The sound was getting closer. I looked in the sky -- you can’t see those rockets coming.
The sky is milky blue, the breeze over the Bay gentle. The morning silence is broken.
People die. No government anywhere can prevent that.
What tends to emerge after the dust has died down is a whole lot of nothing.
We leap up with a cry? and calls for this chant or that, and then to see the fire riding through the towns, and the people shouting, as they might well, as the news spreads and every child and woman and man take up the cry, and away they run to see as we could all see, the sky sucking up the whole scene, carrying it up into the air, dispersing all we ever knew, all but the Monsters and the few pitiful enough left to deal with the world that remains.
Our principal thoughts were of fire, a half-oppressive ceiling of fire in the sky that melted imperceptibly into invisible walls of men and women crying out like all hell, taking up the chorus.