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Piccadilly Circus, London
Only the cooing of pigeons punctuated the silence. There was no human chatter, no shrieks, no giggling, no gasps of wonderment at the neon signs.
A battering of wings caused the pigeons to stop their monotonous songs for a moment, as a flock of starlings took flight in nearby Leicester Square.
Gone were the cars, the buses, the motorcycles, the bicycles. No beeping of horns, no screeches of brakes.
Those people who had not been buried in the mass graves had been left to rot on the streets, for there was no one left to bury them.
Piccadilly Circus was dead.
London was dead.
Everybody was dead.
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