Vincent stood on the front steps of his mansion, between the stately white columns that held the porch’s roof above his head. His face was stark white, his eyes bulging, his mouth agape, and his nostrils flaring. An almost simian whimper was escaping his dry throat as he stared across the emerald green grass lawn of his palatial estate. His gaze stretched past the property he had fought so hard to obtain and later to retain. Buford’s watering eyes were focused far into the distance.

They were focused past the beautifully landscaped trees, the rolling hills, and the glimmering pools of filtered spring water that dotted his domain. Off in the distance, his pupils were locked onto the blossoming mushroom clouds that erupted skyward from the direction of his city.

One, at first, then two, and now three great and terrible nuclear clouds had shot skyward from the former President’s home city. A pillar of the old ways, standing among the pillars of his estate, and already lamenting the collapse of both.