The voices call from the dark. They lie out of reach, crying in the emptiness. Hands reach, fingertips brush against what could almost reach… if only. Inches become measureless voids, full only of emptiness. Only space lies between the hand that reaches and the hand that would reach back, grab and hold on tight.
This is where the world ended for so many. Yet there are those that somehow survived, some that still live. Their voices call out in the dark. They are the cries of those who hang on to life by its very edges, their hold on it slipping away by the second.
There are others too, pulled out from the wreckage who do not know if they are alive or dead. People with sightless eyes starring inward, unable to cope with a world so torn and destroyed, who wait for the old world to come back to them.
Injuries too, some more than the eye can bear or the mind acknowledge. Some of us here, scrabbling over the ruins chasing the calling voices, feeling for the hesitant dying heartbeat, have been to war. We have seen what humans can inflict on one another, but this….
This is an indifferent nature, tearing itself apart. It is a time, a place, where humans are just one more stain on the uncaring ground. A world overfull of life, like this one, does not care who it kills and maims, no matter what invented god you cry and plead to.
There are no gods here now.
There is only indifferent nature and the ruin of what was only hours ago a thriving town.