((again!  alternate near future stuff in the TSW verse.  Not canon in any way ;) ))

Over the next two days, the cycle repeated. Frank would wake up, get his bearings, go outside. He'd see the same hazy half-light, feel the same hush upon the land. Sometimes falling ash, sometimes not. Then back into the shack, examine the map that bore his writing, make some food, then curl up against the cold and go back to sleep. On the third day, Frank accepted that if this was another occultly tinged dream, it wasn't going to end any time soon.

From what Frank knew of the Secret World, a never ending dream was a distinct possibility. A possibility that was never a good one, given who—and what—were connected to the concept of a continual waking dream.

Which was stranger? That he was lost in a dream, or that he had somehow crossed a gulf of time and geography without explanation?

By the light of the Coleman, Frank gathered up his rifle, the bandolier, a compass and enough food and water for a day in a pack. Then he untacked the map, folded it, and stepped out of the shack. It was time to see if he could figure out exactly where he was.

It took Frank a good ten minutes to work his way down from the summit of the rocky hill where the shack was located, moving past leafless trees and large stones. If not for the fact he felt no connection whatsoever to his anima, Frank might have simply started running and bounding down the hill. Falls of any height held little fear for a Chosen of Gaia.

But he didn't feel the magic, didn't feel that power, and so Frank was loathe to go break his legs like an idiot.

About half way down, Frank spotted a two lane paved road running past the hill, and a small river past that, moving parallel. At the base of the hill Frank crunched through gravel and scree to step up onto the road. Casting about this way and that, he then set his gaze on some road signs a hundred yards away, and walked over to them.

'US-119 S,' read one, as he got closer.

'Glenville, 2 miles,' read the other. Frank pulled out his map, scrutinizing it. Normally standing in the middle of a road reading a map was dangerous, but Frank had a feeling there wasn't going to be much motor traffic today.

Whatever today actually was.

So. His little bolt hole was situated roughly two miles north of Glenville, West Virginia.

Frank folded the map up carefully and slipped it back into his pack, reshouldered it, and picked up his rifle. Time to go to Glenville and see what he could see.

When Frank had gone to bed a few days ago in Ealdwic—was it a few days ago?--he had been an anima imbued champion of the Secret World. Anima coursed and roared throughout his body, buzzed around his brain. He could use it to do extraordinary things; throw fire and lightning from his hands, heal wounds incredibly quickly, manage trick shooting beyond all but the most skilled and naturally gifted soldiers. He could also run for hours on end. He'd be famished after expending so much energy, but it was something he could do.

Now he couldn't, he had a feeling. Rather than risk exhaustion, Frank conserved his energy and walked at a steady pace along the two lane highway. As he did, he continued to notice the lack of noise. No airplanes going overhead, no cars elsewhere on the road. No radios or conversation from the few quiet and darkened houses he passed on his way in to Glenville.

At one point, though, Frank spotted a pair of deer in the trees, moving slowly. Now and then Frank could hear birdsong, but it was the intermittent calls one would expect in winter. Still, he thought it a good sign. If even the animals were absent...well. It didn't bear much thinking about.

Glenville itself was a ghost town. Frank had at first crept from cover to cover; cars just sitting abandoned, the corners of buildings, but eventually he simply walked right down Main Street. There weren't any signs of violence that he could see—no bodies, no bullet-holes or scorch marks. As he continued to amble his way down the road, rifle held across his chest, Frank noticed there didn't even seem to be any looting that had taken place. Cars hadn't been broken into, houses and businesses didn't appear to have been smashed up.

Everyone was simply gone.

After a few minutes of more walking, Frank found himself next to 'The Common Place,' what looked like the small town's main restaurant. Peering inside, Frank could see chairs stacked on tables, but there looked like an accumulation of dust. Folks had packed up and just left. Sitting heavily on a concrete bench alongside the road, Frank rubbed a hand over his face and through his beard (which still itched, the damn thing).

Where did everybody go?

The chill wind that had rattled his shack blew debris through the street. Old papers, plastic bags. One paper flitted past his boot, and seeing what looked to be an official seal on it, Frank stopped it with his boot. Arching an eyebrow, he bent low to pick it up.

It bore the iconography of United States Northern Command. Also attached were the emblems of the Department of Homeland Security and the Federal Emergency Management Agency.

His eyebrows went up further as he read the leaflet.

It told whoever would read one of these leaflets that the safety of citizens in all states east of a line running from Cleveland, Ohio to New Orleans, Louisiana could no longer be guaranteed. That all citizens were encouraged to pack for a trip of several days and move in a safe, orderly fashion west. That there were civil and military authorities awaiting them in midwestern and southern cities like Cincinnati, Nashville, Memphis and so on.

That no attempt to reach family members east of the line should be attempted.

There was a list of roads leading west known to be safe 'at present.' And an admonishment to use paper maps, to not use cell phones or laptops or connect to the internet in any way.

What the hell?

Frank had no idea how old the leaflet might be. Exhaling slowly he folded it in his hands, put it in his pocket, and got up off the bench. He stood there on Main Street in Glenville, outside the clearly long empty restaurant for several minutes, running his thumb over the top of his rifle. Fallen leaves and litter whirled like dervishes past him, heedless of what was going through his mind.

He had to move west. This wasn't some kind of dream, and he had to move west.

The thought came to him, and he nodded to himself slowly. It didn't seem possible, didn't seem even probable...but he had laid down on his couch in his Darkside apartment and woken up in some terrible future in his home country. He was without his powers. If he died, he would never find out what on earth had happened here.

And to find answers, he had to move west.

“Go west, young man,” Frank rasped quietly, shaking his head. How the hell was he going to do it?

Just then voices came to him on the wind. Adults. And then what really sounded like children.

Further up the street. Taking a deep breath, Frank started to cautiously make his way towards the noise. Seemingly he wasn't the only one who needed to get out of Glenville.

The sign above the gas station read 'Mountaineer Mart,' in big blue letters on a yellow field, trimmed in red. Signage in the windows told him that jugs of Arizona Tea was on sale, along with 'king sized' candy bars. Other signs stapled to the wooden garbage dumpster corral listed the price of a carton of Marlboro cigarettes. The Mountaineer Mart looked to be the type of place townies would come to just before the weekend—get their beer, their snacks. Talk to their neighbors about whether they were staying in town or going camping or visiting family. Now the mart was dark and silent in the half-light.

There was also a quartet of gas pumps.

One of them had a blue SUV fueling up. It seemed the pumps had been left in operation. As Frank neared the station, he noticed hastily written signs in black marker on the pumps.

'Take what you need. Good luck, and God be with us all.' Well, damn.

Frank could now make out some of the voices. It seemed they were on the opposite side of the SUV, out of his field of vision.

“I really didn't think there'd be anything left,” said a man's voice.

“Don't think a lot of people came this way, baby,” replied a woman. “This is kinda off the map. Now are you happy we came looking for my aunt Renata? Gas you didn't have to barter or beg for.”

“We wouldn't need more gas if we didn't come this way,” the man grumbled back.

“Can I go into the candy bar place?” A child's voice. A little boy.

“The candy bar place---oh, the mart. No, no, you can't go in there. You don't need candy bars.” The man again, chuckling this time.

“Daaaaaaad.”

Frank couldn't help but smile. Despite all the signs that something truly horrific had happened to a good portion of the United States—and maybe the world—kids were still kids. Something terrible was sweeping over the land, and this kid was still worried about getting a king-sized candy bar.

His smile slipped a bit as he wondered how he might look to the trio on the other side of the vehicle. Big 'ole messy beard, backpack, ammo bandolier and a rifle. Lowering the rifle so the barrel was pointed at the ground, Frank took a deep breath, then spoke aloud.

“Uh, 'scuse me y'all, I heard ya from th' street over--”

At 'Uh' there was a squawk of alarm and obscenities from behind the SUV, and suddenly the man was in view, leaning around the back of the vehicle. Of middling height with an expanding belly, the man had skin the color of dark coffee, a shaved head with a neatly trimmed beard, and had utilitarian clothing on along with a Pittsburgh Steelers jacket. All these features were secondary to Frank.

The main feature was the sawed off shotgun he was pointing at Frank.

“Stay back, motherfucker! No squid-head is going to attack my family! I'll blow you away, man! I'll kill you so bad your tentacle headed momma will feel it--”

Frank kept the rifle low in one hand, and raised the other. He really, really didn't want to find out whether or not the Bees would still put him back together.

“Mister, I'm sorry for startlin' you, but--”

“I will blow you in half!”

This is going well, thought Frank, as the little boy then stuck his head around the edge of the SUV. Frank could hear the woman calling the child to come back.

“Aw, dad, he's not a squid-head.”

Frank blinked.

“I'm totally not, kid.”

“Andre, get back here!” The mother, Frank now presumed.

“Well, he's not!” Frank could only see his face, but the kid seemed to be four or five. The dad wasn't convinced.

“Andre, stay with your mom, and I'll handle--”

“He's a mountain man!”

The child was smiling, seemingly unconcerned. The man with the shotgun just gaped for a moment. Frank tried what he hoped was his best, most charming Calhoun grin.

“Heh, yeah. That's...pretty much me.”

The child kept right on smiling, and looked up at his father.

“A mountain man...at the Mountaineer Mart!” A hand with a pointing finger came into view, poking upwards at the sign above the gas station.

The father kept staring at Frank, clutching the shotgun as if waiting to see if tentacles starting sprouting from his head. Even with the shotgun, it was all Frank could do not to start laughing as the woman's head came into view, edging around the SUV as well.

“...baby, I don't know if he's a mountain man, but I don't think he's a squid-head.” The woman, similar in complexion to the man, had her hair cut close to her scalp, and had a sharp, searching gaze. She stared at Frank for a few minutes, then started talking again.

“Mister...we're sorry about that. It's been a few days since we've seen other people. Other real people. Isn't that right baby?”

The man suddenly looked incredibly sheepish, and lowered the shotgun.

“Sorry, man, sorry...Lord, I'm so sorry. You just wanted to see who was here and I tried to stick this shotgun up your nose. I'm sorry man.”

Frank exhaled slowly, and nodded, lowering the hand he'd raised. He was about to tell a lie, but not much of one. It would be more believable than 'I went to bed in a different time and woke up here.'

“Y'all don't gotta apologize for bein' safe an' protectin' yer family...but thanks. Like yer boy said, I'm, ah, kinda an off th' grid guy. And, well...things have moved past where I can jus' kinda stay off by m'self.” The man nodded in return, the shotgun lowered by his side.

“No kidding, man. These past five years...” He trailed off, suddenly squinting at Frank.

“You don't have a cell phone, right? No cell phone?” Frank raised up the hand again, wishing he'd had a strap or sling for the rifle so he could stop holding it with his other hand.

“Ah, no, no cell phone,” he said, thinking back to the leaflet. “I know better than that.” Although I don't know why we're not supposed to have them. The man looked relieved.

“Good, good...I mean, everyone knows! But, you know, you being an off the grid guy...”

“So, my name is Jessica, and this is my husband Issac, and this is Andre,” interjected the woman, now coming out from behind the SUV with the child, who was still grinning fit to burst at Frank.

“Hi mountain man,” he said cheerfully. Frank winked down at him.

“Y'all can call me Frank.”

“So...where you headed, Frank?” Jessica stood behind her son, resting her hands on his shoulders.

“Jus' tryin' t' go west, now. I hear Cincinnati is safe, an' I had family there. Want t' get there an' see if they're still...if they're still aroun'.”

As he uttered the words, it dawned on Frank that it was entirely possible none of his relatives were still alive. Maybe none of his friends, either.

That potential reality started to sink in, heavy and thick and suffocating, and it must have shown on his face. Both adults faces grew sympathetic.

“Hey, yeah. We know how it feels, man. We know how it feels. But last we heard, Cincinnati hadn't been hit like some other cities, so...maybe they're still there, y'know?”

Frank shrugged lightly at Issac. Behind him, the wind picked up again, sending a cold current running against his body. “Maybe. Maybe.”

Issac frowned slightly, looking in the back window of the SUV.

“Listen, Frank...I'd really like to help you out, I know traveling by truck or car has gotta be faster than walking, and we're heading towards Cincinnati...but we're starting to run low on food...” As he spoke, Jessica assumed a pained expression.

“He's right. We barely have enough for us, we've had to use a lot for bartering...” She trailed off as Frank grinned crookedly at the three.

“Y'know, on that front? I reckon I can help.”

There was no way they could take the entire contents of Frank's bolt-hole, but they were able to get a good amount. The camp stove, Coleman, medical and survival kits came, along with much of the water and some canned food and MREs. The water especially was important; human beings could survive for weeks without food or on very little, but that survival time was cut to days if water was removed from the equation.

Issac just smiled in amazement as they carried items back and forth down the hill to the vehicle.

“I used to think guys like you were crazy, man. Getting ready for the end of all things...well, you're looking pretty smart now, aren't ya?”

Frank had chuckled dryly as he lashed some of the supplies to the cargo rails on the SUV's roof.

“I'm only a dummy half th' time, Issac. Sometimes I get it right.”

Having taken as much as they could from the shack, Frank told the family to wait back on the road. He was taking a risk—they could just drive off with a good portion of his supplies, leaving him worse off than before—but he had a feeling they'd stick around.

He stood in the shack, rifle resting in the crook of his arm, the interior lit by washed out light coming in through the open door. There was still foodstuffs and supplies here someone could use. Reflecting on the sign he had seen at the Mountaineer Mart, Frank searched for scrap paper and pens. There were still the pens he'd used on the map (the writing was in his hand, after all, whether he could remember it or not), but no paper. Blinking, Frank remembered the leaflet.

Pulling it out of his pocket and fetching one of the tacks from the wall, Frank wrote a brief message on the back then affixed it to the outer door of the shack for those who might come upon it.

'Take what you need. Good luck, and God be with us all.'