The door to the Presidential Emergency Shelter is plastered with stickers:
FALLOUT SHELTER
BIOHAZARD SHELTER
TORNADO SHELTER
ALIEN INVASION SHELTER
COMMIE PROOF
NEGRO PROOF
(with a scribbled note in Sharpie “I got in! -OB”)
HIPPIE PROOF
DISCO PROOF
COBAIN-RESISTANT TO 30 FATHOMS
NO MUSLIMS
But they are all clustered around what the occupants probably thought was the most important notice:
PRESIDENTS ONLY
You see there is a palm-lock, but it is hanging by a couple of wires and seems dead. The retinal scanner has something smeared in that smells like poison. The keypad has a bullet hole through it and the numbers have been blackened by an electrical fire. The key lock has been punched out. The door swings inward when you push on it.
A few lights flicker on when you enter the room beyond. It is a small room, the walls are riveted steel and painted battleship gray like the hallway outside. It smells like feet and farts and mildew. There is a broken down plaid couch with the seat cushions missing, a recliner with the footrest up, and dozens of–you step forward–ice cream sandwich wrappers shoved under it.
The room becomes brighter as more lights come on. There is a large console TV along the wall opposite the couch, the couch over which someone has hung an ornate sign that reads IKE JIZZED ON THIS with an arrow pointing down. The compressor on the antique refrigerator comes on, makes a coughing noise, and shuts back down. The door is open and a mixture of various fluids have leaked on the floor to dry in arcane whorls of stickiness. There is an ancient flapjack stuck to the ceiling.
There are no ballots here. Glad you don’t have a UV light, you back out slowly, careful to not touch anything, and pull the door to with your foot.
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