Tweet of the Day: In Storytelling, Emotions Trump All
Vatican Gardens, Vatican City State, February 9, 16:30 hrs GMT +1
“Your Holiness, this way, quickly!” yelled one of the Swiss Guard. The Pope struggled to keep up. The sound of his old heart filled his ears. It mixed with the staccato of gunfire that came from St. Peter’s basilica. Sweat poured from every pore as the gardens burned around him. Cinders floated in overheated air. Above him the sky glowed an infernal orange, illuminated from below by the fires that consumed the Eternal City. The ground beneath his feet shuddered from explosions.
He caught his breath at the edge of the heliport. From there he looked around. Rome burned in every direction. Giants, each at least nine meters tall, trampled everything beneath their feet, like a children kicking a play set. He seen it all before. As a young man it was allied bombers who brought death to his homeland, now older evils did the same. Demons conjured from the deepest Abyss. He remembered the smell, of fire, of death.
Hell on Earth.
The sound of gunfire grew closer.
“Holy Father!” shouted another Swiss Guard. He fired a burst at something in the gardens. Bullets buzzed by the old man’s head. He took a step forward. A fireball crashed into the waiting helicopter. It exploded into a million shards of ceramic, glass and steel. One piece of shrapnel dug into the Pope’s neck. He lay flat on his back as the world burn around him. He tried to speak, to enunciate a final prayer. One last chance to save his eternal soul. But the words never came.