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We all heard the snap. It echoed like a thunderclap, but the day had been clear up until that point. Then the sky turned a deep crimson – the sun faded to a glowing blister against a sky of bloody flesh. Then the angels started coming down. They didn’t arrive in our neighborhood until late in the day, but we’d already seen them on the news stations. Each was a towering figure, over ten feet tall, and glowing white like a fiery hot piece of metal. Each wielded a flaming sword and used it to cut the non-believers and the sinners into two pieces. It was dark as the two figures appeared at the end of our street. Everyone was up, with the lights on, and we could watch the angels as they walked systematically, one on each side of the street, turned, entered each house, sliced the residents in half, then moved on to the next house. My wife and I were three quarters of the way down the street, so we had a fair amount of time to watch what was transpiring. The thought to run had crossed our minds, but we determined, like most, that there was no point. This was the end of times – there was no where to run to. We watched Johnson run down the street; a wet-stain darkened the front of his pants. Other than him, the angels cut most everyone down: the Stanfords, the Bainbridges, The Greenes – all succumbed to those flaming swords. And then they were in front of our house. The angel was in our house. My wife dropped to her knees and I cried when I saw that she was forgiven. Then the sword sliced me into two pieces. The last thing I saw was my detached lower body quivering on the floor five feet away from my other half.