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The crows caw in the now barren silence. The once verdant trees so filled life are now weathered ghosts of grey. The westward wind is but dust and the sky above has lost its virgin blue. I am the last of my kind, condemned to explore the world that remains, the vast, vast loneliness. I once was known by a name I have nearly forgotten. But now, I have adopted a more suitable name, a name I call myself. I am Ishmael, the last survivor of the war that could find no end.
We fought for noble causes, us and them. We sacrificed our young for principles we declared divine. In the beginning, the soldiers died one by one and we placed white granite tombstones in their memory. But the ones became the hundreds and the hundreds became the thousands. Then we began to fear that we might know defeat. So the guns became bombs and the bombs became missiles. And when those were all used up and gone, the man-made germs were called upon as last resort. And this, they proved to be - the last resort.
Once loosed into the air, these ungodly creatures evolved into monsters we could not contain. Like fire across a prairie, so the plague did scorch the children of the earth. Our germ warfare turned against our own; their germ warfare turned against their own. In our demonic desperation to kill each other, we kill ourselves.
By some tragic fate, I alone survived – or so it seems. I have seen no other. But still I travel on, searching for the someone I pray is there, somewhere. For hell is not so much a burning place, I have come to know, but rather an empty, lonely place.
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