Don't use the zed word

     He walked passed the wall every day on his way to the club. This time of year the reanimate were reflecting the sunrise in dew, their black helmets spotted like frost with track marks where the water had run down from their occasional twitching. He wondered if they got stiff, they were certainly more peaceful in the morning after a cold night. Sometimes they wouldn’t even follow you with their eyes, just look at the pavement a few metres ahead of them, maybe flexing their jaw like they were practising a speech. That was the worst. In the past few years EvaCor had started removing the vocal cords from the domestic models to stop them alarming people and make them more popular with civilian security forces. Instead they panted like dogs, an altogether more sinister sound to hear from the security alcove in your apartment tower. The guards he had passed every day were newer, fancier. Their uniforms were smart and sharp, they didn’t slouch and they didn’t pant. Instead they had black plastic pads over their faces, riveted into the bone. All they could manage through them was a slight whistle when you walked too close, no more than the sound of whistling through teeth. 
     Today there was something new at the wall. In the night the M-techs had set up what looked like lampposts with multiple heads, but where bulbs should be were pipes dangling down and splitting into smaller wires. Each attached to the mouth of one of the reanimate and they all swayed unevenly from side to side. Together they watched him like babies looking up from a teat.

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