box of ammunition he’d been going for. He thumbed several rounds into the clip and spit on the barrel, buffing the last traces of Billy’s dried blood from the metal.
    Sunlight broke through the clouds and blinded him through the windshield. He put on a pair of dark sunglasses, and after a cursory check for undead, stepped out onto the cracked and weed-infested parking lot.
    St. Margaret’s, the only cemetery in rural Strandville, was a testament to the town’s age. The oldest headstones marked graves that had been made anonymous by weather and time. Black mold marred the white stone tabs--some of which were intact, the rest broken and ignored. St. Margaret’s cathedral cast its shadow over the left bank of plots. A vestige of hope, many flocked to the church during The Collapse only to be devoured by unholy hordes with no sense of religion or morality. The busted stained glass windows on the ground level testified to the lost stand-off. Bones scattered in front of the church and throughout the cemetery told of those who hadn’t made it.
    Frank leaned against the rusted entrance gate and pushed it with all of his diminished strength into the tall grass. The gate gave and opened just enough for his thin frame to fit through sideways. The grass crept into his pant legs and tickled his calves. His foot snagged on a sun-bleached femur and he kicked it away before heading toward the maintenance shed that had recently been broken into.
    A broken lock hung from a rusted hinge and the door was ajar.
    He made sure the safety was off on his pistol and went inside to look for supplies. A medical kit lay open on a weathered, wooden work bench. It was empty except for a half-used roll of medical tape and a pair of tweezers, both of which Frank pocketed alongside the flask of whisky in his chest pocket.
    “What do we have here?” He reached behind an empty oil barrel for a pair of hedge trimmers and a hatchet, which he tucked into his belt. The van was full of assorted supplies, but everywhere he went he foraged for more.
    He stepped out of the shed and looked out over the expansive memorial wasteland, settling his gaze on a patch of late-blooming blackeyed susans. He made his way through the knee-high weeds and used the hatchet to cut a large bunch.
    Some traditions needed to be held onto.
    He followed the trodden foot path to his family’s plot, sat on the grass in front of the makeshift wooden headstone, and split the bunch of flowers in two. Holly Krieger, 1980-2012. Beloved daughter. The homemade marker with the epitaph burned into it was the only option to an unmarked grave. He set half of the flowers on her grave and the other half on his wife’s, directly to Holly’s right. Tears rolled down his