Battle for Supremacy

It was a warm summer's day, a light breeze blowing across the field. The sun shone down warmly, creating an idyllic atmosphere. The cries of children at play nearby could be heard. The smell of wildflowers filled the air, letting everyone know it was summer. Suddenly, the call from the scout resounded for the troops to hear. It was the alert: the target had been located, and the army was readied to go into battle. The troops assembled, milling about, waiting for the order. Soon, the order came: Move out, attack the target, bring back the prize. 
In steady formation, the army marched out, moving steadily onward towards its goal. The sound of marching feet rumbled in each trooper's head. It was the sound that indicated a death knell for the army's enemy. 

But the enemy was not stupid. Soon, it was aware of the advancing army. The enemy was larger than the troopers, and stronger. But the enemy was far fewer in number, and the army knew they could win. 

Death came without warning, as the enemy bombarded the troops from above. Dozens were crushed with each blow from the artillery. Brothers, friends, many fell to the hammering. Still, the army marched forward, driven to their target by some forgotten instinct, some internal drive. The enemy continued its bombardment, killing thousands of the troopers, but there was still a large enough force to continue the assault. 

Onward, ever onward moved the troop, closing in on their objective. The enemy drew on his technology, throwing chemical agents at the army. The substance stopped the troops from breathing. Death came slowly, in an agonizing, terrifying spasm of horrible pain. More and more fell to the gas, dropping out of the marching ranks as their bodies no longer responded to the orders the brain was providing. Troopers died by the hundreds. But there were tens of thousands in the army, and not all would succomb to the poison aerosol. Relentlessy, the army moved forward. Now just a short distance, almost within sight of their goal. 

Then, as if some god were angry, the world seemed to turn on its head. The ground began to rumble and roil. Troopers were thrown about, flung to the winds by the unearthly disaster. It was as if someone had taken the ground and shaken it like a giant blanket. Thousands more died as their bodies were decimated, crumpling as they hit the ground, bodies landing on top of them, the living scrambling to get away. 

The army was shattered, the troopers, unsettled and broken, limped back to their home. The enemy had won this round, but the army knew that, eventually, the enemy would lose the war. 

After all, there are less than six billion humans, and so many more ants. And there will be other picnics. 
