Blood fell from the leaves like a gentle spring shower and from a distance it was almost beautiful. Then the wind changed direction carrying a metallic iron taste that filled the air and the faint sounds of several lungs breathing their last, desperate breath.
Trees of all ages seemed to sprout through every roof in the village, their leaves still red as wine though the older hots had long since decayed. A few cars dotted the main road, some crashed into shops while others gently idled away in place. Whatever had happened was still in progress.
Drivers were bolted upright in their seats as saplings grew steadily from their mouths, curling out of open doors and broken windows as their glistening crimson leaves reached for the sun. They were still breathing, albeit with a struggle as the trunk began to widen, distorting their throats and eventually rupturing them entirely.
If the shock didn't kill them it was the asphyxiation that did the job. Soon the village would be a forest clogged with rubble and not even the welcome sign would be visible through freshly grown foliage. This wasn't the end of anything - this was a brutal beginning.
The village would be gone, lost to all but local legends of trees that wept blood and hundreds of skulls peering out from beneath an ocean of stinging nettles. Few would visit and fewer still would return but there would always be fresh saplings, leaves red as wine.
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