The Tank looked huge, a dark grey cylinder that sternly contrasted with the dawn’s pale colors and filled the heart. Giovanni Corte could not help but hold his breath when the huge silo of steel and concrete appeared beyond the mist. He felt a chill run through his body.
The early morning air got into his sleeves and under his collar while he was steadily approaching the structure with two NMO officers at his sides.
While they walked in utter silence tufts of grass and gravel crackled unpleasantly under their boots. Giovanni felt like he was walking on an expanse of brittle bones, trampling them underfoot.
The soldier at his right chocked a sneeze with his gloved fist. He was quite slender, which was pretty clear even under the large black coat, and the vaporous ghost that came out of his mouth quickly vanished in the chill of that newborn January. The other officer, thicker in build, rapidly glared at his comrade as to reprimand him for the sudden, albeit trivial, lack of self-control. The small four-pointed stars they both wore on their shoulders and berets weren’t shining as usual, always polished like golden jewels; the cold, dull light hovering on the whole Camp 9 made them look dull, almost opaque.
Giovanni wanted to answer humorously, or even with just a simple “Bless you!”, to lift that shroud of rigor, but all that came out of his mouth was a faint cough. He himself didn’t understand if he was full of hope, fear, or what else. A new adventure was expecting him, all things considered. A stimulating experience, however demanding and hard, that would leave a permanent mark on him. And a considerable sum in his bank account. He walked with obvious confidence, but he was aware of the sharp blade in his side, which however couldn’t completely dissipate the euphoria, the excitement that upset with levity the flow of his thoughts.
Clinging to one side of the cylindrical structure, a thick architectural body broke its circularity for a short segment. It was the slim, pointy elevator shaft that led all the way to the top, where the Keeper’s billet was easily recognizable: a light grey bulky block of bricks and concrete which extended a few meters over the edge, detached from the protruding belt that crowned the Tank’s summit. Basing on the maps he studied, Giovanni recognized the Ring that outlined the whole perimeter. Moreover, he knew about an external ladder on the opposite side, perfectly vertical, which led to an alternative entry - or exit, in case of elevator issues.
While walking he lowered his gaze to examine the wicket gate set on the Tank, at a short distance from the pavement. It was a circular cover about half a meter in diameter, shut by a handle similar to those once used to seal submarines. The Gate of Cleansing, undoubtedly.
When they were about five or six steps away from the Tank’s entrance the soldiers stopped, and Giovanni - who kept on walking lost in thought - had to move backwards to go back between them.
Without speaking they all looked up.
Elven meters in diameter. Nineteen in hight. Six of foundations. Concrete on the outside, embracing a steel upholstery for total thickness of fifty-four centimeters.
It would be impossible to hear the screams from the outside.