The Resistance

The only thing that remains here are the ghostly shadows of what used to be. Cars abandoned in the middle of the roads, traces of blood and bone. The last elements of a struggle are finally beginning to wash off of these once pristine streets. But it's too late, these streets are stained with the memories of what happened. Like open wounds they seem fine, but in actuality they fester, their disease spreading just as the virus did.
Nothing is safe, nothing is sacred.
I can still smell the stench of ashes as they float through the breeze, and my head tilts back to inhale. I let it wash over me, I let it seep through me, and I invite it into me. I ride through these streets now as one of the last, I am the resistance.