#v;--

Stuart couldn’t explain what had fallen upon the world... Nor was he blind. He had witnessed the decline with the rest of them. The disasters, the massacres, they’d taken their tole. He’d lost loved ones-- he’d lost contact-- yet miraculously, he'd remained alive. Was that lucky? He hadn’t decided. 

Camp Chitaqua was a dusty, gray oasis. Covered in dirt himself, with his muscles on fire from their strain, he couldn’t believe his eyes. Upon arrival he collapsed to the first available bed and slept for a day. No one disturbed him, and when he was ready, he was shown to the slop house. There he was fed. The last stop was one of hygiene. Stuart showered, and the feeling of hot water on his skin nearly broke him. For the first time in years he wept like a baby, ignoring the other blokes queued up for the latrine. 

With those formalities sated there wasn’t much left to do. He began to walk the premises. Test the borders. It was the noises that attracted him, very familiar, unapologetic noises issuing from of one the shack-cabins lining the property. Apparently, his timing was off. A small line of people were stepping down from the little porch-- ordered pattern, disordered appearance. He recognized the state. It was a pleasure he hadn’t had time to indulge in while fleeing for his life, and on another day the sight would have given him some amusement. Either way, this, whatever this was, demanded a closer examination. 

Stuart ducked through a beaded curtain, and took a look around. He wasn’t sure of what he'd find.