Day 2,540

The evening settles in as daylight fades to the harsh neons of a city that never cared for the nature it crushes to make way for progress. The workers, the dreamers and everything in between hold their collective breaths until the clocks strike 8pm and the sun is declared dead until morning.

It's a strange little ritual of theirs and one founded on the blood of the forest that had been there for aeons before they dug it out and filled the wound in the earth with concrete and steel rebar. In a way it was a moment of mourning for everything that was there and everyone who's blood is carved into the foundations of their little world.

Accidents happen. This is an unavoidable fact of life as well we all know but accidents on that scale couldn't be anything less than karmic rebellion against the so-called progress of mankind. Dozens died each day until the city was named and then the world around them turned eerily quiet as if contemplating this latest offence.

They never saw it coming - a swarm of beetles so vast it covered the midday sky for three hours and anyone unfortunate enough to be outside or even near an open window was reduced to bones and bloodied clothes in a matter of minutes.

Just when the survivor's thought they might be safe, a second round emerged. Then a third and a fourth and a fifth until there were less than a handful left alive. The clocks struck 8pm and they waited for the final wave to finish them off.

It still hasn't come but the city holds its breath every evening until the clocks cry 8pm and they resume their lives, pretending not to be afraid of every dark cloud or insect they see along the way. The city will need to expand soon and the world around it chitters with anticipation.