American Wasteland

The United States had become a wasteland, its once-glorious cities reduced to crumbling ruins. Disease and poverty swept through the land like a plague, gnawing at the remnants of society. Food was scarce, and hunger became a relentless specter that haunted every shadow. Desperation birthed something darker—a new kind of faith, twisted by fear and necessity. 

In hidden corners, where the light of civilization no longer reached, secret rituals began to take hold. It was said that these rituals, drenched in blood and sorrow, were a final plea to the unseen forces that had forsaken humanity. They believed that the gods of old, or whatever entities might still listen, demanded a price—human sacrifice. 

In the dead of night, chosen victims were led to the ancient altars, makeshift constructs of stone and bone. Hooded figures chanted in forgotten tongues, their voices a low hum that mixed with the wind’s mournful wail. The air was thick with incense and death, a macabre offering to stave off the hunger that clawed at their bellies. 

The rituals were brutal, raw, and devoid of hope. They weren’t about saving lives but about prolonging the inevitable suffering, a futile attempt to appease whatever malevolent force they believed governed their fates. The belief was simple yet terrifying: if enough blood was spilled, perhaps the earth would provide again. If not, starvation awaited them all.

Those who survived these nights lived in fear, knowing that the next moon might bring their own summoning. And yet, in their twisted reality, the death of one was seen as a small price to pay for the fleeting hope of another meal. It was a death culture born from the ashes of a collapsed society, a grim reflection of humanity's darkest fears and instincts.