"We sure will, Dead-Eye," he said. "We sure will knock 'em dead."
That is, Wing amended, staring at the relentless shadows as they moved slowly toward their haven, if They don't knock us dead first.
Wing and Dead-Eye hugged the buildings as they retreated. They picked their way along the rubble-strewn streets, their nostrils quivering at the intermingled odor of death, burnt flesh, charred and rain-wet wood.
Ahead and behind them as they retreated, the flashing bolts of the shadow-things smashed buildings, leveled the trees along the boulevard, sending them up in puffs of white smoke and flame, heaving up the walks as tree roots exploded.
The rain was turning heavier now, turning chill, soaking through their own burnt and tattered clothes. It was relentless, that rain, almost as if it were bent upon breaking the spirit of man as the shadow-things were rending and tearing the flesh.
The two limped on alone, ahead of the advancing shadow line. They walked alone through death and destruction as man's promise and hope darkened.
We're walking toward the end of our world, Wing thought. We'll soon be nothing but dust motes kicked up by the tread of a new, more powerful race.