Submitted by fandango28 on TH.Net
Hark. The sound of cannon. A low rumble, a deep thunder swallowed up by dusty earth--men, machines, mountains quiver. All nature senses the final, fatal approach, feels the End riding ever closer. The very soil cringes in loathsome anticipation. But such tremblings are of no meaning to their menacing causes...for these tremors are but footfalls, the footfalls but evidence of horses, and the horses but the onrush of Death across the vast and desolate plain.
The world cannot be reconciled to its fate. Some look to the darkening sky..."rain coming". Few men will drop to their knees in prayer. Fewer still will drop everything to meet the Apocalypse.
And so what, then, do we propose to accomplish—gathering like this in our small, forgotten fragment of the globe? Shouldn't we ignore the coming fury? Ought we assume others greater than ourselves will rise to meet this, our greatest challenge? No. No, we cannot and will not. Death cannot imagine resistance, but moreover, the winds are right for this one moment and the pale riders cannot witness the unfathomable as it stands before them, waiting.
Only now, in the final moments, do we have a chance. We we will not miss this chance. We have no choice--it will not come again. Thoughts of conflict storm into reality...the masses fly over the barren fields, over the precipice, into the abyss. We derive our only comfort from knowing things will be made certain. We make certain that when we meet the present chaos of doubts and fears, we force order and meaning. We make certain that, amidst the carnage, one cannot tell why his ribcage is bursting open...whether because of the deafening roar of those behind him or because, as he rushes forward to live forever vanquished or victorious, every man suddenly and definitely knows that, somehow, in some deeper, intangible sense beyond blood and sinew and soul ... ...he cannot possibly lose, simply because he is human.