Nobody paid much attention to the man preaching on the corner until he started bleeding from his eyes.

That’s the problem with prophets— they never do it the easy way.

Malachi Graham had been a large man in life. Death did not diminish that. Instead, it seemed to amplify his proportions. Leading to whispered rumors about his “true” origins.

At the heart of each legend bears a kernel of truth.

The focus of heat from the magnified stare of the masses is enough to make the kernel pop— turning a closed truth into something off-kilter and oddly angled.

The apocalypse didn’t start overnight. Nor did it seem to be ever-lasting.

But in some wine-dark shadow of the night, a low heat pulsing through the city, the path back to the lives the citizens knew were lost.