Partly Cloudy, 64°
Tipping the brim of her hat down to block her eyes, a dirt-smeared President Christina Paxson grasped the stock of her pistol in its holster as a dry gust of wind blew a tumbleweed across the barren Main Green.
“Who’s there?” she called into the whistling breeze, straining to see through the haze of dust hanging in the air as she trudged across the desolate landscape. “I don’t want any trouble, you hear?”
Cautiously approaching University Hall as a tarantula crossed her path and vultures circled above, Paxson reportedly kicked open the weathered door to the abandoned building with the heel of her boot.
“Listen here now,” Paxson hollered down the dim hallway, the floorboards creaking under her feet as she crept toward the groaning rasp of a rocking chair with her revolver at the ready. “This here’s my office, and there ain’t enough room for the two of us.”
At press time, Paxson found herself in a standoff with a gaunt, bearded Dean of the College Rashid Zia laying claim to this here deserted University.
