[ WP ] Write about a city where everyone believes that they are the only survivors of a recent apocalypse , and how they are proven wrong .

We've gathered here over the last few months from various corners of our country, forming a mismatched muddle of virtually all of our society's former strata; a jazz musician from New Orleans, an Air Force colonel originally from Kansas, a flamboyantly gay former male prostitute ( and, more recently, accountant ) from Chicago, a single mom and waitress from New York State, a college football player, and a high school algebra teacher from Jacksonville to name just a few. We could n't be more different in age, race, socio-economic status, and all the other little things that do n't matter anymore now that there world has ended. We're just us. Survivors. The living. Trying to move on and rebuild as best we can in a world destroyed. A clean slate has been created, and for that I'm somewhat grateful. The others might feel it too. The 88 of us have a chance to rebuild society from scratch. It's been three years and I can already see it; the world has changed. Maybe it's for the better. 
 
 
 
 Sometimes a wonder if G-d meant for this to happen. Maybe he gave the world another chance; maybe he had the same thoughts I did, the wish for a purer, truer world free of hate. We can create it now. I can lead them on to this goal, this new perfect world for people like me, people who see through the bullshit and fakeness of it all. We can all see how wrong it was! We can all see how bad it was, how much it sucked for people like me, the normal nice guys! They may see it know, but they might not see it tomorrow. It's been four whole years; I have to make sure that they do remember, to make sure that my people know that I know best. That my world is the best world. A world free from conflict and hate. A world in my image. An image of peace. And for that we must all be willing to sacrifice. For the greater good. 
 
 
 
 The sentry comes running, a look of blind panic on his face. He limps, a habit he has had since he was a flea-bitten street kid found in the Before Days. Times that are long passed. He has seen somebody. Someone new in a time when there is no new. Our community has been violated, our walls gazed upon by those with no right. But who can it be? Who is trying to penetrate these walls, the safeguard of us and our beautiful children, my 10 little ones at home? The 124 of us are safe, happy. We are rebuilding. We were the last. The last of humanity, the chosen ones, the ones kept safe from the plague, the ones chosen by G-d… 
 
 
 
 He falls to his knees, his heavily scarred knuckles white under old red and gripping the lush green grass. My guard pulls his head back, demanding answers. Real answers. He acts as my mouthpiece. Good man. Bubbles invade my throat, hated obstructions forcing me to recall previous times. Bad times. It's been years. This should n't happen… the change... 
 
 
 
 Through ragged gasps we get a reasonable chunk of the boy's story. Traders. *Traders? * There are no traders anymore! The boy lies! They lie! There is n't anything anymore. It's been ten years! We would know! We would have seen! This is the new land, the new world, the land of misfit toys and the unappreciated ones like me! Slit his throat, the conspirator! Time is running out. I wont let this happen. This is my community, my home, my kingdom, and we're under attack. I wont let this happen. A meeting will be held in the town square. Call the boys, quickly. We are under attack. I am under attack. We are under attack, attack, attack... 
 
 
 
 War is coming.
