A tinkling patter on tin roofs singles their arrival. People scramble to gather their things and rush for the nearest shelter. The intensity of the rain grows like a faucet being opened up. In minutes the deluge is battering the market. Raindrops impact the pavement and bounce up to knee height. Anything not gathered up - trinkets and books, pots and pans, loose electronic scrap - is jostled around or outright broken by the pressure of the torrent. A cacophony orchestrated in the pits of hell by demons with splintered flutes.
A sound like a colossal bulkhead door being opened. Thin beams of light trace through the rain from some unknowable height above, scanning across the empty market stalls. A slight chitter as they go.
The slower folk, or the ones who stayed to gather more of their things, are sheltered in the adjacent structures to the side of the street market. They are the first to see them.
Black figures. Long, slick ponchos with hoods drawn up. From inside the shadowed portal where their faces should be, blue mechanical eyes glow. Their silhouettes are only broken by the protrusion of the strange weapons their wield.
Fearful whispers spread through the ranks of the sheltering marketeers, rebuked by hushed calls for silence. Terror spreads through their blood with every pulse of their heart. The police are here.
Paddy Dobson
29th August 2021