[ IP ] The Incoming Storm

Shepherds of the Battlefield 
 
 Shooting stars with trails of fire illuminate the early morning atmosphere, filled with clouds that try hard and fail to block the morning sun. On the ground, singular men stand in place, moving in slow motion and moving their heads towards what they know has already came. The arrows of war disappear as soon as they came, leaving the men on the ground less than a second to say their final prayers. 
 
 On top of a pile of rubble, a figure sits – deliberately ignorant to the incoming bombardment that she'd have no time to react to anyway. Instead, they look up and see the sky breaking through. If a god exists, then this is their final sign of hope, and her deliberate ignorance to death is their final sign of acknowledgement to him. Whoever,'he' may be, does n't matter. All that matters is that he knows of their plight, the deeds that they have performed in his favour have not gone to waste. Looking down at themselves a minute ago, they could see their rifle, its magazine on the ground next to them with 30 bullets scattered next to it. And next to that, a gas mask with bright red lenses – the only thing to prevent suffocation and a slow and painful demise. They knew he would come, absence of faith did not deter them. 
 
 Though he knew it was coming, he did not expect it this late. As the toxic cloud of dust grows only meters away, his only regret is that he did not end it in a more quick and painless way. Carrying a make-shift mine detector, the road behind him had just been cleared, the filter on his gas mask almost expelled entirely. And as the rush of wind reaches his back, he wonders what all that work, not just today, but his entire life was for. All his accomplishments, extinguished in one of many air strikes that have killed many already. As the sound of the objects came from behind him, he wondered only for a moment if he had managed to clean the barrel of his pistol. If he had, he would have been glad to pull it out at that moment and pull the trigger against his neck, but he knew he had n't, so there was no point. He sees to need to look behind him, he knows what it is. He knows he must finally board the proverbial train from this life to the next. It was about time. He'd been waiting far too long. 
 
 So, this is it. Sitting on the side of the road, staring into the abyss, the mask on his face showing his true emotion as the raindrops of the wind splash against his helmet. A long-time journalist and short-time poet, his notebook is sadly, or rather thankfully still in inside the trench four miles away. If it survives, his last words will be of those who died before him, and thankfully not his current thoughts – the culmination of his existence. Who cares about that? He's just another soldier abandoned by his country – brought here by single-minded patriotism and deserted here by the long-term benefits of Democracy. In a few years, the president might mention his name in all of those who died fighting for... He does n't quite remember anymore, honestly. The message was so simple at the start, but has quickly become deluded. All he knows now is that some politician with a headache enduring smile will stand next to his grave and pin a medal on his coffin. Then he'll say something like, “ This boy died for honour, freedom and liberty. God bless him and God bless this country. ” Usually, he'd write something snarky or witty about using his corpse to get positive media attention, but now all he can think of is: “ Fuck him. ” And honestly, right now, nothing better could possibly be said. 
 
 Their coat flutters frantically in the wind, smacking rain-drops in and away from it. On their back, supplies for a makeshift camp that would never come together, orbital bombardment or not. In their mind, they wonder what the noise behind them could be. The wind has been howling all night and two dust storms had already occurred. They wish they could get back to the trenches so that they stand some chance of surviving it, but lady luck had never shined on them, even before they were stationed here. All they can hope for now is for their gas mask to survive long enough to make the 20 minute walk back to their temporary base, them and the rest of the team, who all seem to be as oblivious to the storm as they are. They think about calling out to them, ask them why their not packing up their gear and walking back. But then it occurs to them, as they see the red sparks fly under the sun that shines through the clouds. They do n't even get a chance to look back. 
 
 The storm passes over without a hint of a recognition of the souls on the ground. The trail of fire left from the rocket seeps down onto the deformed section of Earth, fluttering for several seconds before it is pushing and whirled around by the howling toxic winds. A fire picks up within, spreading within a controlled distance but still bright enough to be seen from a high point. Up in the sky, dozens of small fires blaze within defined intersections of the storm, yet the sun rises above it, shining magnificently over the hell that exists on Earth. As the missiles pass into the distance, the storm rages on, destroying any trace of life that might exist as its fires continue to decimate all life that once existed in the already fragile state of land. In the end, the storm will pass and the battlefield will return to its normal state, as is the same for the shepherds who are destined to guide those who wander it.
