So they did. On car hoods still warm from the fires. In churches where the stained glass wept colors onto naked backs. With names forgotten by morning, faces blurred by the next wave of heat.
Because the apocalypse doesn’t make you pure. It makes you honest . And honesty, when the clock hits zero, is just another word for hunger.
It was the way smoke curled from the ruins like a lover’s whisper. The way the last radio signal crackled and moaned before going silent. Bodies pressed together in bunkers not for survival, but because touch became the only prayer left. The end of the world didn’t kill desire. It unleashed it — raw, desperate, holy in its filth.
And oh, how they fed.
