The corridor for old men. the turnstile could be heard clicking and turning on it’s own after processing the last batch. The halls were empty and echoes enjoyed the etheric freedom for some time.
Days went by the clock between arch columns had a drag in their pedantic tick, a technical time. Monday arrived along with the juntas collator a thousand shuffling feet could be heard, a few protested with meek mouthing. The collator made the junta declaration . “We the dictatorship have decided in appropriate policy of non democracy and one tongue, that the ageing masses are no longer productive, are no longer going to be supported by our regime. You will therefore head for the turnstile at terminus seven and from there on you will proceed and be of dust from that point you will be reformed from your genetic dust to forms a new. We require seven of you to make one new life form. Deputies thereafter will reset the turnstile.