The Last Light of Rome

The sun, a pale ghost in the ash-choked sky, cast long, skeletal shadows across the shattered marble of St. Peter's Square. Father Michael O'Brien, his cassock stained with the grime of a thousand days, knelt amidst the ruins, the silence broken only by the distant, guttural moans of the infected. He had seen the world fall, the city of Rome devoured by a plague that turned men into ravenous, mindless beasts. He had witnessed the terror, the desperate scramble for survival, the agonizing screams of the dying. He had seen the faith of his flock crumble, replaced by a primal fear that gnawed at the soul. But he, Father Michael, remained. He had a duty, a calling to offer solace in the face of unimaginable horror. He had found refuge within the Basilica, its once-glorious interior now a sanctuary of dust and decay. The stained glass windows, shattered by the chaos, cast fragmented rainbows across the floor, a spectral reminder of a world lost. He had barricaded the entrance, using the remnants of pews and marble statues, a fragile shield against the relentless tide of the infected. He spent his days tending to the few survivors who had found their way to the Basilica, offering them food, water, and a semblance of hope. He read to them from the Bible, his voice a soothing balm against the encroaching darkness. He prayed with them, his faith a flickering candle in the suffocating gloom. But the darkness was relentless. The infected, driven by an insatiable hunger, pressed against the barricades, their moans a constant reminder of the fragility of their sanctuary. The survivors, haunted by the horrors they had witnessed, grew increasingly desperate. Their faith, once a beacon of hope, was now a flickering ember, threatened by the encroaching despair. One night, a young woman, her eyes filled with a chilling emptiness, stumbled into the Basilica. She was one of them, infected, her humanity replaced by a primal hunger. Father Michael, his heart heavy with sorrow, watched as she lunged at a young boy, her teeth bared in a silent scream. He had to act. He had to protect the innocent. He reached for the crucifix hanging around his neck, its silver cold against his skin. He raised it, a symbol of faith and defiance, and faced the infected woman. He felt a surge of fear, a primal instinct to flee. But he stood his ground, his voice trembling as he uttered the words of the Lord's Prayer. The woman paused, her eyes flickering with a flicker of recognition, a ghost of her former self. Then, with a guttural moan, she lunged. Father Michael closed his eyes, bracing for the inevitable. But the attack never came. He opened his eyes to see the woman lying motionless on the floor, her eyes vacant, her hunger momentarily forgotten. He had seen a flicker of humanity in the eyes of the infected, a spark of the soul that still lingered beneath the consuming darkness. He had seen the power of faith, not as a shield against the horrors of the world, but as a beacon of hope, a reminder of the good that still existed in the hearts of men, even in the darkest of times. He knew that the fight was far from over. The infected were everywhere, their numbers growing with each passing day. But he also knew that he was not alone. He had the survivors, their faith flickering but not extinguished. He had his faith, a flickering candle in the encroaching darkness, a beacon of hope in a world consumed by despair. He would continue to fight, to offer solace, to remind them that even in the darkest of times, there was still hope, still a reason to believe.