Down in the city, a survivor crouched in a fire station. His name was forgotten. His gear was mismatched, his blood pressure low. He heard the distant, unnatural clop of hooves on wet asphalt. He raised a scoped rifle, sweat dripping into his eyes.
“He’s late,” grumbled War, his gauntleted hand resting on the hilt of a sword too large for any mortal to lift. Below, shambling figures dotted the flooded streets—not demons, not angels. Just men. Hollow-eyed, starving, infected with a quiet, desperate madness. darksiders dayz
“They shoot on sight,” Fury muttered, watching a living man in a torn raincoat club another for a can of beans. “Pathetic.” Down in the city, a survivor crouched in a fire station
“They are not our prey,” Strife said, sighting down his massive pistol. “They’re just… stuck.” He heard the distant, unnatural clop of hooves
The survivor pulled the trigger. The bullet passed through Death’s cloak, harmless. Death turned, skull-face impassive.
He mounted his pale steed and rode back toward the ridge, leaving the survivor alone with his empty rifle and the moans of the hungry dead—neither Heaven nor Hell caring which side won, because neither side was left to keep score.
“You fear the end of days,” Death said, his voice like grinding stones. “But you are already living in the aftermath of something worse. You are not fighting for survival. You are fighting for a world that forgot how to die.”