Somewhere in the middle of the annihilation there's a knock 'em down and drag 'em out party going down and the band that's playing - on a small stage tucked into the corner of this soon to be history building, teeming will all kinds of rubberneckers and hairy weirdos - is Cancer Bats.
They asked for the gig. They were willing to take the job for beer and maybe a place to crash, if they were even going to need a place to crash after the night was over. They'd be happy enough just to push most of the trash off to the side and to sleep in the spills that range from sopping to moderately damp. They've got a bedroll in the van that should make everything as tolerable as needed. They'll be sleeping amongst some other bodies - passed out cold, loudly sawing logs. There might be a stench of vomit, coming from somewhere, but there will be an overwhelmingly strong feeling that this was a good way to welcome the apocalypse should the apocalypse need a welcome wagon. It would like to see people going down in flames, defiantly squeezing in one last raging kegger, tearing the fans out of the ceiling and breaking anything breakable.
The Toronto men who make up Cancer Bats would encourage this defiance if they were faced with the rough and lopsided odds of an apocalyptic intervention. They would go nose-to-nose and toe-to-toe with the very thing, as it snorted and shoved its way in through the cracked door. They would remind the end of days that even it couldn't take their souls, despite having already torn away all of their flesh, crushed all of their bones and harvested all of their organs. Even then, they would expire with a spirit that they never gave up. They're planning on partying it to death. They will be the makers of their own dooms.