The crowd is huge. There are people of all shapes and sizes here. And everyone is pushing each other. We all want to get up.

“Think we’ll ever see the light again?” the person next to me remarks as he climbs.

I merely shake my head as I scramble over the dead, infected bodies. The top is beautiful. We always want to be on top. No ‘king of the hill’ ideals, no bragging. Just survival. You don’t want to be on the bottom, crushed by everyone else.

A shift. The bodies fall sideways. A crash. They’re falling toward me.

“Hey buddy, over here!” someone yells. He is on top of another pile. It’s sick, it’s cruel, yet we must absorb our losses. I grab his outstretched hand and climb up, my hand on his shoulder, breathing heavily…

… and the light reappears. All those alive cheer, their voices reaching the now visible heavens.

But the paradise does not last. A hand, a giant, human hand reaches in and grabs maybe twenty of those on top.

I hear in the distance, “Bobby, don’t take so many, you’ll rot your teeth.”