“Someone dear to me once said, even when one loses everything in the ruins of civilization, they hope, and that hope keeps them alive and continues to fight for a better tomorrow. If we keep weeping for longer, what about the others who are still waiting to be saved?. That doesn't help to end these things; it's a continuous mourning until one rises for the fallen civilization. Don't let weeping hold you down while others hope you will come and save them. Now, adapt and survive and lend your hands to others who deserve survival too.”  
Everyone was in deep silence. It was wrong but right at the same time. If all of this doesn't happen, those words are wrong at different levels, but now, where everyone and everywhere has fallen, it's necessary to keep moving for others who have the chance.  
“And, what happened to that person who is dear to you?.” 
Walter lets out.  
“He went missing in his journey to find what was supposed to be a true cure, which might still be in the research facilities where everything first happened. We lost contact with him; next month will be exactly a year since he's gone. And three years since everything happened so quickly.” 
Walter chuckled. Having no idea who it was, but it sounds like a really dumb person who went for something uncertain.  
“I want to know more about this person.”  
“He's precious to everyone who he has saved. To me, he is my godson who conveniently becomes my reason to be alive. When everyone else was at a dead end, he forced open the wall to be another path to walk together.”  
Blythe coughed dramatically. 
“And I think our precious Walter here has people to meet. Go take that talk somewhere else, far from Walter. As his guardian, I don't approve of your action.”  
Blythe stressed Walter's name. Caine looked at him, suspicion lurking in his chest.  
“Just for a few months. And you got your head deep in delusion?.” 
Blythe jolted up, knocking the heavy seat down to the ground. Instead of the wood, the floor was entirely dirt, and the seat was engraved deep in the red dirt ground. Unwavering to his threat, Caine stomped closer, ready to throw a hand. Their muscles twitching in anticipation, the heat was burning hotter than the sunlight, which now has paint crimson in the sky.  
“Enough, you two. You scared the poor lady.”  
Walter stood before walking to the old woman, who had fear smeared on her face. Walter took notice of the tray and held out his hand to take it from her. She flinched before taking her eyes off the two hot-tempered men to the calm young one.  
“Walter.”  
She greeted and cracked a small warm smile.  
“Come eat dinner at the dining area. We finished cooking. You too, Walter. You've been out quite long.”  
She said, as she calmed down in the presence of Walter beside her. Walter nodded.   
“Yes, we will do so. Thank you, and sorry for troubling you into coming here.”  
She patted his back before walking out from one of the hallways. Well, at least she doesn't see the hole he created in one of those walls.  
“I want to go visit my house first.”  
Those two nodded as they were ready to follow him.  
“Alone!.”  
“But it's too dangerous!.”  
Caine wheezed. 
He tried to school his face, but the worry was clearly written even though the efforts.  
“You guys already checked the damage, and there's not one undead walking here. And I need my time alone, far from you guys sticking into my ass like I am your goddamn hen and you're a chick. I can protect myself.”  
He tried to make a reason for them to stay in the house.  
“Outside. We'll wait outside. That would be safer, no?. We can have ourselves assure of your safety and you can have your privacy?.” 
Walter pondered in thought. It's not like he can make any better deal. It's this or something like them breathing on his neck. If he tried to push them again, they would just come on all forcefully, assertively, and protectively. What's wrong with the two to be that clingy? He doesn't know.  
“Fine.”  
The three walked before the night fell; the crimson slowly tainted the blue sky earlier. Their step was slow and alert as their eyes skimmed the bodies. It's not that far; the house was the first one next to the main house anyway. Maybe his position as a chief here helped that. The dried blood on the front door greeted him. A nail scratches decorating the hinges door. His breath halted in his throat, his heart thumping harder in his rib.  
“We can turn back if you want.”  
Caine softly called out. Walter wants to say no. In his head was loud, firm, and harsh; no, it could have faltered the offer. But, in reality, all he could do was shake his head, trying hard to keep his feelings inside. Taking a deep breath, his trembling hands hold the door leaf, steadying his unsteady heartbeat.
The rotten smell was foul in his throat. He walked inside; the couches were ripped apart, a spring prodding clearly in each of them; the scratches mark was nowhere near the amount he saw at the door; it was a lot clearer; the stress it put on the wooden wall was obvious. He takes another deep breath, facing the stairs; up there, there will be his room, his parents room, adopted, yes, but still his parents; he refuses to understand the word adopted.  
His knee was shaken then, but he tried to pull a brave card as he stepped onto the brick stairs, one by one. As he remembered, his mom's body lay here, in front of their room; true to his memories, a part of what was left of his mom was there. Her soft tissue was almost gone, some of her bone showing to the naked eye. Her face was half skeleton and half rotten flesh, dried blood sticky on the floor surrounding her, dirtied his new pants. Caine gave temporarily; he didn't care; Caine can wash it again later.  
He plopped next to her. Ignoring the smell.  
“Mom, I am home.” 
He said to the thin air. He used to hear the reply; now it was silent. His throat contracted, as if a bile in his throat refused to drop down. His stomach was unsettled, as if he could burst out laughing or crying; his chest was tight, so tight it felt too much in his ribs, as if it could explode and tears would flow down. He sighed. As he eyed what was left. His eyes suddenly take notice of something, her hands tightly gripping something, something silver. 
Something he knows. There's another room next to their parents room; apparently he thought it was her sewing stuff room, but it seems to be important.   
A swoosh of air hitting his arm. It was not cold but not warm either, somewhere in between, but enough to raise his hair all over his body. He ignored the feeling as his curiosity nibbled him from the inside, slowly eating him up. He glanced at the stairs that lead to the small living room and the entrance; both of his ‘bodyguards’ didn't say anything so far, and he turned to look at the corpse again.
He grabbed her hands, the bone and flesh making contact with him sending a shiver. Not a bad one, but suddenly he felt something chilling down his spine; perhaps he wasn't ready to see and touch her in this state she was in, and that's not including Dylan's corpse in his bedroom. He tried to softly pull the key without breaking any more tissue on her hand; he held his breath so hard with a loud thumping in his heart that it was clear even to his ear.  
He stood after a few seconds; the key was loose, perhaps because of lack of skin; it had more space in between than before. Was she holding it till her last breath?. He went to the door; his heart went even more erratic, if it's possible. He wants to doubt his choice, but at the same time, he wants to know. He pushed the key into the keyhole, twisting it until he heard a click; it echoed in the silent and empty house.  
He turned the knob, giving a short apology for intruding before he stepped inside. It was a small room, half the size of his and the original owner's room, the real Walter. There's a table on one side at his right and another one on his left facing each other. He slowly took a step further; a military bag was what took his attention first, sitting comfortably on the chair. Perhaps he could use that instead of two big duffels; he can make an adjustment. It's fine, right?. The two tables were facing the walls, and both left and right was a map of certain something. 
And there's a nagging feeling that makes him scratch his chest unconsciously as he takes a look at one of them. It was a map of some sort of building; there's a small line on the right, below the canvas, the lost city, and there's a date, dated to a year before, and a small note ‘by Smith.’ It was painted beautifully and as if it was spot on. It was a ten-floor with three basements, apparently; he wanted to say a breeding basement because there, at the lowest basement, it had a breeding and testing center, and above it was an egg room, and above it was security. 
That's the biggest security flaw he has ever seen. And above the ground floor wasn't that bad either; it consisted of lots and lots of laboratories. He swiped onto the table; books and papers now leave to dust. There's an open book, with neat handwriting and a drawing of some creature with some sort of science writing he can't understand, but he sure knows that drawing; they're literally everywhere at this point. The undead, the zombies. 
He scratched his chin, frustrated that he didn't understand a thing. It wasn't a surprise to him to see a smaller and shorter table next to it with a ridiculous number of wires that connect with the computer and other smaller things and vials with different liquids, and there's also a small square thing with temperature visible on it.  
“Huh…”  
He only managed to utter. He turned to the other side; there's also lots and lots of books on top of it and drawings and other things, but a small plastic toolbox with a bright yellow envelope and a paper with a list of his face and information. Truthfully, he refused to understand; he refused to agree; he tried to deny what he was seeing.
All this time, coping in the outpost, he denied all the calling as ‘als’; he didn't remember anything at all before the riverbank; he didn't remember his name as als, but people pointed to it as if it was a right and absolute; he refused to be someone he couldn't even remember; the fear of disappointing them was greater. So, he was happy as Walter Junior Smith, a brother to a dead son of a happily married couple who he thought until now was a normal couple because he was sure this was some experiment and a failed antidote to the virus that has been spreading for years now, that one he knew. He ignored the information but not the hasty written note attached to it.   
‘Walter Jr., I hope you come to this room. I am sorry I can't explain much, but take the box and the report book; make sure they reach Raven Shelter’s hand and not others. If we died, please burn all of this house to the ground; we can't risk all of our effort to fall on another hand but you. We beg you.’  
There's a big report book there, under the toolbox. He didn't know what to feel; with the dumping of information and all of these new things, he didn't know anything. He rubbed his head, the throbbing slowly coming, nesting inside his head. He turned to the board that had a few drawings of some sort of maps. In that drawing, there's a lost city just as written in the other side’s map and a few places that are drawn in red. 
It's ridiculously tickling inside his chest, forcing him to take each one and slip it inside the report book. He grabbed the military bag, shoving all the report book, the toolbox, his information, and the bright envelope.
He turned around, ripping the building’s map. He can't help but feel like everything is important; he had a gist of what this was about even if he doesn't understand a thing. He took what he deemed important before he rushed outside, almost toppling Blythe's back.
Both Caine and Blythe turned in unison with a concerned look on their faces.