End of days 2

I always hate the hour before a battle. The tension in the air crackles like static and there’s generally some trivial decision to make. This time it concerns the left flank’s line of communication once they cross the road below. I gaze down at the mess of vehicles there, still held in a single moment of collision, but now quietly rusting away. All the roads are like that, all paralyzed by those first terrifying shock waves.

Do you remember our little Micra and that drive through the mountains? I can picture right now the high pastures opening out before us and the greenness of the grass beneath the snowline. I’m standing here at the head of an all-conquering army but back then we were just two teachers on holiday, escaping from nothing more important than the next heap of marking. I know where I’d rather be.

We've just brought down one of the enemy scouts. He tried to escape but caught his wings in some old telephone wires. I still flinch when they die – you can see Hell’s mouth open and suck them screaming back down into darkness. Perhaps that fate will be mine by the end of this day.