When the bombs fell, I was dying in an old folk's home. It was almost my time. My grandchildren came to visit infrequently, but often enough to give an old man solace. I'd accepted that death would come for me one day and that I lived a life worth living.
I can't tell you how many times I prayed I'd died while that was still my mindset.
One morning you're kissing your baby girl's baby boy goodnight and restfully preparing what to leave behind, the next they're all gone, all of them, all of it, and you're nearly damned immortal. Everything you loved and laughed with and loved, killed off in an instant. A green world of frenzied pain and howling, bitter storms filled with burning rain that churns the rivers and strips flesh off of screaming animals replaces the old city cobblestone and buildings.
Tumor laden beasts wash up on the beach coughing their internals out and there's nothing you can do, nothing but end their suffering as your own balding head starts freezing up and cracking like