Muscles burn, bones grind, and voice roars with exertion.

I swing my weapon; stab, rend, and swing again, the bodies of my enemies scattered in a morbid and growing pile. I look to and fro, the length of plastic and metal trembling in my hands; there is no end to them, I see, and yet I growl and keep fighting.

I look to the area already cleared, moan to see reinforcements there already, presence growing by the moment. Across the street another warrior chuckles, sympathetic.

"You ever get the feeling we're fighting a futile battle?" I ask.

"Every damn day," she laughs.

You may talk of glory, but I tell you: shoveling snow is hell.