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The afflicted are not listened to. They are like someone whose tongue has been cut out and who occasionally forgets the fact. When they move their lips no ear perceives any sound. And they themselves soon sink into impotence in the use of language, because of the certainty of not being heard.
–Simon Weil
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“Report.”
The two men scurried from building to building; despite their size they made only a whisper of sound across the hardened ground, slithering like the late afternoon shadows that cloaked them. Picking a particularly well-shielded alley, they scaled a small fence and came to rest amongst frozen garbage. Wayland scanned the area and stood over Mwamba, guarding against any intrusive guests.
Seeing no movement and hearing only the whispers of the arctic wind blowing through the abandoned buildings, Silence responded, “Yes, Abidan, we have received the contact information from McKrougar; it seems that the Syndicates are being pitted against each other, of course we had already guessed as much. We have a series of leads, although I trust McKrougar’s gut about the recent rural genocides.”
“Good, very well done, Silence. Are you ready for the next stage of the operation?”
“Yes.”
“Engage.”
Abidan’s tiny metallic voice cut off inside the transparent ear piece and the two men paused for a moment to ensure that there was still no movement, and then they scaled back over the small fence and continued their journey down the desolate street.
Mwamba froze; without hesitation Wayland stopped mid-step, both men straining to listen to the secrets the wind carried to them. Nothing… a gut feeling perhaps… no, it was something.
The sheets of ice encasing the perpetual shadows along the street began to shake ever so slightly, and in the distance a metallic whine became audible.
“Shit, patrol.” Without another word, both men darted to their left, and jumped through an empty window-frame, rolling across the debris that littered the floors with only a minimum of sound. Sliding across the floor like a stalking tiger, Mwamba climbed up to the base of the window so that he could barely peek out without much movement. Meanwhile, Wayland disappeared around a corner, his footsteps crunching lightly up a hidden set of stairs.
Gradually the building began to vibrate, icicles shook loose and sank into the deep snow drifts, sometimes shattering on frozen cars or burned out masses of refuse. Mwamba waited in silence, ready at the slightest hesitation to spring into action, his hand tightly gripping something deep within his white leather trench coat. Upstairs the soft rumble of Bludgeon’s movements grew silent, and the air became thick with tension. Something was about to happen.
Carefully peering over the broken window ledge with one eye, Mwamba scanned the street and finally caught a glimpse of the mechanical beast lumbering towards them. Was it after them, or were they simply in the wrong place at the wrong time? The sound of its powerful engine revved deeper, and the entire building shook violently as the massive tank crushed an abandoned car beneath its treads. A scattering of infantry moved ahead of it, scanning alleys and checking doorways. They were moving slower than usual however, they were looking for something, or someone.
With deadly precision, Mwamba lowered himself from the window and crawled across the floor on his belly, hiding himself in the deep shadows concealing most of the room from the lazy afternoon sun. Beneath his breath he swore, he didn’t want to kill these men, but he knew he would if he needed to, and the next move was theirs. As he positioned himself carefully behind a warped and twisted old armoire, his machete came out of its sheath with a bone-chilling whine of sharpened metal against leather.
The next move was theirs.
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