The Heirs of Earth

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On a cold dark night, the angels of death came with fire.

Their starships plunged through the clouds, leaving wakes of flame. Their engines rumbled like hellish beasts hungry for flesh. Their wings tore the sky.

They found us. God above. They're here.

David stood on the rocky ground, staring up at the flaming shards of black metal, these chariots of vengeance. His breath died.

For years we hid. For years we cowered. For years we survived.

His chest shook. His legs seemed bolted onto the stony ground of this godforsaken planet. He managed to move his hand—it felt like bending steel—and grab his railgun.

But somehow the bastards found us.

The ships swooped, still blazing with atmospheric entry, shedding fire and ash like reptiles shedding skin. There were dozens. Maybe hundreds. As they drew nearer, doffing the last of their fiery cloaks, they revealed their true forms: black triangles the size of buildings. Red portholes blazed upon them like wrathful eyes.

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