Lionheart's Journal

"Don't finger my computer. You'll get digital herpes."

The bird hovered softly over the field before swooping into the grass, spreading out its legs and making a soft landing on the brown soil. The sun shone sharply into its eyes and the bird used its wing to shadow its own eyes.

Somewhere nearby a nuclear bomb exploded.

The heat vaporised the bird almost instantly. The ensuing shockwave of the explosion pushed the field apart with sheer force and pushed any peculiar bumps in the ground out into an unnatural flatness.

Another explosion. Something is ejected from the ground and into the atmposphere. Its crimson jets burning hot the air beneath them. A counter-strike.

A multitude of planes pass over, parachuting thick metallic crates into the impact zone. As the crates touch the ground they unfold like a lotus flower and heavily armoured troops stream out. They form a masive circle, guns facing out, and wait for...simething.

A glint of bright metal appears on the horizon. The commander of the troops raises a set of heavy gyro-scope guided binoculars to his eyes. He sees a platoon of tanks advancing into the cloud-darkened region of the impact zone. An order is given. The troops reform into a straight line, perpendicular to the advancement of the tanks. They fire.

Heavy caliber bullets fill the air like a horizontal hailstorm. The tanks stop in their tracks and begin a fast retreat back into the safety past the horizon.

The soldiers begin their advance. Their solid rusted plate exo-skeleton joints moving with pneumatic precision. Through sandstorm, through wind, through radioactivity, they follow the retreating tank platoon.

Suddenly, from the sand, rise gun platforms like hidden scorpions emerging from the sand. Their turrets sweep the surrounding area for tagets and detect the advancing troops who by this time have realized their mistake. An ambush. The lights on the turrets of the gun platforms switch from green to red and their elongated dragon mouths begin to spew out fire. 100mm bullets with high explosive tips. The troops' armour gives in to the pressure and holes begin to form in machine and flesh. Pee Wee Herman surveys the situation and rides on. The fifth horseman has come and gone. With sand in his shoes.

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