The Passage by Justin Cronin

A lidded eye of moon was hanging over the tree line, like a child's toy suspended on a wire, a smiling moon face dangling above a baby's crib. Its light spilled over a landscape of ashes, everything dying, the world's living surface peeled away to reveal the rocky core of it all. Like a stage set, Wolgast thought, a stage set for the end of all things, all memories of things.