The rains pour tonight harder than I’ve ever felt, as the murky water beads falling from the skies run down the barrel of our guns. Some men try helplessly to scribble their last words into a book , but the rain had other plans. The rain always has other plans.

We all look at each other, but there’s nothing to be said. Our minds are running in all directions trying to wrap our head around our situation. Our last night on the Earth ends in an appropriate way. The rain steals the only words we could think to say.

In the distance, we the light of a distant town.

A distant, burning town.

For no natural fire could last this onslaught, that dawn burns at one mans hands.

Sherman and his men ride towards us through the storm.

We aren’t ready.

We never were.