Civilisation, as Brad saw it anyway, had died with Martha.
He stood at the window of his cottage, rifle leaning against the wall, within reach.
They were out there.
He couldn't see them, or hear them. But he could sense them.
Jeff said that he needed to get help - grief therapy or something. But Jeff didn't know what the fuck he was talking about.
Anyway, most of the therapists had been imprisoned.
Or that was what he'd heard on the one station he could pick up on his old radio. Not that Brad cared. He had never been a fan of "talking about feelings". He was a man of action. Always had been, always will be.
Where was your action when they came for me? Martha's voice echoed around his head.
"I didn't know," he said out loud. "I thought everything would work out."
He thought he heard her laugh, but it could have been the peacock that strutted outside. He missed her laugh. Even when she was laughing at him and his "strange ideas" it always had cheered him up.
But now, nothing seemed to bring a smile to his face.
...
