2013

“Demons,” he shouted, at the same time sidestepping around Wilki without slowing his pace. “Run you fool, flee for your life.”
       A few weeks ago Wilki would have heeded the strangers warning, but now he welcomed danger.
      Yet instinctively he’d slowed, the thought of dying at the hands of Demons had taken the edge from his death wish.  
  He took the side road with an edgy degree of caution.  Ahead of him the air seemed to shimmer, he halted to assess the situation squinting to see what could be causing it.
  The side street led to a large burnt out square, and there he could see, a rag-tag crowd of about hundred or so people, standing around in silence.
  Wilki saw that they all seemed frozen in motion. He crept to within twenty yards of the last person, when a mind told him to edge back. Wilki moved back to the safety of the side street, crouching low he stealthily hid behind some burnt out rubble and peeped out.
  It wasn’t long before he sensed something heavy and oppressive in the air—like just before a heavy thunderstorm.
  His attention was now drawn towards the building in front; amidst the blackened stumps it stood untouched, defying explanation. A white light too bright for his eyes, came from the building to spread out and bathed the silent crowd in an intense glare.
  Bending his head he shielded his eyes before turning his back to the light.    
  So much tension was in the air it crackled with static. Wilki heard rumbling like the noise of far away thunder, but somehow different. Sneaking another peep, he saw the mob starting to shuffle forward in an ordered disciplined manner.
  Curiously they were stamping feet in a slow march towards the building, like a regular army unit. The noise of their stomping feet drifted through the air, dulling his senses.
  To him it became a tangible thing, like an unpleasant taste.
  Yet oddly not a murmur came from the mouths of the milling crowd. Wilki felt the urge to join them, but he fought against it, and slowly edged backwards. The compulsion to join them pulling at the edges of his mind, reduced in intensity the further back he went.  From his position of safety he could see that the mob had stopped ten yards from the building’s parameter.
  From where he cringed among the charred rubble he heard a lone voice rise in anger. It seemed at least one person had found his voice again, and then someone else shouted, quickly follow by others.
  “Who else but those devils within could have brought plague into the city”—someone else replied in a deep bass voice.
  “A pox to them all within,” shouted another. “Who but them brought fire upon our heads?”
  “Burn them out!” The crowd grew more vocal.  “Burn, burn, burn, they chanted.”
  Once again tempers rekindled, voices raised high, one hundred screaming fevered fetid vocal cords raised in temper. The mob now mouthed obscenities, driving themselves into rages. All the anguish of the last few days released in one glorious moment. So many families devastated and displaced and all because of the building’s inhabitants. A torch was lit, others quickly followed.
  About one hundred crazed citizens rushed forward, as if on cue, in the fore Hector Bramble and the four cohorts from the Pig and Whistle.
  They were the first to die.
  Not one survived."