The Black Ribbon, a short story Tommy’s boots crunched on the gravel as he approached the high school, its red brick facade a ghost of stability in a world turned chaotic. The sun cast long shadows over the structure, caressing the edges of boarded-up windows that had once gleamed with the vibrancy of youth and learning. He paused, squinting slightly, noting how the barricades couldn't quite conceal the militant vigil kept from within—several rifle barrels played peek-a-boo through narrow slits in the plywood. He stood for a moment, lost in the eerie stillness that draped the building like a shroud. Memories flickered across his mind's eye—a montage of laughter-filled hallways, the thunderous applause in the gymnasium, the scent of polished wood and cafeteria food mingling in an unmistakable perfume of adolescence. Now, the silence was almost tangible, a stark contrast to the school's once pulsating heart. But Tommy held no fear of the hidden watchers or their guns. His gaze dropped to the gray camouflaged fabric of his fatigues, the creases sharp, the hue blending into the concrete at his feet. With a subtle lift of his chin, he caught the glint of his Earth Fleet insignia pinned above his right pocket, a silent herald of his allegiance and purpose. On the other side, 'Mitchel' stood out in block letters against the background, a declaration of identity amidst a sea of uniforms that now populated the planet. His heartbeat remained steady; this uniform was both armor and flag, a signal that he was not an enemy but one of the defenders. Those inside would recognize him as such—a protector, a soldier, a son of Earth, standing against the encroaching darkness of the unknown. And with that knowledge firm in his chest, he stepped forward, ready to face whatever lay beyond those guarded, wooden gates. "Three years," he mused silently, his breath visible in the crisp air as if his thoughts had taken on a physical form, escaping into the world. Three revolutions around the sun since banners boasting vibrant school colors had adorned the walls of that very building, since cheers and anticipation had filled the air with electric excitement. His hands, now gloved in the standard-issue fabric of Earth Fleet, seemed to tingle with the ghostly sensation of pigskin leather, the football that once felt like an extension of his being. That day, that ordinary day cloaked in the extraordinary promise of youthful dreams, replayed in his head. A Friday poised on the cusp of becoming legendary, his senior year's kickoff game where he would've been the quarterback—the apex of his small-town ascent, the moment college scouts might have spotted him and charted his course to stardom. But history, it seemed, had other plans. A sudden movement snapped Tommy from his reverie. The front door of the school yawned open, an arm clothed in mismatched protective gear reaching out, the hand at its end performing an urgent beckoning gesture. As if drawn by invisible strings, Tommy quickened his pace toward the entrance, each step an echo of a time when uncertainty was about game outcomes, not survival. The walkway, once a runway for teenage triumphs and mundane moments alike, stretched before him—a bridge between two worlds. He could almost feel the warmth of Jenny's fingers entwined with his, the shared smiles of naive plans made beneath the sheltering canopy of elm trees that lined their path. Those dreams—of marriage, of a future built together brick by brick like the facade of this venerable institution—had vanished into the abyss of that catastrophic night. He approached the threshold, the door still ajar, silent sentinel to both past and present. An unspoken farewell hung heavy in the air, the weight of parting palpable in his chest. With a final glance at the rifles' dark barrels peeking through boarded windows, Tommy Mitchel stepped across the divide, ready to trade the echoes of a life interrupted for the stark reality of a world forever altered. "Coach Gary!" Tommy's voice carried a mixture of shock and warmth as he recognized the man in the doorway. It was a face that had once been ruddy with enthusiasm, the visage of a man who lived for Friday night lights and the roar of the crowd. Now, the flesh hung loose on his bones, the vibrancy drained away as if each of the intervening years had siphoned a measure of his life force. The hair that had once been peppered with grey was now wispy and pale, clinging to the scalp in defeat. The urgency in Coach Gary's eyes matched the frantic wave of his arm earlier, and it pulled Tommy through the doorway with an almost magnetic force. As Tommy crossed into the dim interior, Gary slammed the door shut with a resounding thud. The familiar sound was out of place in the silence that now enveloped the school, a fortress against unseen enemies. Tommy glanced back at the windows, where barrels betrayed the presence of vigilant guardians. The school, now a makeshift garrison, bristled with the tension of those who knew the truth. Earth Space Command had been aware of the alien threat, their distant machines moving inexorably toward Earth, but they had gambled on time they didn't have. Scouts, far closer than anyone had anticipated, had brought the nightmare to their doorstep, turning sanctuaries into strongholds. As Coach Gary leaned heavily against the door, his breaths coming in short gasps, Tommy realized the weight of secrets borne too long in silence. This man who had taught him to stand tall under Friday night lights now stood sentinel against a darkness no stadium floodlight could pierce. Coach Gary's embrace was a shadow of the bear hugs he used to give after a win, yet it carried the warmth of a thousand victorious moments. Tommy felt the sharp angles of Gary's frame pressing against him—a stark reminder of the robust figure he once was. "Tommy, my boy, it's so good to see you," Coach Gary whispered, his voice hoarse but filled with an emotion that Tommy remembered from pep talks and halftime encouragements. Tommy stepped back, the coach's grip loosening. He caught sight of the faded Earth Fleet insignia on his uniform, a silent testament to the path his life had taken. "I finished my training," he replied, his voice steady despite the chaos that now defined their world. The words felt insufficient to describe the rigors and the transformation he'd undergone—from high school quarterback to a soldier in humanity’s most desperate hour. "They gave us two days to go say goodbye to our families." Tommy watched as Coach Gary's eyes searched his own, looking for the boy he'd coached, perhaps finding instead the soldier he'd become. "We're shipping out beyond the Kuiper Belt. I’m on a carrier." The gravity of the situation settled between them like dust after a cosmic storm, each man contemplating the vastness of space and the uncertainty of what lay ahead. Coach Gary's nod held a weight of resignation and pride as he glanced over the insignia on Tommy's jacket. "That was a wise choice," he agreed, patting Tommy's shoulder with a trembling hand. "Safest place in the Fleet to be." Tommy's response was a mere nod, his eyes betraying a flash of remembered terror that haunted the otherwise stoic facade. It wasn't the safety of space that had drawn him there; it was a decision forged by circumstance and paternal wisdom. His father, once a pillar of strength and foresight, had seen the writing on the wall before any of them – a world where survival meant taking to the stars. The school, now a fortress, was eerily silent, a stark contrast to the chaos of three years prior when an enemy nuke, like a malevolent star, erupted overhead. Desperation clawed at his throat as memories surged—the roar of the blast, the ground shaking beneath their feet, and the heat... the unbearable heat. He and his teammates had been cocooned in the bowels of the stadium, surrounded by concrete and steel—a sanctuary amidst apocalypse. As the locker room had protected them from the hellfire outside, so too would the carrier shield him among the stars. But the cost was etched into every boarded window, every absent face. "Everyone who could walk, talk, or hold a rifle reported in," Tommy murmured, his voice hollow. "Dad said it was our duty." Responsibility had thrust itself upon them all, a mantle worn with reluctant honor. The fateful day's super-heated blast wave became a grim reaper, claiming those who hadn’t been within sturdy walls. For two weeks, the team and coaches grieved under a veil of silence until the radiation cleared, leaving behind a scarred landscape and a mandate for the survivors: service. At seventeen, Tommy had stood taller, older than his years, as he joined the line at the induction center, his future rewritten among the stars. Tommy's gaze lingered on the familiar, weathered lines of Coach Gary's face, a map of the hardships endured since the world had changed. The air between them grew thick with unspoken understanding. "Where's my dad?" Tommy finally broke the silence, his voice carrying the weight of impending departure. "I'll be gone for a long time, they’re saying thirty years." Coach Gary's eyes clouded over, a storm of regret passing through them. He looked away for a moment, as if gathering the strength to deliver unwelcome news. "I’m sorry, Tom," he began, the words heavy, "he left this morning for the FEMA Camp to pick up food." His gaze returned to Tommy’s, steady yet filled with an apologetic softness. "He won’t be back for at least three days." The information settled in Tommy's chest like a stone, sending ripples through the pool of emotions he'd kept at bay. His father, the man who had steered him towards the stars for safety, would remain out of reach when he needed that final, anchoring goodbye. Tommy nodded, his thoughts momentarily adrift on the stark reality of his father's absence. Shifting his focus back to the present, he scanned the interior of the school-turned-fortress. Desks were pushed aside, and where students once sat learning algebra and literature, now makeshift beds and supply stations stood in their stead. “How many people are here?” he asked, the words echoing slightly in the hollowed halls that had once been filled with the sounds of laughter and teenage chatter. Coach Gary followed Tommy’s gaze, his own eyes reflecting the weariness of a man who had seen too much. “About two-hundred,” he replied, his voice carrying the burden of responsibility. “But they come and go; it’s been tight trying to keep everyone fed.” Tommy took in the gravity of Coach Gary's words. The bustling community that once thrived within these walls was reduced to a mere fraction, survivors bound together by necessity. He imagined the strain of rationed meals and the constant search for resources, a far cry from the carefree days of football practices and school dances. It was a raw and unvarnished truth—the struggle for survival in a world forever altered. Tommy's hand dipped into the depth of his uniform, his fingers brushing against the crisp paper before they closed around an envelope. With a gentle tug, he brought it to light, its corners slightly bent from being safeguarded so close to his heart. He extended his arm, offering the sealed missive to Coach Gary. "Here, give this to my dad," Tommy said, his voice steady despite the turmoil that brewed within him. "It’s my pay for the last three years during training. Maybe it will help." A hesitation flickered across Coach Gary's features, his eyes darting from the envelope to Tommy's earnest face. The weight of the gesture, the enormity of the sacrifice it represented, seemed to momentarily anchor him in place. Tommy cracked a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes, but it was warm and reassuring nonetheless. With a gentle nudge, he pressed the envelope into Coach Gary’s reluctant hands. "I won’t need it where I’m going," he said, his tone imbued with a mix of resolution and somber acceptance. Coach Gary's fingers curled around the envelope, the sharp edges pressing into his palm as if urging him to grasp more than just the paper. "I’ll make sure he gets it," he promised, tucking the symbol of Tommy's dedication into the safety of his pocket. The exchange, brief as it was, held a finality that both men acknowledged silently—a soldier's farewell to his past, leaving behind a piece of himself to bolster those who remained. Tommy glanced at the weathered clock that hung askew on the wall, its hands frozen in time, a stark reminder of the standstill that had gripped their lives. With a deep breath scented with the mustiness of old gymnasiums and lost dreams, he turned towards the door, each muscle movement an echo of the discipline instilled in him during his military training. "It took me almost a whole day to get here, I should go," Tommy said, his voice betraying none of the reluctance he felt. His gaze strayed for a moment to the boarded-up windows where the morning sun played hide and seek with the rifles' shadows. "Wait, I want to show you something," Coach Gary's voice broke through Tommy's resolve, carrying an urgency that caused the young man to pause mid-step. The coach's eyes held a glimmer of something akin to hope—a rare commodity these days—and the unspoken bond between them demanded Tommy's attention. Tommy turned back, his expression questioning, as the weight of his impending departure settled heavily on his shoulders once more. He watched Coach Gary carefully, reading the familiar lines of worry etched into his mentor's face, knowing that whatever he was about to witness mattered deeply to the man who had once guided him on the football field. With a sense of reverence, Tommy treaded the familiar path behind Coach Gary, his boots scuffing against the worn linoleum floor as they approached the trophy stand beside the school's office. The air was thick with dust and memories, each step reverberating through the hallowed halls of the past. There, adorning the walls where once gleaming trophies had stood sentinel, were new emblems of hope: pictures of young faces and jerseys draped like banners of resilience. He stopped short, a pang of nostalgia seizing him as his gaze found a framed picture among them, one that captured his own youthful determination. "It's the team," he murmured, fingertips brushing over the glass that protected his younger self's smile, the smile of a boy untouched by war. "Tom, you never got your chance to play," Coach Gary said, his voice a low rumble of bittersweet pride. He gestured toward a small gathering in the corner of the room. Tommy's eyes followed, resting on a group of children huddled around Mr. Jensen, who still wore his habitual tweed jacket despite the years and wear. In place of textbooks, they clutched old handheld chalkboards, their scribbled figures a testament to human ingenuity in the face of scarcity. "But, because of what you, and the other boys are doing, they will get their chance to play." The coach's words lingered in the air like a solemn vow, a promise for a future that hung precariously in the balance. Tommy watched the children, their brows furrowed in concentration, their laughter muted but not extinguished. It was for them, he realized, that he would fight beyond the stars. Tommy's resolve hardened as he turned back to Coach Gary, the gravity of their situation etched into the lines of his face. "I understand, Sir," he said, his words carrying a weight that belied his years. He watched the children for a moment longer, their laughter now sounding like the sweetest symphony, a fragile echo of normalcy. Coach Gary's gaze followed Tommy's, a glimmer of hope flickering in his eyes amidst the shadows of hardship. "There's not many left of the old town," he murmured, almost to himself, before locking eyes with Tommy again. His voice grew firmer, steadier, as if the very act of speaking could reinforce the crumbling reality around them. "But we will rebuild, and we’ll do it because of you, and all the others that are heading out there to defend Earth." The statement hung between them, an unspoken oath binding past to future, the broken dreams to the promise of survival. Tommy felt the weight of that responsibility settle firmly upon his shoulders, a mantle he had never sought but now wore with a soldier's quiet acceptance. Tommy wrapped his arms around Coach Gary in a firm embrace that spoke more than words ever could. The familiar scent of the old gymnasium seemed to cling to the coach, a poignant reminder of days spent training under his guidance. A sense of finality passed between them as Tommy felt the frailty of the man who had been an anchor in a stormy sea. "Take care, Coach," Tommy murmured, his voice thick with unspoken emotion. "Keep your head down out there, Tommy," Coach Gary replied, patting him on the back. "And make sure you come back to us." Releasing the coach, Tommy took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. With a nod that sealed his commitment, he turned away from the man who had shaped so much of his life, from the school that held his youth within its boarded-up walls, and from the town that would now exist only in memories and hopeful futures. The door closed behind him with a definitive click, leaving Coach Gary alone in the shadowed hallway, surrounded by echoes of the past. *** Four more years spiraled into the void, marked by silence and waiting, until the day the transmissions broke through the quiet like a siren's wail. Coach Gary received the lists with a heavy heart, his hands trembling as he unfolded the sheets of paper, each name a silent testament to the cost of survival. Week by week, he walked the halls of the school amidst survivors waiting to learn their fate, stopping before the photographs of the last football team – his boys, now guardians in the abyss. Rumor had it that the enemy had made it through the Kuiper Belt, and now only the Mars Battleship, Desolation, stood between Earth and enemy. He tied black ribbons across each portrait with reverent precision as the casualty lists grew, the somber adornments stark against the youthful smiles captured in time. Only one photograph remained untouched, the face of the quarterback staring back with eyes full of dreams and determination. But even hope had its limits, and all things must eventually yield to reality. With the next list came a letter, addressed in crisp military print. Coach Gary's hands shook as he opened the envelope and unfolded the letter inside. His eyes skimmed the words, each sentence a blow softening only with the knowledge of valor and sacrifice. He stood for a long time in front of Tommy's picture, the letter clutched in his hand as though it might anchor him through the storm of grief that threatened to overwhelm him. In that moment, the empty hallways of the high school echoed with the ghostly cheers of games past, of victories and losses, of life before the world changed forever. "Dear Sir, I am sorry to inform you that Thomas J. Mitchel was killed in action. His sacrifice saved the lives of everyone on this ship, and has been awarded the Navy Cross for his heroism in combat." The words seemed to hang in the air, heavy with a gravity that pulled at every corner of the room. Beside him, Tommy's father stood silent, the gleaming medal of the Navy Cross clutched tightly in his weathered hands. A testament to his son's bravery, it was a symbol of honor and loss intertwined. Together, they stood where Tommy's picture hung amongst the fallen teammates – young men who had all answered the call of duty, their potential sealed by fate's final decree. With solemn reverence, Coach Gary took one end of the black ribbon from Tommy's father. The silence between them spoke volumes; their shared grief needed no words. They stretched the ribbon across the frame, its dark fabric a stark contrast to the vibrant image of Tommy in his football jersey, forever immortalized at the precipice of adulthood and glory. The finality of the gesture was not lost on them. This ribbon was the last to be hung, the closing chapter of a generation defined by sacrifice. As they stepped back, the two men allowed themselves a moment of mutual support, their shoulders touching lightly – a silent acknowledgment of a bond forged through shared memories of a son and a student who had become so much more. Tommy's father finally spoke, his voice steady yet thick with emotion, "He did good, Gary. He did us all proud." "Indeed," Coach Gary replied, his gaze lingering on the framed visage of the boy he once coached, now a hero etched into the annals of time. "He was the best of us all." Special Notes: This story is loosely based on stories my grandfather told me of his memories of December, 1941. He had just turned 17, and was one of the many boys that stood outside the recruiting center, waiting to join and defend their country.