these are our children
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indent The Voice had come again.
indent Gabriel woke in the dark from a fiendish dream, his eyes wide and unblinking. He had heard it, as crystal clear as it had been the first time. He was unable to disobey, for his will was not his own. This was how it had to be. Soft, he moved, sliding from the bed he and Faolin shared. In the curve formed by her body their children slept, both stirring slightly as he went. It was just as well—they were bound, as he was, to the Voice, to God, our Father who art in heaven, forever and ever, hallelujah amen.
indent Those truly religious souls, the ones consumed in their blind faith, they would die for what they believed in. Gabriel would go further. He would kill again because that was his role on this earth. There was a great sickness here, a sickness killing the land like cancer. It would consume them all if not destroyed. He looked like a prophet in the clear moonlight, a madman, a lunatic. He looked like Jesus and the devil and God all in one. There was only instinct now, instinct and the Voice.
indent In the city, he found what he needed. Man had made so many brilliantly destructive things in his day. Gabriel carried the cans out of the concrete ruins, following the river. It must have taken hours, though the concept of time was lost on him now. He came to the wastelands of a dying forest, a forest that would lead them all to ruin. The wind turned and Gabriel de le Poer, obeying what he believed to be God Himself, set the trees to flame.
indent “The fire of God is fallen from heaven,” he said, though he did not hear himself speak. “And hath burned up the sheep, and the servants, and consumed them.”
indent And in the end, the burning was great.
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