The Guard Shack

The air in the guard shack was always thick with the smell of stale coffee and cheap tobacco, a scent Earl Jenkins had come to associate with the end of a long shift. Tonight, though, there was something else, something metallic and sour, like old pennies left out in the rain. He’d been watching the main road, the one that snaked up to the mine entrance, for what felt like hours. Nothing but the usual crickets and the whisper of wind through the pines. Bubba had said to keep an eye out, that things felt off. Earl, in his worn-out uniform, with his gut hanging over his belt buckle, usually just nodded and went back to his crossword puzzles. But tonight, Bubba’s unease had settled into his own bones.

He took a long drag from his cigarette, the cherry glowing like a tiny, angry eye in the dim light. The radio crackled, a burst of static that made him jump. “Control to Earl, come in,” a tinny voice squawked. It was Jed, over at the main office.

“Yeah, Jed, I’m here. Just a quiet night, you know how it is.” Earl tried to sound casual, but his voice had a tremor he couldn’t quite smooth out.