One Hundred and Forty-Two

One hundred and forty-two.

I've lived this moment a hundred and forty-two times.

The last vestiges of humanity, forced to cower behind a gleaming monument to freedom, prisoners of our own magnificent arrogance. One final stand against the beasts. The inevitable checkmate.

A blind spot on the left flank. Our guns don't cover it. The general knows, of course. He sends more soldiers to reinforce it. They're swarmed in moments, torn asunder. Their screams echo around the halls, cut short by bones cracked, and the beasts' sickening howls.

I've begged, pleaded, thrown myself at them time and again, loop after loop, begging Command to try something else. I am ushered away, unqualified and unwanted, locked away with the weak and terrified remnants.

The guns fire; orders ring out. The beasts don't care for their own numbers, only the objective. They fall, and more come, until our positions are subdued and the bullets cease.

We huddle at the back, desperation disguised as hope. Silent.

The giant doors, barricaded, splinter with ease against their onslaught. Then they're on us.

My husband turns to me, eyes full of fear and realisation, clinging to our daughter as she sobs into his chest. He reaches for me, to hold my hand before the end. For thirty seven loops I reached back, but I am numb. The cries of my own child don't rouse a tear. My chest is cold, my stare ice.

The creatures that come, they are not the work of a madman, nor of demon or devil. They are the creation of gods. Punishment. For our betrayal. For our hubris. For the sin of disbelief.

Now we believe. And I have witnessed our final act one hundred and forty-two times.

Denouement, and we begin again.