Rose Harvey

In February 2001, as winters entrails flowed through the mud-laden stank and slush of the city streets at dusk, the moon began to rise into the night. It glowed not gold or yellow but instead shone red as blood with its ascent. So rose the darkest of terrors, scavengers of the damned over one small city. The blood-darkened moon ignited all the night sky with its evil, and so was called forth from beyond the grave: the insatiable appetite of the starving dead.