The number of the army of the horsemen is two hundred thousand thousand: or, at least, that is what you hear from your fellow survivors. Soon you see them for yourself, their horses, and them that sat on them, riders with breastplates of fire, and of jacinth, and brimstone: and the heads of the horses are as the heads of lions; and out of their mouths issue fire and smoke and brimstone!
The story that is passing around is that, all tallied, including deaths by the fire, and by the smoke, and by the brimstone, which issued out of the mouths of the riders, about a third of all mankind was killed.
Not you though. You're a survivor. Ha! Is that the best God can do to challenge you?
In the ruins of the last woe, you refuse to repent. In fact, you start making deals with demons, pillage and plunder from the abandoned vaults and safehouses of the former wealthy elites, and you build great idols of yourself out of gold, silver, bronze, stone and wood -- idols that cannot see or hear or walk. Who needs God when you've got a giant golden statue of Yourself to worship?
You're not sorry for your murders, nor your sorceries, nor your fornication, nor your thefts. Why should you be?