In the sewers of time lie the detritus of humankind. The left-over sediments that smolder or get swamped by the putrid waters or pushed deeper into a hard soil by the stubborn fingers of relentless history marching on, often muddying or reddening the channels running underground the cities.
And they were called out for cleaning the debris and the flotsam. The ghosts that dived in or out of the warrens crisscrossing beneath the City that rose vertically on that network discharging the noxious and the dead into somewhere- someplace.
The shadowy figures were once humans but now zombies stuck up in those hell-holes of the urban centers—unlikely to be recognized for their essential worth or talent in the tech-driven entrepreneurial space, post-modern…until the day one of the task force, low-paid and mocked as low-life of the pyramid of success and enterprise—discovered a fragment in an unlikely place: The Paris of 2017.
What is this? Asked his mates, drenched in the smells and residue of the stinking river full of rats and vapours.
I hate victims who respect their executioners!
They were stunned — the underground army ragtag.
Who is the author?
Well, well, it is a typed line only, a piece discarded and found in this dark place.
They were all impressed, the walking shadows of men, weary-eyed, smelling of cheap liquor and tobacco.
The very dredges of humanity working beneath the streets of the City made up of standard glass menageries with automatons wearing ties.
The message resonated within those damp walls, while the over- ground folks discussed rising stocks.
In the evening, there were riots!
The ghosts had risen!
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