Mind of Gray

     The sun rose slowly sending streak after streak of luscious beams through the windows of a stout grey building. The light reflected itself onto the glass of the windows letting only small strips of very faint light to illuminate the various floors. The room was dark; nearly ghost like with no movement except for the occasional scurrying rat and smelt like old eggs; tile floors appeared to be glistening with debris in the small reflections of sunshine. Marcus Weston with hands in his pockets stood plastered to a side wall, facing west, he could still hear the scattered snaps and pop of gunfire off in the distance behind his wall. The wall was his safe haven, paradise from the world outside as if it were a strong friend standing between him and the school yard bully who wanted to smash his teeth in.     

    This protection, like all places of peace and solace, was not perfect or permanent for a giant gaping hole which appeared as though an enormous fist had punched through lied directly to his right shattering his safety. The hole allowed light to filter into the room as the sun rose higher into the blood red sky. Marcus did not work here nor did he live here, no one did. This small three story building was nothing more than a place to think a place to relax in a world which allowed no time to do so. Marcus slowly removed his right hand from his pocket pulling out a small slip of paper, a newspaper, or at the very least what was left of one. The paper was a torn off, ink smudged, crumpled little thing hardly even legible. He unfolded it carefully making sure not to tear any of the edges or to smudge it further and read what was written.

                19. Jan. 0056.

     "That had been ten or eleven days ago", thought Marcus. It was hard to keep track of the days anymore they all passed seamlessly into one another without rest. Not that keeping track was even important now, but it helped one keep a grasp on their sanity. Something to look forward to, a new day, a new month, a new year, Marcus by all mean was an average man, as normal as they could come, in his early thirties but appeared to be older from all the years of smoking and hard labor. His hair was a dark brown as were his eyes, Marcus was not tall but neither was he short, he was not fat but neither was he fit. He refolded the paper carefully then slipped it back into his right pocket which gave him the pleasure of watching it fall on the floor. There was a new hole in his trousers, useless things he thought.     

     The trousers were olive green and covered in small holes, dirt, and stains. The long sleeve shirt, also of the same quality was a loose fitting, collared, two pocketed, formal shirt relaxely tucked into the trousers. Stitched into the upper arm of the left sleeve rested the Patch of Loyalism. The patch depicted a soaring eagle with both wings spread flying away from a large burning wooden frigate, with nothing but the sun ahead of him. The eagle held a rolled up piece of parchment in its beak suppose ably saving it. Encircling the patch were the four values of Loyalism, Marcus had forgotten them and as well the wearing away of the patch on the sleeve was so bad that the edges were not even of legibility.     

     Marcus reached down and picked up the paper placing it into his back right pocket this time, deciding he had been behind the wall long enough he pushed himself off and quickly passed through the gaping hole while being careful not to trip over any rubble. He had to hurry back to go unnoticed, one cannot simply be late to morning reveille . Marcus opened his breast pocket and pulled out a single filterless cigarette and a match. After lighting the tobacco he took a single puff, inhaled and exhaled slowly watching the smoke swirl around his head and fingers. Marcus spat out the loose tobacco that had gotten into his mouth then threw the rest of his cigarette onto the ground stomping it out with his boot. Marcus took one more deep breath then headed back into town through the deserted, ruin filled streets.     

     Marcus arrived exactly on time for reveille , with seconds to spare he quickly jumped into rank and file with the other class Octos. Hundreds of men, women, and children stood, gathered together into a military style formation out in a large open rubble covered courtyard. Positioned directly in front of the crowd was an old pre-collapse structure, once a large hall built directly before the resource famine to instill morale into the suffering populations, however it became nothing more than just the final monument to complete economic failure. The structure was enormous almost of pantheon quality, and Greek influence, columns surrounded and supported the hall. Now falling apart from constant abuse, wear and tear it was only used as a meeting for formations, speeches, and reveille . The courtyard, once small, had been cleared of all obstructions to make room for masses of people; it was little more than a large slab of concrete filled with debris, craters, and rubble that went on for miles, a desert.

     Marcus took a quick look around at the people he could see from his position in the middle of formation. It was sea of olive green uniforms, from above one would think he was actually looking at a field of grass which in fact was uniformed populace. The formations were organized into a U shape, all facing a center point.