It started as a murmur in the center of the town, the throngs of people whispering among themselves about the arrival of some very important person. Over the tops of lush trees, far in the distance, a plume of smoke could be seen. Andre stepped out of his home to watch the crowd grow larger with each passing minute. With his camera in hand, he snapped a few pictures of the townsfolk. “Picklefort doesn’t receive many visitors,” one woman started to her friend beside her in the crowd, “so I wonder why they’re here.” Rumors began to bounce around, the murmur shifting into a cacophony of explanations, each one more exaggerated than the last. Like ants, the crowd shuffled through the town, leaving the center and moving towards the station. Andre followed, just as curious about the arrival. As the train turned hugged the final bend in the tracks, the smoke washed over the trees and soot trickled down like snowflakes as the train grinded to a halt.
Aboard the train, behind curtained windows, a silhouette stood, adjusted their clothing, and made their way to the back of a car. Eyes followed the shadow, toes gripped the insides of shoes, and fingers nervously clinched together as the townspeople anxiously waited for someone to step into the sunlight. Andre had to admit to himself, with the excitement of the crowd surrounding him, the allure of the mysterious had intoxicated him, as well. He slipped between neighbors for a better look at the train car. He steadied his camera in front of his right eye and readied the shutter. Just as the door opened and a man walked out of the door, Andre’s digital camera began snapping dozens of images, along with countless paparazzi from surrounding towns.
Mr. Whitmore was adorned in a black suit, less a tie. The top of his head was slick but matte, and his black eyes held a shimmer like galaxies swimming through the universe. Men and women applauded as Mr. Whitmore announced his own arrival and the fact that he had just purchased the town. They swooned when he presented his ideas for the betterment of everyone’s lives through new businesses and construction. Andre stepped to the back of the group and began clicking through the stills on his camera, and something stirred uneasily in his stomach. The train car came through clear in the images. Various heads and hands of townsfolk blurred at the bottoms. But there was no man standing at the doorway of the train. He lifted the camera once more, focusing the lens on Mr. Whitmore’s face, which he could clearly see through the scope, sure he made a mistake the first time. He clicked another picture from a distance. Mr. Whitmore wasn’t in it. Andre turned to walk home. He didn’t hear the new visitor requesting no images be taken, and that cameras already holding images of him would be seized. Andre didn’t see men and women run out of the train car to snatch cameras. He didn’t see that their eyes were hidden behind darkly tinted sunglasses or that they were dressed in bright white shirts and pants, coated in soot.
Andre nestled himself on the couch in his basement—the only room where he felt most comfortable, most isolated, most insulated. Despite his zone of comfort, Andre felt uneasy. He sat alone in his home as his neighbors, house by house, were pulled from their beds and loaded on the train cars, their bodies stiffened from injections they never saw coming while their eyes were shut in slumber. He was unaware that their bodies were being dumped into the train’s tender. He sifted through the images, again. When the needle pierced his neck, he was staring at an empty car, at the spot where eyes should be, and he saw a shimmer, like galaxies. He forced himself to his feet and tried to scream, but his jaw locked open just as the first sounds escaped his mouth. He fell to the floor, and began to feel every muscle tighten, from his neck down to his feet. Unable to move, he watched figures dressed all in white lift and carry him to the coal-car. He watched as his neighbors were thrown into the fire, one after another, feeding the train’s engine. He’s taking over the world. One town at a time--
Before he realized it, he was jerked from the pile by his feet and thrown into the fire.
Mr. Whitmore was adorned in a black suit, less a tie. The top of his head was slick but matte, and his black eyes held a shimmer like galaxies swimming through the universe. Men and women applauded as Mr. Whitmore announced his own arrival and the fact that he had just purchased the town. They swooned when he presented his ideas for the betterment of everyone’s lives through new businesses and construction. Andre stepped to the back of the group and began clicking through the stills on his camera, and something stirred uneasily in his stomach. The train car came through clear in the images. Various heads and hands of townsfolk blurred at the bottoms. But there was no man standing at the doorway of the train. He lifted the camera once more, focusing the lens on Mr. Whitmore’s face, which he could clearly see through the scope, sure he made a mistake the first time. He clicked another picture from a distance. Mr. Whitmore wasn’t in it. Andre turned to walk home. He didn’t hear the new visitor requesting no images be taken, and that cameras already holding images of him would be seized. Andre didn’t see men and women run out of the train car to snatch cameras. He didn’t see that their eyes were hidden behind darkly tinted sunglasses or that they were dressed in bright white shirts and pants, coated in soot.
Andre nestled himself on the couch in his basement—the only room where he felt most comfortable, most isolated, most insulated. Despite his zone of comfort, Andre felt uneasy. He sat alone in his home as his neighbors, house by house, were pulled from their beds and loaded on the train cars, their bodies stiffened from injections they never saw coming while their eyes were shut in slumber. He was unaware that their bodies were being dumped into the train’s tender. He sifted through the images, again. When the needle pierced his neck, he was staring at an empty car, at the spot where eyes should be, and he saw a shimmer, like galaxies. He forced himself to his feet and tried to scream, but his jaw locked open just as the first sounds escaped his mouth. He fell to the floor, and began to feel every muscle tighten, from his neck down to his feet. Unable to move, he watched figures dressed all in white lift and carry him to the coal-car. He watched as his neighbors were thrown into the fire, one after another, feeding the train’s engine. He’s taking over the world. One town at a time--
Before he realized it, he was jerked from the pile by his feet and thrown into the fire.
The prompt for the Mutant 750 #64 Challenge at Grammar Ghoul Press is the word "murmur" (a noun meaning a soft, indistinct sound made by a person or group of people speaking quietly or at a distance.) and the image below:
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