I spent hours scouring the walls, stringing legible letters into words into sentences. Halfway through all of then nonsense wasn't even something I could see by the time the sun went down. But all of the reading I'd done thus far was not only giving me a headache, but confusing me even more.

We owe them something.
They own us.
Can't you see it?
Cattle.
Cattle. Cattle. Cattle.
Swine, swine, sheep.
We're sheep and they're the shepherds.
Control.
It's all about control.
The war.
Control.
Control because...
The farm is loose.
Their cattle and hens...
Their cattle and hens and swine
And their sheep.
They're all loose,
They're loose.
They might think.

I squinted at it for a while, leaned against a boarded window with a lamp craned over my shoulder. It didn't take me long to figure out the metaphor he was using. The cattle were the soldiers. Marines, special ops, etcetera. The hens were civilian women and children, the swine was all of the other civilians. The population, blanketed would be sheep. Of course the shepherds were the government.

I rubbed my nose and looked at it a bit longer, jotting notes beside the deciphered bits I'd found. They seemed to almost be chronological, though they were missing a few lines that I hadn't been able to read.

{Metaphor; population is farm animals.

Prior to the war democracy was coming back at a national level left to civilians.

Before this system- international agencies (i.e. UN) convened a moot to elect the most fitting men and/or women to lead their nations.

Conspiracy theorists believe that the return of national democracy sparked the war.
-> This theory is backed by: the common man must learn to think critically about leadership. Therefore those most hungry for power run the risk of losing theirs if the people see through them.

If you start a war before the election comes, no one loses power. Protect your people, they owe you. They'll re-elect you for protecting them.

Competent.}

I looked back to the wall of scribbles. If Damian didn't board the craft because he didn't want to be indebted to Truman, I guessed I couldn't blame him. Not that I'd thought of it that way before. But I did know his train of thought.

"If anyone overheard... they would've called it in. Someone must've sent the droids to get him for pre-boarding." I nodded. That would explain the ones he'd mentioned in the note. And when he didn't come for the second set of in-city boarding then they'd have sent more...

I'd gotten it.

I booked it up the stairs to Damian's room. Looking closer I could see the faint heat stains in the faux wood left by the android's hover tech. There were scratches on the door, both sides. That was probably just Dane.

The room smelled like expensive motor oil and sweat. In spite of my guilt I unstapled my brother and checked his body. On his abdomen was a deep gash spanning from hip to hip. I let out a deep breath and pulled in my lower lip to bite down on.

Dane wasn't exactly a spineless bastard, but I wouldn't accuse him of being practically-cut-himself-in-half tough. I examined the motor oil and the cut and went back to his desk to sift through his notes. Conspiracies, of course.

I thought maybe I'd gotten it. Part of me was even worried that Lara hadn't thought of it. She hadn't, no one had. None of us had the same understanding of law and crooked behaviours that Dane had.

"Dane," I grunted, rubbing my nose. "Why didn't you stick to the plan, you idiot?" I couldn't believe him. If he'd have just met us at Ben like we'd planned, he'd still be alive if nothing else.

I looked to my brother's body and sighed. "What am I supposed to do now, little brother?" the word brother had barely escaped my lips when I realized something.

Quickly, I tucked Damian back in and went back to his living room. I'd seen a word like brother hidden in the nonsense. I grabbed my pad and pen and went back through the scribbles. It had to be in there. There were instructions I just needed to find it.

Every time I spied a word, i wrote it down. A few sentences that I didn't need, but did seem to clear things up a bit.

This is the only wall that isn't a mess anymore.
I think when I get too paranoid I decide it isn't coded enough.
I don't understand most of this.

I was lost for a little while after that as the writing completely changed gears. He went from talking about his work, to paranoia to the drones all too quickly.

Go find him. He's still in Boston.
Our brother.

There it was. I sighed, I wasn't keen on the idea. We hadn't gotten along well in the past. I doubted we would now. But the truth was, after everything, I hadn't spoken to Callum since before Lara and I got married.

Twenty-six years ago.

My stomach churned at the thought of it. I'd only been to America once. The memory of the place wasn't fond. Mum had sent me to invite Callum and pap to the wedding. I hadn't wanted to talk to pap, walked out on us almost ten years ago and the thought of him coming to my wedding had felt like salt in the wound.

But beside myself I'd gone. And the event didn't end well. At the end of it all, neither of them accepted the invitation and I hadn't seen them since. The last thing I wanted to do, even now, was show up on his doorstep in search of company.

Saying goodbye to Damian's house was damn near impossible. Every part of me wanted to burn it down until I reminded myself he's only sleeping. Grudgingly I pulled myself out of the doorway and started back through the city toward the harbour. Taking the Rover crossed my mind just as I left the yard. I'd take to the harbour and hopefully get aboard a supply ship to take out of the Thames.

Once I decided to walk to the harbour, I'd decided against taking that Rover as I'd found rust on the body, I noticed how bone chillingly silent it was. The only things that moved were deer that looked inedible, a sickly yellow with exhausted eyes. It didn't run when it saw me, for a second we just stood. All that was left behind was wildlife that I didn't dare to touch.

It took me about three quarters of an hour to get through to the part of the harbour I wanted to be at. Three quarters of an hour, stopping at every street corner and looking both ways for cars that would never come, stopping at the broken street lights and counting out the seventy seconds before it turned to walk. For a short time I talked to myself, kind of like I was talking to Lars. I went around the craters pretending they were big groups of people or construction workers fixing the roads.

For that three quarters of an hour, things felt alright. Normal honestly.

But then there I was, at the harbour. Not a single supply ship that hadn't been raided to scraps for fabric and only shriveled oranges and bruised apples littered the decks. Diligently I went through every last ship at that dock trying to find one I could take across the sea. Finally, I found one. A yacht. The idea of taking a yacht overseas urked me, but it was the best there was and I was in no position to bitch. There wasn't much for food inside, but the wine fridge had been filled with drinking water instead, there was a purifier for salt water in a cabinet and beds. Real beds that still had blankets on them.

It didn't take me long to figure out the lockdown system so that I could keep it shut down until I got back with edible food. I wasn't keen on breaking into supermarkets for semi-decent food, but what other choice did I have? Garden food was the last edible thing out there since it was all more radioactive than a five pound block of uranium. So I locked everything down and went into the city. I felt uncomfortably naked without a gun and kept my eyes open for one in case there were other Forsaken, was the name I'd donned myself, that were hostile. Part of me doubted that there would be, that the people belonging to the unstroked names on that list were all already dead. But I couldn't wholly believe it. Something nagged me, said that I wasn't the only one.

I peaked my head into every store near the Thames, quickly filling the duffel bag I'd taken from one of the stores and needing to search for a new one. By the time I'd had enough of searching and the sun went down, I had seven bags worth of food and drink stacked on each other in a mobile self driving cart. Trying to be as quiet and undetectable as I could, I led the cart back to the yacht.

For the next two hours I unpacked the duffels and filled the cabinets with everything I'd found. They weren't so much as half filled when I finished. Tomorrow I'd have to go out again and rummage for more food. I could be out for weeks and if those cabinets weren't filled there was always a chance I'd get lost and starve to death. Which, I guess didn't sound so bad. But starvation was an undesirable way to go. Without anything better to do, I sat around for another number of hours that seemed to stretch on like nothing else.

Really, I have no idea what I thought I should've done with my time. All I really knew was that it felt like a waste of it, like there was something I was supposed to be doing. But it had been twenty-five years since I'd spent this much time alone and I was hating every second of it. Instinctively I knew when exactly I was to do everything that had been a part of my nightly routine.

Have a shower
Make dinner
Read the girls a book
Watch the news
Talk with Lara
Go to bed
Read until Lara comes to bed
Fall asleep with Lara in my arms.

I couldn't bring myself to so much as make dinner.

So instead, I sat and stared at the walls, muttering to myself like I thought it would bring them back. I knew it wouldn't, but I didn't know what to do with myself.By no means had I forgotten who I was without them, I just didn't want to be that man again. It was fun then, but the things you do when you're twenty, the girls you see, the fun you have and the mistakes you make. They just don't work anymore when you have better things going on.

"Yunno, Shaylene, it'd be great if I could talk to Shay now." I could hear Croft's voice in my ears. I shook out my head trying to quit imagining him being there. There was enough self pity going on between my ears I didn't need to start remembering my lifelong friend too. "Oh come on, Mrs. Pityparty." his fingers snapped inside my head.

"I'm so not in the mood for this." I grunted, getting up from the couch I'd been sitting on and wandering into the minibar across the room. A bit of scotch, I figured, and then I'd try to get some sleep. Key word there being try. So that was what I did.

"Come on,  Ackerman. There isn't a knight in shining armour on his way to scoop up your ass and carry you into the sun. Or off to magic planet. Buck up, put on your god damn big boy pants and find some civilization."

I knew I wouldn't stop hearing his voice until I addressed it right. This happened a lot, but I never actually dealt with it. "Fine, Mike. I'll find some fucking civilization."

"You never use that bloody brain of yours, Ackerman." Croft laughed, though it sounded more like a wheeze because the man smoked too much. "You never thought to think the American's haven't sent off their last craft yet, you bloody moron."

They hadn't sent off their last craft? They had to have, the American peace keepers were near the top in the development of mass crafts and had done their best to evacuate areas as fast as... I was going overseas to find Callum. If I expected to find him of all people in a nation that size, what was so far fetched in thinking he'd be there because the craft hadn't departed yet?

"Thanks, Croft." I whispered, feeling partly like an idiot for thanking a voice in my skull, but feeling slightly reassured in both having someone to talk to, and being called an idiot by him. I skipped the scotch and hurried down to the part of the yacht where the bed was. Quickly I set the clock for sunrise, five o'clock a.m. because that was the safest time to go out and pillage for food.

Morning came, eight duffels filled with food got packed and then another five until I had no space left, not even in the hiding places and the cellar in the yacht's belly. Then I set out, programming for straight travel to the Boston harbour. The GPS screen reported a two week voyage, discounting storm and debris, which suited me fine enough.

The real problem was going to be finding something to do with those two weeks. There wasn't a soul to talk to, not even a dog to fetch with. No stories to read or news to watch. Everything was dead outside and in, and I was beginning to feel like I was the only life form left on earth at all.

That first day was excruciating. Not a thing to do but sit and stew. Think. The walls of the yacht were too high to touch the water, the screens had been broken and the movie cards were all crushed. I hadn't set off until three in the afternoon, but that was three and a half hours before a meal time and eight hours until it was time for me to sleep.

So, rather than do anything productive I sat and watched the water go by, eyes fixating on broken pieces of aircraft carriers and dead mines and shredded clothes float past. I saw the occasional piece of body, though I couldn't be sure if I was seeing things or truly seeing those hands come up against the side of the boat. Eventually the body parts became too much, they flooded the ocean with blood, all of it turning red ever so slowly, beginning to come to a boil, churning. Twisting, washing the body parts under and kneading them into the radioactive human stew that I was sailing through. And suddenly I was caught in a wave of nausea like sea sickness I'd never had before.

I hurled once before turning away from the edge overlooking the ocean, curling against the yacht wall, heaving and keeping my eyes squeezed shut so tight the muscles were sore. They started to talk, those bodies. Crawling, clawing at the edges of the vessel. Screaming and wailing, begging for help. Accusing me of forsaking them. I told myself over and over, they are not there but they didn't go. Not until pressed the heels of my hands into my eyes and started to sing.

Well, I'll call it singing but that was hardly what it was. More like, screaming, trying to sing but screeching and squawking because I couldn't carry a tune in a bucket. Old pirate shanties, sailing songs until the water and my stomach finally settled. It had never been bad like that before, nothing that vivid, that disturbing. I tried not to think about it but everything, even the sickly cries of the radiating seagulls could take my mind away from it. What was that? Where would I have seen something like that? Then I remembered. It was the last time I'd sailed alone. After that day I'd vowed to never do it again. But somehow I'd forgotten. Everyone on my ship, my crew, every last one of them bombed to hell, some kind of unexpected attack from a thought to be neutral nation. My friends shot into the water, blown to bits or thrown overboard from the shock like myself. There was nothing left of that vessel, the men, those who weren't dead or dismembered armless crawled desperately on the smoking chunks of metal trying to scream for help or crying out in agony. Within days, they all died. Every one of them but me.

Miracle survivor named Lieutenant after deadly naval mission.

But no one ever asked what happened. And I'd forgotten. Until now. After that, I doubted I could ever forget again. The terror was fresh again, but there was no coma to wash it away this time.