Some of the dying have had the flesh literally seared<br >from their bones， and the~， have only seconds left~.， those<br >that survived at all. They see me， of course--the li~rig do<br >aot--but those nearly dead， suspendedl in a sen~ be-<br >，ween two kinds of life indeed see， reach out， beg.<br > "Please help me， sir，" I am asked again and again.<br > "The pain . . ."<br > "I know I ve been blinded， now， yet I see you any-<br >ray. I see--"<br > Ahead， standing as though on an island uplifted in<br >he midst of a blood-red sea， are several hundred soldiers，<br >ut no longer with weapons， their former bodily shells<br >ring at their feet.<br > I approach them.<br > "We could not continue，" one of them tells me. "All<br >~us asked for God s forgiveness through Jesus the<br >hrist."<br > "There is no doubt that many of our comrades are<br >~omed，" another adds， "because of their allegiance to<br >e Devil. We bid them good-bye..."<br > One by one they ascend. The final soldier turns to<br >e， smiles， says， "We did the right thing."<br > I nod.<br > ... we did the right thing.<br > Yes， they did--all of them--that one group of hun-<br >~ds out of countless thousands.<br > They refused the Antichrist. And he had them<br >ughtered as a result， threatening to do just that once<br >tin to any others who might decide to rebel.<br > And now--<br > Not one of them bore the scars of how they died--<br >no bayonet wounds， no bullet holes. In their resurrection<br >they had been healed， given the bodies that would be<br >theirs throughout eternity.<br > But the others share not at all the same end. Every<br >few seconds， more are dying. Bodies piled upon bodies，<br >visible where the blood is not quite deep enough to hide<br >them. I look about， and see hands raised against the skg<br >like stalks of marsh grass in a bloody inlet. For an instant<br >only. Then cut down.<br > They also see me. They surround me as I go past，<br >trying not to look at them， their eyes haunted where they<br >yet have eyes. Some do not， seared away， only the empty<br >sockets remain. But they see me just the same. And all<br >turn away， knowing they will spend eternity like that--in<br >agony， flames searing them but never fully consuming.<br > The scene oppresses. I cannot stand it any longer. I<br >leave， not sure of where to go. I have time at my disposal.<br >I can do whatever I want with it， yes， even choose to stay<br >where I am--in this time and place---or retreat through<br >the centuries， their contents disgorged at my very feet.<br > And yet， in a way that is beyond mere loneliness--<br >oh， how wonderful if it were but a question of being<br >merely lonely--I have nowhere to go. An irony that<br >presses me down inflicts on me a weariness that is so<br >pervasive it is as though all of history has become a<br >singular weight from which it is well-nigh impossible to<br >extricate myself. And I think， in tremulous recollection，<br >of all that preceded this moment， this literal battlefield on<br >which I find myself.<br > Lord， I whisper with prayerful intent against the<br >dissipating sounds of the vanquished. My dear， deap<br >Lord.<br > The beginning.<br ><br >