The bittersweet chords ring over the bay as his voice softly builds momentum. People begin singing along with his mournful crooning. Some of us have tears drying on our faces in the cold wind as we sing ‘Hallelujah’ in broken voices.

When it’s over, there’s a moment of quiet. We’re left wondering about life and love and other things that are messed up and broken, yet somehow still a triumph.

The clapping is subdued at first but quickly builds into a wild cheer.

After that, the singer strums his guitar aimlessly until he hits on a familiar tune. He begins to sing a pop song that’s light and fluffy and upbeat. Everyone sways and hops and bursts out in song.

We’re nowhere near as good as the angels I heard singing at the aerie. There are enough of us singing off-key that we could never be considered good, much less perfect like the angels. But all of us singing together – the cults with their greasy amnesty marks, the rival gangs on the suspension cables, the angry freedom fighters, the parents with their kids on their shoulders – that’s a feeling I’ll never forget for as long as I live. However long that will be.

I hold on to the feeling and try to lock it in the vault in my head where I know it’ll be safe and with me forever. I’ve never put anything good in there before, but I want to make sure it doesn’t get lost. Just in case this is the last big human show of any kind, ever again.

And then, I hear it.

The thing I dread. The thing I’ve been expecting.

There’s a low buzz. And the air begins to stir.

Far too close to us, the mist boils.

They’re coming.

The sky blacks out with their bodies, and the mist swirls with the wind of a thousand wings. Either no one spotted them coming in the gathering fog, or we were all too mesmerized by the show.

A voice over the speaker starts a countdown. That’s supposed to be a signal for the audience to run and for everyone to get into position.

‘Five . . .’

Five? It’s supposed to start at twenty-five.

Everyone wastes a precious second realizing that we’re already out of time.

‘Four . . .’

Everyone scrambles. People shove and run in panic. The overcrowded audience and the show contestants have only four seconds to evacuate to the hideaway lattice and net beneath the bridge.

The singer onstage keeps on singing as if neither hell nor high water nor apocalyptic angels descending on us will stop him from giving the best performance of his life. He’s finished his catchy pop song and is now singing a love song.

‘Three . . .’