Chapter One
A lone figure staggered through the once majestic streets of London, holding a bottle in his only hand. He stopped at the side of the river and watched the rubbish filled, dirty brown water flow.
The young man sighed sadly as he saw yet another bloated body float downstream and get snagged on a piece of rubble. This sight was all too common these days. He bent his head in a gesture of respect and stood still. He raised his bottle to the sky in a toast and gulped.
A lone tear fell from his dull green eyes and was left to wend its way along the man's scarred face. The man turned his back on the river and lurched through the rubble in the eerily silent streets. He could hear only his own shuffling footsteps and the occasional rustling of paper blowing in the breeze.
It has been too long since his last contact with a human. He had not seen any survivors for months and relied solely on foraging to eek out his sorry existence.
The man, whose eyes had seen so much, continued walking. He walked and walked, lost in his memories of death and destruction. Once, SHE (he dared not to think of her name) would have pulled him out of his depression but she was long gone, lost to the chaos that had ruined the once great society. The flood gates had opened and he remembered her, her and her beautiful smile.
Lost in his thoughts, he tripped and fell down a flight of stairs. He sprawled at the bottom, disappointed to find that he was still alive. He had tried so many times to go on to the next great adventure, but had failed again and again.
He kicked and screamed, writhing on the ground as he cursed his miserable existence. His voice grew hoarse and he lay there on the rubble, sobbing.
An untold time passed before than man shakily arose. He found his bottle broken, and threw it into the darkness, listening for the thud as it hit the bottom.
He groaned and continued walking. His stash was at the other end of the city and he needed to finish foraging before returning home. The forlorn figure walked with stooped shoulders down the dark passageway, lit only with a ball of light emanating from his palm.
The dark passageways seemed familiar and he felt a strange sense of déjà vu. He knew this place, but from where? He climbed over piles of rubble, seeking clues to reveals its existence and came upon a circular room with many doors. His sense of déjà vu grew deeper as he surveyed the room. The doors had been kicked in. He kept on walking, guided by a strange feeling inside himself.
He continued climbing over the pile of rubber and shivered as he felt an energy covering his body. The energy passed, but he could still feel its echoes. He remembered. This was where it had all started. This is where THEY recognized the return.
He could no longer hear just his own, shuffling footsteps. He could hear the faint sounds of voices, the words indecipherable but clearly there. He could hear the rustling of a cloth, flowing in the breeze.
This is where he had lost HIM. This is where his depression started. This is what had made him believe that there was no other choice. This could be his last chance to leave the devastated wastelands of England.
The man cackled and held an imaginary glass to the roof and pretended to drink. He walked up the steps to the fluttering veil and turned, saluting an imaginary audience. Without hesitation, the man spread his arms and fell into the veil.
The last man left in England, the 21-year-old Boy-Who-Lived, had finally escaped his miserable life. England was empty.
