And on the human side of the river, the Colonel lit a cigar, looked at the dark forest, and whispered to his radioman:
The rain did not wash away the sins. It only made them colder. War for the Planet of the Apes
He raised his hand, the signal to move. Two hundred apes—warriors, mothers, the elderly, the infant—rose from the mud. They had no artillery. No air support. No supply lines. They had fists like iron, teeth like daggers, and a leader who had already died inside. And on the human side of the river,
Caesar moved through the skeletal remains of the redwood forest, his broad shoulders hunched against the downpour. The wound in his side—a ragged gift from a traitor’s bullet—throbbed with a dull, persistent fury. Behind him, his colony marched in silence. Not the silence of peace, but the silence of the hunted. No supply lines
“Then I will give him war,” he said. “But not his war. Mine.”
Caesar did not answer. His mind was no longer a place of strategy or hope. It had become a dark cave, and at the back of that cave sat a single, glowing ember: revenge.