Tarot Terror

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​She predicted the water poisoning. Predicted the spread. Predicted the quarantines. She predicted the skin sloughing off the infected, the camps within the camps, disembodied hands clinging to orange plastic fences while crops burned in the distance. She warned of the madness that would consume the country. Fathers caving in their sons' skulls with rocks, wives tying husbands to their beds in a burning house, dogs roving in packs from house to house, indistinguishable from the furious mobs that looted the homes and businesses. Her own husband, opening his mouth to her in the kitchen to say "What's wrong with me," a faint glimpse of his liver rising up from the back of his throat before his insides evacuated completely. The last thing she could see, before she became too scared to keep her eyes closed, was a missile rearing its head to face the sun, rising like a new species set to claim the Earth for itself. They all laughed at her. What she didn't predict was how much she'd miss the sound of laughing.

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