The Bringer Of Soundless Doom

My dearest Millicent,

I hope my letter finds you well among London’s foggy squares and avenues, moreover as the bitter winds recede from the influence of the spring rains, remember to still wrap up warm. It is, no doubt, a darn sight warmer than in is here on the other side of our world. My research here has paused, although there may be an entirely unexpected breakthrough imminent, albeit one that terrifies me like nothing ever has.

Millie, I pray for my swift return, and by the time you receive this letter, I ought to only be a day or two from home, if not home already. If I do not return, let this be a record of some kind as to why. If I am not with you, presently or very shortly, have no doubt that I love you more than anyone or anything on this Earth, and am only absent because the worst has befallen me.

The city of Gulniz has been blanketed by thick smog and black snow for several weeks, but the populace are undeterred by the inclement weather. They walk about, wrapped up in furs, until the early hours of the morning. Their horses and third-hand motor vehicles trot and trundle up and down the icy roads without hinder or bother. I have found myself drawn out among them, tasting the grilled beef and horse meat, the bowls of rice, peppers and garlic that they serve in the tight confines of wooden food halls, mopping up the dregs of oil and sauce with dense rounds of unleavened bread cooked in huge, round stone ovens. Music colours the evening and night air, and one falls asleep lulled by it, never hearing it cease.

Now, however, it has all stopped. As the weather warms, and the black snow turns to grey slush, the foot traffic has receded, the sound of hooves and engines quietening. Shops, markets and food halls now close at sundown, almost a full half-day before they would in the dead of winter. Gulniz is now a graveyard, and the joy of the people has died away to mournful, fearful whispers. Worried glances at the mountains that surround the city on three sides.

I could not fathom why, until two morns past, when I awoke at dawn for my customary early walk, and was confronted by devastation. The road was cracked and pocked. The shopfronts on either side of the road were smashed to rubble, with only a scattering of owners mutedly picking through the debris, without the energy to weep. Whomever I asked as to what chaos had occurred only responded with a shake of the head, and inaudible whispers in a tongue I could not comprehend.

The queerest and most unsettling thing to me was that during the previous night, I had heard nothing. Not a shout or scream. Not an impact. Not a scattering of stone or wood on the cobbles.

Nothing.

I was in the midst of a quiet apocalypse.

Yesterday morning, I observed the same again. Trees that had once lined the streets were ripped up by the root. The channels that carried and drained rainwater down to the southern reservoir were full of soil and mud, and other things that coloured the brown a dirty red. The cracked road has now been ripped up, as have the cobbles and the last, stubborn patches of ice.

I looked up and around at the buildings on the main street, and saw them truly for the first time. All of them had old patches over older wounds. Bars covered every window of every house, invisible prior to my downcast eyes, my bowed head against the winter chill. Each window held two or more faces, staring down at the ruins in terror, mouths opening and closing in prayer.

And on each house and shop: fresh gouges, deep in the stone, splintering the wood that remained, as if a great claw had scraped along the row.

I pen this letter to you, dearest Millie, in the early hours of the next day. I have not slept, and I have heard nothing. Not a whisper, not a bang, not a cry, simply the wind gently blowing through the wreckage.

I will see what has everyone terrified tonight, should it come again. The silent squall. The bringer of soundless doom.

The horses are screaming.

I can hear them. Distant. Closer now. Screaming in horror.

I must go. I love you, Millie. I will send this in the morning, and make my way to the Russia-bound train as soon as I am able.

I love you.

Alexander

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