It was noon. Well, at least that is what the office clock seemed to show. But the view from the window showed something entirely different. The sun had been devoured by thick black smoke and unlike the usual days when people would swarm the streets all he could see today was mutilated bodies and ripped-open corpses. As the drains oozed red and the sky a smoky scarlet he heard mirrors shattering, cars exploding, buildings collapsing, and guns being reloaded and unloaded. Everyone knew it was coming. No one had expected it so soon. The revolution. It struck them hard. Like a tornado, it swept them up and threw them on a bed of nails, agonising them.
He was alone, accompanied only by the rhythmic sound of his heaving chest, a reminder of the little miserable and meaningless life that still clung to him. His heart beat like the inconsistent flickering tungsten lightening up his cabin room and subjected to a multitude of temperatures akin to the myriad of emotions that surged through him as he heard the footsteps ascend. Floor after floor they worked up like pest control, eradicating everything that came in their way. Spraying walls with the fluid of life, they moved up. The voices started to get louder and, with them, the fear. The fear of being found,the fear of being part of the many who used to reign and were now fallen on the streets below. The fear of impending death.
They were just outside. He couldn’t see them from inside the wardrobe where he hid but he could feel their presence. They were at the door. His over-sensitive ears could hear the scuffling of their feet and the murmur of their lips. The door knob turned and within the time frame of him drawing a breath and exhaling it, all of them swarmed in. Now he could see them. Through the keyhole in the wardrobe where he hid, he peeped out. They moved swiftly, carefully, searching for any signs of life in the room. Life that needed to be claimed. Looking through the eye of guns that were thirsty for blood they ransacked the entire room. He saw one of them pass close to him. He drew in. The other stopped.
The gunman was sure that he heard something. Before taking any step he signaled everyone about his course of action and its possible outcome. He started to move towards the wardrobe. His heart could hardly contain itself within his rib cage. Cold sweat trickled down his forehead as he gulped. It was all in front of him, the Grim Reaper drawing close to him, ready to drag him to the depths of hell. The door flung open and with it broke the dam, letting lose his water. He was surrounded and dragged out of his hiding place. Like a chicken about to be butchered, he struggled. They stood facing against the light and all he could see was the pattern of red lasers on his chest. He tried shouting for help but his voice betrayed him. His throat choked. There was no sound except the “jzing†of light bulb and the locking of magazines. This was it, he thought as his pupils dilated. He knew what followed next. In one synchronised fire the pattern on his chest was impressed forever. Where, a moment ago he could see every nozzle being pointed at himself, now, he saw nothing.
With red splashes on their visors and reloaded guns they moved out. There were more floors that needed cleansing.