Clock ticking away, one second at a time, counting down the seconds to oblivion. The room is silent; the only sound is the whispering of the wind and the crackling of paper, soon to be lost. The sky is dark, heavy with the plague that will soon envelop us all. Everyone stands as one and walks outside, on to the dead ground. Everything is dead or dying, but they pay no mind to that. These objects are the tools of Armageddon, the spawn of the deepest, darkest corners of hell. They do not care about life; they are heartless and cold.
They are not of the planet.