[ WP ] It 's the zombie apocalypse , but the virus is n't spread through Bites , Blood , or Scratches .

Rapture. In our lifetimes. Who would have thought? 
 
 Well, not us. We're still here. You'd be surprised who was chosen, and who burned to ashes where they stood. Especially the latter who thought, really thought they'd be among the former. Leaving us, the few billion unconvinced, unbelieving, those somewhere in the middle. Nobility and paupers alike, left to inherit a desolate earth. 
 
 Well, not entirely desolate, and it's not the damned we have to worry about. 
 
 I freeze when our pointman's arm raises. My heart pounds in my throat and ears. One sign later, I hit the deck, shuffling over to a wall to hide behind. We sign frantic gestures up and down the line, but I'm not watching; I dare a peek. 
 
 There they are, an entire enraptured congregation, stumbling down the wasting street. Eyes wide open, bodies reduced to husks, mouths gaping, moving, singing. Singing that damn hymn. Loud and screeching enough that I can almost hear it, snippets going through my earplugs. 
 
 No, it's not the damned I worry about. They earned their hell. But the enraptured are so _caring_, so _sympathetic_, that they left their bodies behind, to help guide us to join them. 
 
 One of us convulses, and feebly, begins to sing. 
 
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