It was such a loud grating sound. It echoed and traveled long. Most automatic machines make noises that do. They knew exactly what kind of noise that was. But there was a rational explanation. Maybe, they were doing some work on the building. That’s it. Some construction work on the building. That’s the kind of thought that crosses the minds of those, out of sight, casually listening to the gurgle of the machine. But those on the ground…They knew that it was everything except that. They knew that sound was for something else entirely. And when the sound chuckled, rumbling more pointedly, the people were struck by silent horror. The silence always comes first. They are just standing there, trying to move their body, rip their morbidly curious eyes away from it. Then the engine roars, again. Then there was the screaming, bodies cracking out shriek after shriek.
The best part is the running. The monstrous trampling of bothers and sisters, tearing through the lobby to get away. To keep themselves from being victims of the engine and the rumbling and the gurgling and the spitting. It roared loud and louder as if it got pleasure in its job, revving up with excitement.
The sound traveled to the second level, beckoning the observers to peering down from the upper floors to see the carnage. Dragging hollers and screams from their lungs, savoring the savagery. The blood, the bodies, and the fear is everywhere. The vision of the machine confirms it is exactly what they had thought. It was a lovely black handled power saw. It is ripping through the flesh, effortlessly. The blood is splattering and dribbling around them. And you know this saw is meant for bone, because it hummed, a perfect pitch as it ground its way through. Its victims are grinding down and springing into the air, dust now.
The man holding the lovely black handled bone saw isn’t laughing. He isn’t giddy. He isn’t happy. The saw is doing it’s work, artistically even, and yet he can’t appreciate it. He is too busy. He’s trying to silence all the noise, all the talking, all the voices. He’s cutting through them. ripping them out from where they can bother him. Layers of blood coat his face, hands; his whole damn body. But he doesn’t stop. Not to appreciate the saw’s work, not to appreciate the art they’d created together. He keeps on cutting, keeps spilling the blood, as the room gets quieter and quieter.
Then the building is empty. Empty of all the noise and all the people. The saw is humming softly in his hands, waiting for his next move. He stands there, the blood pooled up around him, jagged flesh piled up on the ground. He seems serene. There is silence. He has silence. He smiles, and the saw purs. He was finally done.
a cough, a gurgle, rasping, spitting. Shuffling, sliding. Oh…no. The noise. The noise is still here.
The man turns, his rubber boots squeaking in the blood, smearing on the tiled floor. He walks carefully, his steps echoing up the building. Staring up at him, when he stops, are these two brown eyes. Blood is splattered on her face and in perfect drops, like makeup. Her stomach is partially sawed into, intestines and liver slipping into her hands as she attempts to hold it all in… She is trembling and shaking when she sees them: a picture of black and silver and red. She tries to press her limp body away, but her hand slips in her own blood and the blood of those dead around, pooled up under her.
The saw begins to gurgle and growl, anxious in his hands. She spits and cries and shakes. It rips and digs into her jaw, piece of cheek quickly flying off, her scream erupting the loudest. It slides down and spills out her neck, to stop that sound. Then she’s gone, her brown eyes wide in what is left of her head.
The lovely black handled bone saw was happy with it’s work.
Again, he has silence.