Transition

The guard sat dejectedly on his makeshift chair. The chair was actually a stump (and would probably be gone tomorrow anyways, stolen for firewood), as the recent series of budget cuts had left the military coffers completely bereft of rupees (yet somehow the Lieutenants always seemed to have nice cigars and the hookers that just scoff at a man like Vlad.) His uniform was patched; the soles of his shoes flapped up and down with every step, and his heart had just been broken the night before. His loathing of the army was the only constant in his life. Vlad had only joined it as a means of taking his mind off how miserable his life was. For the second time in his pathetic existence, he had attempted suicide the previous night. Sadly, the military had failed in its ability to teach him how to properly tie a noose. Vlad was not exactly the kind of guy you want guarding a nuclear payload that could level a city, but that was exactly what he was doing right now.

His neck still hurt from abrasions the rough rope had dug into his skin. The criss-crossing pattern that the braids had left looked almost intentional, like a trendy new tattoo. He sat hunched over in front of a large rectangular building. It’s once polished walls now a dull steal; patches of rust poked through as though they had always been just under the surface, waiting to get out. It looked like an old neglected barn. Its metal roof bore an impressive array of antennae, satellite dishes, and pyramids of metal that looked like tiny radio stations. The one and only door stood just to the right of where Vlad sat. A large red sign hung on it, proclaiming "No Admittance" in thirteen different languages (of which our beloved Vlad could read none). The sign seemed to be the only thing in sight that wasn’t dreary and faded. Its bright red letters stood out like a sightly mole, clashing with its surroundings. Beside the door was mounted a small panel with one red and one green LED light. A narrow rectangular slot was mounted directly below them. Three times a day, two men would stride over, and insert a card. They would wait a second, the green light would go off, and an array of machinery would move inside the door; locks, bolts, and security devices would all withdraw. The men would enter, and soon afterwards two more would leave. It was the same every day. None ever said hello to Vlad, and they were all to busy to care that Vlad never saluted.

Around the building stood other buildings, each painted in various shades of camouflage green. These large boxes stood out like hideous attempts at imitating nature, looking like oversized mutated shrubs; their green paint harsh against the new fallen snow. The entire village was surrounded by a large chain link fence, which had been topped with the meanest looking barbed wire that you could buy (in 1968). Now the fence looked old and dejected, more like a chicken coup than a fortress. The fence was pealing back in places, the barbed wire hung down like an over stretched slinky. In the middle of one of these tangles of coil sat a small bird’s nest, proclaiming its protest over this unnatural monstrosity. The guards who patrolled the walls took good care of the nest, making sure to scare away any crows who came too close for comfort. There had even been a fight one morning over what to name the birds.