Thursday, 7 July 2016
The Prince of Exiles, 29
His commands are terse, authoritative. He tells one to go, and he goes. He tells another to carry a thing, and she does. He has ordered some of the slaves to strip the bodies, some to drag the stripepd bodies to the still-functioning incinerator, which they do with some glee, a sense of tit-for-tat, as so many of their own have ended up their, unmourned. Some of the slaves have found the means of opening the stores that keep the wares this factory makes, the guns. Some now have stationed themselves on the entrances, the great corridor that leads to the great gates; some at the corpse-strewn path that leads to the sky-dock. Able bodied, scarred, missing limbs, it doesn't matter, they've all found a niche. The mouthless man from before is handing out the guns to slaves who take them to Makara, to show them how to use them. One of the walls already has a dozen blackened holes in it.
I feel like the situation is out of my control. Earlier, an hour ago maybe, I left the last few surviving officials of the factory, who had surrendered, in the care of a small troop of armed slaves. I do not know where they are now. I fear that the slaves have had their fun with them.
A voice from outside, a nearer one, a nearer one still. "The army comes. The army comes. The army comes."