“Take your sword mighty men of valor! Take heart, the last bastion of glass and steel, metal and iron, stands before us! But by God in heaven! I declare we shall see this as the last star fallen ere the earth makes a full revolution. And may God have mercy on us, and cleanse the earth, and restore the land. May He bring forth rain again!
The army erupted with deep shouts of “Rain, Rain, Rain!” and clanging of metal on metal. Bartholomew the Great was indeed great at these speeches and rousing—though his men had heard it for the last eleven months of their campaign. They loved it, they loved him.
“Marcus, take this,” Paulie handed him his wineskin.
Marcus took a draught. “Where did you get this?” It was sweet red elixir.
“One of the last casks held it, in the land of Westernshores.”
“The bottles?”
“All smashed. Marcus, I would never offer you wine from a bottle!”
Marcus slapped Paulie on the back and smiled. “For Heaven and Earth!”
“And may He bring forth the rain again, and bring forth more,” Paulie held up the wineskin Marcus had returned, “more sustenance from the vine!”
Bart the Great had continued rousing but was interrupted by the flies: a swarm of metallic humming, ramped up to eleven. Then suddenly the grey smog filled sky was made even darker by the swarm. “Courage men! Courage! Man your stations.”
Marcus and Paulie were on a trebuchet crew. Together they launched their first EMP bomb. It hurled through the air crashing into the center of the metal horde. The entire bunch suspended in air for one brief second, the humming snapped off like the old television sets of yore, and then like a million daggers the metal birds dropped from the sky.
The men, in formation, hid unscathed under there shields.
After the metal rain failed to harm them they laughed.
“Advance!” Ordered Bartholomew.
That evening the men had taken the great tower of glass. These soft fleshed sad excuses for humans fell under the sword. The slaughter had been like spreading warm butter on toast. Smooth. They smashed the glass, they cut the metal cables, the beams and arches. “The last time!” The warriors shouted as they took hold of the very devices these luddites had held on to so dearly.
“The Luddite men are weak,” Marcus told Paulie. “And the very things they held to, to save them, have brought their certain and complete destruction.” Marcus held a massive diamond saw and ground through another cable. “Their endless drive to evolve and advance, to create tech that out paces their own responsibility!” Marcus shouted in fury. Destruction of the Luddite City surrounded them. The few that survived were being stripped of their cellphones and watch phones, virtual and augmented reality headsets, laptop computers, car keys, fobs, and earbuds. A pile of the technology was being heaped up. Gasoline was doused on all of it. A second pile next to the first piled up also—any of the luddites that refused to let go of his or her tech was being summarily executed.
“Today may God cleanse the earth of this abomination!” Bartholomew continued riding through the streets on his great steed, offering encouragement to the men to continue in their righteous cleansing.
That following morning was a red dawn. The sun, so welcomed, shone across the earth casting long shadows. Ghastly plumes of black smoke and pillars of fire flared up from the destructed City of the Luddites. Marcus and Paulie awoke to the site, faces damp.
“Are you weeping, brother, for the joy of our great success?” Marcus asked.
“I thought I might ask you the same thing,” Paulie replied.
The men felt their damp cheeks and looked to the heavens. It had begun to rain.