The distant wailing of police sirens clings to the air like a tick. He brushes the sound away before its jaws find skin, crouched unmoving in the shadows. Before long the sirens are swallowed yet again and fade into the night. It is a sound in the midst of drifting away from its meaning, a word said repeatedly until it melts into noise. The silence is kept at bay by the cautious scraping of shoes against asphalt and by the steady breathing of the men around him as they slink out from their hiding places. Their movements are lent speed by the single-mindedness of the hunt. Several minutes pass before they slow; he crouches, eyes straining in the gloom, ears pricked. The stillness is broken only by the ascent of their breath, dull gray plumes which coil and writhe in the cold before fading. Around them all is quiet. Elsewhere, the night boils, a bloodied face shrouded by a dark veil.
They resume the prowl, dodging through the abandoned streets. He is aware only of his breathing, of the scent of stale smoke, borne upon a pale wind. Shards of ice and glass glitter beneath the moonlight, paving the way through the shadows. For several minutes the air rings with the faint crunch of breaking glass. They slow once more, circling like vultures with wings outstretched. He weaves deftly through the maze of iron carcasses; toppled garbage cans and the empty husks of cars. They pass through without hesitation. His eyes flick away from the frozen trash, scanning for silhouettes on the power lines. The crows are gone.
“Well this place looks good.”
“But we’ve been here before, haven’t we?”
“No, we hit eight ninety seven, this is eight seventy nine.”
“He’s right, this is a new place.”
“I could’ve sworn we’ve been here before…”
“We have a few hours, but let’s make this quick.”
“You ready?”
“Yeah.”
“Give us a shout if you need a hand.”
“And bring me somethin’ nice, yeah?”
“Anything for you”, he says, grinning beneath his mask. He turns to the house, reaching into his coat as he makes his way up the front steps. The grip of the gun is warm in his hand.
The front windows are too small to squeeze through. He plucks a flashlight from his belt and carves his way through the dark. He glances around quickly, but there is no need. The herd has fled, and the den is empty. The door is heavy, solid oak, but the lock is weak. It succumbs with a dull click. Muted shuffling behind him. Then nothing. The others are in position, already fading into the shadows. He pauses for a moment, inhales deeply. The wind hisses, driving icy tendrils inside his jacket. They slither along his skin, melting after several long moments. He has not moved. Rhythmic pounding in his ears, tingling at his fingertips. The gun slides into his right hand, rubber grip warm and smooth against his palm.
The door closes behind him with a thud that echoes along the walls. Fountains of dust detonate beneath each step, saturating the air with neglect. For several heartbeats the particles float, frozen under his gaze. He watches, unmoving, until the motes slide down to the floor, resuming their slumber. Hesitantly he removes his mask. The plastic reluctantly relinquishes his face. He tucks it away.
Nothing is quieter than a dead house.
The kitchen is large, tile floor, granite counter. A palace built fit for the upper-middle class. The beam of the flashlight reflects off polished stone, stainless steel and white plastics. Ancient relics sinking into the sand, their purpose already buried in time. He stands at the entrance of the room and bathes it in light. Cupboard doors hang open. The gaping sockets are shrouded, resisting his efforts to drag them into the light. The table is naked as are the counters. Everything clean, save for the dust. Everything empty, the mausoleum picked clean by grave-robbers. It is a scene wholly preserved, pristine in its stillness. Finally he enters the room, the gun finding its way back inside his jacket. Upon closer inspection each of the open cupboards proves empty. Only the faint indentations in the dust, circles and squares, serve to hint at what was before. He leaves the cupboard doors untouched, turns his gaze elsewhere.
