Atrumus
The pine trees towered above the pristine lake. Zachary had never seen a such a perfect, storybook place in his life. The trees were the perfectly green, the water was perfectly clear and serene, the fish perfectly visibly and perfectly happy.
It only made sense, he thought, that the gore before him would be perfect, too.
It was all Callan could do to keep from whimpering at the sound of skulls crushing under the treads of the diabolical thing. He had never caught more than a glimpse of it, of shining metal and dried blood, but he had heard plenty of the sounds it made as it rolled over everything he had known and loved.
"I can't stay."
"Please."
"I'm not really here."
"I can't lose you again."
"I'm not really anywhere."
He tries to hold her, arms sliding through empty air.
"Say what you need to say to me. You don't have much longer." She begins to fade, just the tiniest bit.
"I--."
"Hurry."
"I'm sorry. I love you. Goodbye."
A gust of wind, and nothing but empty space.
"You just don't get it man, do you? It's the end, man, game
over! Fire raining down, oceans running with blood, first-born
dying, plagues of locusts, flesh melting, brimstone, cackling
rape-demons, the whole nine yards! We're done, dude! Done! Oh
God!"
The terminal was silent as it began to send the message. Harry stood for a moment, watching it, before leaving it to its work. Hopefully someone would receive it and come to their aid. But for now, there were dead to bury.
The simple tools are often the most versatile. A knife, for instance. Not much too it; just a sharp edge and a handle. But you can cut rope, whittle a stick, pick your nails, kill a man. The possibilities are endless.
It had taken a couple of tries, but Alexander could finally go as deep as he wanted to. The first few times, it had terrified him out to no end, all that water and pressure hanging above him, and darkness below. But now he actually kind of liked it.
The wise monk on the mountain seldom came down to give advice, but when he did, the people listened. One day he came down and he said to me:
"Listen, my son. Never eat dragon eggs on Sunday. The Green Gopher will scratch up your socks."
And that was the last day anyone called him wise.
Final chance. Final shot. One perfect arc into the reactor's vent and the diabolical thing would overheat. He tensed, and launched his improvised missile. It bounced off, two feet to the left.
She blushed. He blushed. They sat and said nothing for an hour and a half. But neither considered the time misspent.
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