The Last Prophet

People were weirdly troubled when the first bodies dropped.

They called it the Rapture. Hundreds and thousands collapsed mid-sentence, mid-prayer, mid-turn in traffic. A bride died smiling into her wedding photos. Some televangelist keeled over during a donation pitch.

For about a week, every religion on Earth acted smug as hell.

Then their own followers started dying too.

That changed the mood.

The prophets came next. God always seems to manufacture prophets during disasters. Men screamed about judgment, demons, poisoned bloodlines, satellites. One twitchy little fanatic swore God spoke to him every night at exactly 3:17 a.m.

He died at 3:16.

Nobody laughed for very long after that.

The second wave arrived months later and stripped away whatever comforting logic people still had left. There was no pattern. No morality to it. Children died beside murderers. Nurses survived collapsing hospitals only to slump dead over coffee the next morning. One of the loudest prophets exploded during a livestream sermon.

That’s when faith really died.

Quietly, too. No dramatic riots. People just stopped pretending they understood the universe. Borders stopped mattering. Politics sounded childish. Nobody cared who you prayed to when death could reach into your chest between one breath and the next.

Oddly enough, people became kinder after that.

They forgave quicker. Loved louder. Ate terrible food. Called estranged siblings at 2 a.m. just to hear a familiar voice. Turns out humanity behaves pretty well once it’s properly terrified.

Then the deaths stopped.

A year passed. Then another.

For the first time in history, the world was almost peaceful. Not perfect. Calmer.

Of course, half the population had to vanish first. Funny little trade-off there.

The churches returned last winter.

Small gatherings at first. Men rediscovering certainty like it was a drug they’d missed. Tonight, I watched one preacher stand beneath flickering lights and use the word purity.

Purity.

That word always grows teeth eventually.

So I came back to the lab.

The freezers are humming beside me now. Blue lights. Steel tables. The whole place smells like bleach and burnt wiring. Familiar. Safe, in its own ugly way.

Humanity only survives when it’s afraid together.

And honestly? If God truly hated what I’d done, He had plenty of chances to stop me after the first plague.