[ WP ] Counting the seconds

You ’ d think that after fifty years, they ’ d update the screens at some point. The green text flashes on a black background, reminding me that like the hardware, I ’ m stuck in time, lost to all outside. They ’ ll need to replace this display soon since the refresh rate is off. Just like the last time, though, it will just be a swap for the same model. They must have bought stock in the company before the Carter years shut them down. Probably have an entire warehouse full of this junk. 
 
 The cursor, though, blinks with purpose. The computer only knows a few commands. In all my years here, I ’ ve never used a single one of them. So it just sits there, waiting for something to do, eagerly wagging that green box in the hopes that a finger descends on the right sequence of keys. Each cycle takes exactly one second. It ’ s a useful tool since the wall clock here doesn ’ t have a second hand. 
 
 That ’ s the other thing about this place. It ’ s not just the computers that are old. The phone has a rotary dial, even if it only has a single digit. The clock is one of those flip-page deals like my folks had before I started school. The walls are bare by design. We ’ re not allowed to bring personal effects. So no books other than manuals, no pictures, not even a stupid calendar. There is, actually, one picture. The presidential portrait has a frame on the back wall. It still shows Clinton, though. 
 
 For eight hours a day, I sit and watch the screen. I sit and listen for the phone to ring. I count the flashes of the cursor and the flips of the clock until the next guy opens the door to take over. It ’ s nearly done. Just sixteen more flashes to go. Thirteen. Ten. Eight. Six. 
 
 Two. One. Zero. The final page flips into place and I roll my chair back. But the door is still closed. The other guy is supposed to be here by now. Never did bother to catch his name. I glance up at the clock and confirm that my shift has ended. My gaze shifts to the phone. It ’ s still silent. Then the screen. The cursor just sits there blinking. Another page flips. Negative sixty. 
 
 There are rules. Things we are and aren ’ t allowed to do during our shifts. Mine has ended, so I don ’ t mind moving away from the console. It should be perfectly fine that I approach the door. And it should be fine that I slam my fist into the solid slab of steel. The throbbing suggests that last one was a bad idea. 
 
 As I shake my hand, I charge back to the console and grab the phone. There ’ s no tone, but I dial 0 anyway. Nothing. 00. Still nothing. I try seven of them, but that proves just as pointless. The force I put behind returning the phone to the hook sends a jolt of pain through my arm. 
 
 As I mutter curses, the corner of my eye catches something odd. The cursor has stopped. The clock lurches another minute ahead. It ’ s been eight minutes since my shift should have ended. The rest of the screen is still pulsing at its weary rate, but the cursor is gone. It isn ’ t supposed to do that. I wonder if it ’ s worth trying to type something. My fingers reach towards the keyboard. But I resist. I know what those commands do. 
 
 My only friend in this place has left me here alone. Its shift ended while I remain. 
 
 The arrow keys don ’ t input commands. I ’ ve read those manuals enough to know that. So I hit the up arrow. The mechanical clack as the plastic cap accelerates towards its base adds a refreshing burst of sound. There is no response on the screen. The sound is enough for me, though. I press it again. And again. Another page on the wall falls. One press per second. It takes a few minutes to get the pacing synched. Negative 726. A strange sensation of relief takes over as the sealed door dissolves from my thoughts. 
 
 In another bunker some two hundred miles away, there ’ s someone staring at an antique computer display waiting for their shift to end. For the first time in a decade, there is a cursor, blinking exactly once per second, precisely in time with my index finger.
