The Word said that, at the end of Time, the Last Trump would blow. And the Righteous would rise from their graves, cast off their shrouds and turn towards Jerusalem, awaiting the reign of God upon the Earth. 

There is a great sound; a deep groaning boom like a massive, mountainous voice crying out as the ancient ice cracks, as though the Earth itself was speaking a single, great Word. The morning sun shines bright on glossy chestnut hair, the gleaming yellow ivory of tusks. It sparkles bright in small black eyes filled with intelligence and tranquility.

The bones of the children of men sleep, barren in the cold earth under their ruined cities, as the great mammoths stretch, shake the chill from their limbs and rise. Like a great river after the dam is broken, the great migration begins to spill once more across the endless plains, following the ancient route away from the rising sun.