Antonym

Our small town is under attack of smart bomb alecks, suicide lovers and clerics proclaiming jihad or holy war against their ultimate nemesis. I am surrounded by snipers, infiltrators, spies lurking behind the war-torn fences, dug-up trenches and circling attack pink-colored, four-wheeled war planes guided by radar sensing drones. I can hear the shiny red-spotted sirens with bass amplifiers giving warning of coming legions of armies marching beside the road or off-road. They are throwing every time-locked grenades with utmost precision in a coordinated effort, sending radio waves for reinforcements, speaking battle cries that echoes beyond the stone blocks that shelters me. I am surrounded. My only hope would be to retaliate or raise the white flag. Those foot soldiers at the ring of fire, feeding mortar shells to the mouths of metal cannons with the exactness of atomic clocks. In my last breath, I would rather fight to the end. To win or to defeat those far east sympathists.