The watchtower on the edge of the plains was the planet’s first line of defence. On this one granite column, on this one man, everything else depended; everyone else depended.
‘Tower this is Defence Control. Tower, come in. Report please, over,’ the radio crackled.
In amongst the scattered maps, charts and bleeping radar equipment lay the warm, still body of Officer Davis. An increasingly strained message was eventually answered.
‘Defence Control. This is the Tower reporting in, over.’
‘At last. Davis, there are reports of movement in the inner systems. Have you seen or heard anything? Over.’
‘No, Defence Control. Nothing to report from the tower. Everything is calm. All is quiet out here. Over.’
‘Ok. However, we’re moving to level four. Keep us informed, Davis. We’re relying on you. Over.’
‘I won’t let you down. Officer Davis, over and out.’
With the voice now mastered the remaining physical transformation slowly filtered through his body. Where once there was a skin of mottled, pale blue the bleached, white covering that was once part of Officer Davis replaced it.
Today was only the start. One soldier in place. There would be more, and soon. They wouldn’t see it coming; they’d never suspect.
These words form my entry into this week’s Sunday Photo Fiction challenge.