One Thousand Years
Genesage
"Despair"
(Chp 5:6)
The victims of Tom's ire were the mirrors of Tom's soul.
He was no more pure and innocent then they were. They were certainly no more guilty, or less, then he was. The “Social Experiment” won out with devastation as a great equalizer. Everyone was in the same boat. The good ship “Annihilation” has come with “Titianic” results.
It was Mankind devastated.
All humanity brought together in one place. All together at one time. Every single breathing living soul brought by angels to the last remains of the one last city on earth. Unified in one way. Everyone was in need, everyone hurting, everyone had lost.
The giant human mass almost bore the resemblance of an ocean of people. Tom imagined Moses with a rag tag army or a bunch of slaves. Laughing as the angelic landed. The Freedom Train didn’t bring what everyone thought freedom should be, we all became slaves in the end, thought Tom.
This oceanic mass of brotherhood of disaster looked like the short and tall of waves. With swells of kneeling or standing. The whitecaps of some beings were intermingled with the salty spray of women and children. Even a baby or two in the flotsam and jetsam. Interspersed he saw before he was set down in the midst of them, different groupings.
“It’s started already.” Tom thought
Some were eating from a basket and Tom realized he was hungry.
Until then he hadn’t eaten in…months?
From nowhere some hand shoved a round loaf into his hands and he ate absent mindedly… chewing and looking around. Some were sitting and a few were scuffling though nothing serious. A few more nearby were jostling to get room to breathe.
Everyone stank. Everything smelled of rot. Everyone breathed of disease. Scarred and marred there was still evidence of “The Great Tribulation” on every soul gathered together there.
The Angelic seemed to be constantly arriving and depositing their load of people and flying out again. Everyone seemed dirty as thought they would have been better off dead…yet they lived. Most appeared in pain or despair. Mob depression was thick as fog. Everyone was affected, hope was long gone.
You could feel it weigh your arms down. It held your chest in tight constriction. It made weary the walk. It was harder to stand. Easier to sit. Feeling barely able to lift the chest in breath against the despair it was an effort to breathe. The spirit of man was gone, emptied.
Man cast in the image of man.
The operatic of eternal magnitude had been played out. Mankind had cast his lot and lost. Making himself out to be the center of importance He had ignored the obvious. He had discovered too late that a Creator can interrupt his Creation anytime he wants to. And He had.
Now it seemed, too late.
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