At six fifteen in the morning, the grayish-white fog still shrouded the red-brick buildings of the Roslin District.
A military truck smashed through a barricade made of cars and furniture, crushing the glass shards on the ground, and roared loudly down the deserted street.
Every so often, a few soldiers in white protective suits would jump off the truck, going door to door.
First, to distribute some living supplies, and second, to check if anyone had died.
If deceased persons were found, the soldiers would open black body bags, place the corpses inside, and send them to the crematorium.
As for who died and what their identity was, there wasn't time to care anymore.
Inside the shaking truck, soldiers gazed out, the buildings' windows on either side of the street resembling hollow eyes, silently watching this group of "harbingers of death."
