Sodom lost her best and brightest that day.
Millions gathered to mourn. Millions of ghosts that is. Their bodies burned to cinders, they lined the ash-hewn city streets like the cracked and blistered refuse of a ransacked shed left vacant and uncared for.
In heaps they crept into one another like the fleshy moss of a dying tree, or in sparse corners they lay alone, where their twisting, agonized forms could be more easily discerned. Not by looking at one's face could one be impressed that this was the guilty city of impossible sin. Instead, if not innocence, they portrayed appearances of the utmost blandness. Mundane, unsuspecting husks of motionless ex-humanity. On corners, the scorched and splintered walls of unspecified buildings melted like a thick black tar into the cobblestone which is singed directly around their base. There was not a voice there, and no spectator who might ever look upon it would have presumed that any sound had ever existed. There was no life in any direction for a few miles outside the city gates, and so too was this city alone in its death.