Draft

           

Draft

         Alexander Lipton was on the radio at 1am, and the house was quiet. "In other words, Vladimir Putin is a filthy rat who was born a disease", Alexander Lipton spoke. Taylor was still awake at 2 in the morning, and felt that something was wrong. "Now for news broadcast with Ronald Hubbard." Taylor felt around the dark room, looking for his prescription glasses. As he got up and began brushing his teeth, he heard the familiar ton of his phone. "Hey Justin, you up late or something?" Taylor asked. Justin Malone was the late bird of his companions, and was never up early. "Dude, .did you check the news? That jerk Putin declared war on us!" he screamed. "No way." Taylor breathed. Taylor quickly shut the phone off and ran to the TV, and turned the volume up. "President Barack Obama has ordered the evacuation of minors and women across the whole state of California, due to the imminent threat made by Putin. A military draft has been ordered by the tactician of the biological warfare unit, Clayton Brown.", Alexander Lipton announced. "Mom! Dad!" Taylor shouted. "Shut the damn TV off!" his father yelled. That morning at nine, a black van stopped right outside the Murphy residence. As the camo clad men rang the bell, a disgruntled eighteen year old opened the oak door and breathed "Draft, huh? Hell no". The moment before Taylor shut the door, one of the men put his foot between the door and the threshold. "Draw". The African-American soldier grunted. Gulping, the trembling teen reached into the cart and pulled up a slip of paper. "Show" the man said, and Taylor reluctantly flipped the paper to show the written side of the slip to the men. The other man said: "Welcome to the Army, Murphy".
         
At the info meeting, Taylor was the odd one out, an outcast among the older, buff men. None of his friends had attended. As Clayton Brown walked on to the stage, many boos and jeers soon followed. "People, people! Settle down!" he said. Taylor just could not believe he had just been recruited into the Army to possibly fight WW III. Due to his lack of judgement at this point, Taylor snuck out of the meeting room, and found himself at the foot of another large compound. The sign at the top said "BUNKS". Taylor dropped his bags to one side and fell on the bottom bunk right at the entrance. The words "Departure from family" rang through the young boy's ears as a glimmering tear ran down his soft cheek. He might never see his family again, he thought. As he sobbed in his bunk, the eyes of Clayton Brown waited and watched him from the doorway.
         
The very next morning, the obstacle course was being tackled by eager men, and the open road was being looked upon by the melancholy youngsters who had absolutely no idea what was going on in the political world. Taylor, the outcast, was not included in either group. Taylor was the young, depressed teen who was the "odd one out" in this rough society of army men. After dinner and physical performance testing, the recruits were herded in by the officers of higher rank into the multi-purpose room. After the recruits had finished chattering and shuffling in, Mr. Brown walked onto the stage. He started: "Men, we are gathered here today.....", but was interrupted by one of the men - "To discuss going back home!". Clayton yelled, "This is your home now! We are gathered here today to discuss the current crisis and conflict between the United States of America and Russia. Russia's president, Vladimir Putin, due to the murder and mutilation of his wife, Lyudmilla Putina on October 23rd, 2014, declared war on America, thinking America murdered his wife. The murderer remains unknown. Putin has not waged normal war, though; he has waged biological warfare, with a possibility of its being smallpox. Some of you may think lying low in a trench clad in white hazmats is funny, but there is nothing funny about war. I repeat myself - there is nothing funny about war!" The bell rang, and the troops shuffled out to their bunks. Taylor Murphy was alone, on the bunk, in Building F-4, in the city of San Francisco, and he was far, far away from his home.
         
The chilly morning air stung the cheeks of the soldiers, and the alarm sounded. Shouts of "AIR RAID!" were thrown around, and the soldiers crowded into the bomb shelters. Taylor, seeking kind and warm guidance, was given nothing but harsh jabs and dirty feet as he was trampled on by his very own unit. As one man, Mitch Summers, passed by, he said "Say 'ello to the real world, boy!". As he followed his unit like the last duckling at the end of a line, the mini-barn like bomb shelters came into view. "Holds up to nine megaton blast! We'll live!" shouted Brown. Right after the men were all safe and the doors were locked, something shook the area around the shelter. The dirt flew up, and all the men's knees buckled. One after another, the blasts shook the place. The hazmat suits were all taken up. The soldiers wore the lead protection suits, and after all the suits were placed on the men, each man finally noticed that this modern knight's armor was no joke. Two days and two nights, they sat and waited. Strong soldiers weakened, and bulls became lambs. Companions were made in this grave time of despair, and Taylor had made a few good friends. One of Taylor's friends, Noah, was a writer, a poet. He had written a piece about WW I, and the admiration of his talent by Taylor strengthened their relationship, and they became great friends over this short period of time. The piece went something like this:

Boom! Crash! Goes the cannon.

With luck, we can kill the Baron.

We ride quick, we shall not fail.

The bullets keep coming up near my tail.

We have hope, we prepare to win.

Our hands shall forever be dirty with sin.

Bombs start to fall out of thin air.

This is not fun, this is not fair.

The dirt is stained red, telling of crime.

All of these memories will haunt me in time.

I make my way over the dead.

The lifeless bodies are stricken with lead.

Deceased men hang on barbed wire.

Innocent souls are set on fire.

Blood splatters, bright flames reach the sky.

Hier ist kein warum; there is no why.

A streaming bullet hits me in the side.

I came very close; I really tried.

Now, as I feel my blood drain away,

I know that I played a big role today.

         Food in the shelters was running out. Canned beef and corn would not last for long. Men were ill, hallucinating and weak. One man, Chris, even started hearing voices in the night. Taylor wondered whether the other shelters were having difficulties too. May be they were. The twelfth night, though, poor Chris could not stand it. "Voices! Voices!" the man screamed. Soon, every man was hearing voices. Voices at the door. Other voices. Russian voices.
         
Chris opened the bolt and leaped outside. Shots resounded and echoed in the bomb shelter. A pool of blood was at the bottom of the door, quickly becoming larger every moment. The next second, the Russians opened the door and effortlessly slaughtered half our men. Like sitting ducks, they were shot down. They were lambs to the slaughter. Taylor, using little time, jumped behind a pile of bodies and smeared blood on himself to play dead. The last man other than Taylor, Big Al Simmons got the bullet. Taylor vinced. Footsteps came closer to Taylor. Last man standing. Boom. Last man down.