Faceless Horde

The streets were a wasteland of shattered glass and scorched concrete, the skeletal remains of a once-thriving city looming overhead like gravestones. The air was thick with the acrid scent of burning refuse, mingling with the distant wail of sirens that never seemed to get closer.

Through the ruins, they marched. A faceless horde clad in black, fists raised in defiance against an enemy they couldn’t quite name. Their chants echoed through the hollow streets, slogans drilled into them through screens and whispers from unseen masters. Most didn’t know why they were here. It didn’t matter. They had been told to march, and so they did.

Windows shattered as bricks flew, the remnants of forgotten storefronts collapsing in their wake. A car, already long abandoned, was flipped onto its side, flames licking at its rusted frame. The crowd cheered—not in joy, not even in anger, but in obedience.

Masked figures pulled down statues of men whose names they had never learned, their crimes reduced to whispers from the mouths of their leaders. A few among them hesitated, their eyes darting through the destruction as if searching for meaning. But the moment was fleeting—shouted orders rang out, and their doubt was swallowed by the tide of bodies surging forward.

Fear spread faster than the fire, not just among those who cowered in the shadows, but among the marchers themselves. There was an unspoken truth beneath their mindless destruction, a whisper at the edge of their consciousness: None of this would make things better. But questioning was dangerous, and so they silenced their own thoughts, drowning them in chants and chaos.

Somewhere in the distance, a news drone hovered, capturing the carnage for tomorrow’s propaganda. The footage would be edited, the message rewritten. The cause, whatever it was, would be justified.

And the march would continue.