Incendiary rounds

Cease fire!

It's too late now to cease fire. Too late. We press on, guns aiming the night, spitting bullets by a gut of fire. We move on, through ruins of the city blasted by the war. We track the living and we hunt them down, and we shoot them, we open fire again and again, even when they are defenseless, even when we were told to stop. Why should we? Why stopping when the frenzy reached its heights? Wasn't this the purpose? To build up wrath and hatred, to hold ourselves back, to endure everything until nothing could be endured any more. Then you will be ready, we were told. Then we were ready. Then they unleashed us. Now it's too late to stop us. Now we are oblivious to the orders echoing in the dark alleys. Now we hunt. Mercillesly and restlessly, we hunt. We pull the trigger and life goes out like a candle vanishing in the dark, alone. We rip flesh and break bones with bullets. We send them screaming with incendiary rounds. We scatter them with our own shadows, threatening, looming over the walls.

There is no cease fire. Not anymore.

Do or die, they said once. So did we.