[ WP ] A man journeys cross-country to the ( now abandoned ) hospital where his father worked and died . What he finds there changes his life .

Dunc threw his pack back on. He felt his damp shirt tighten around him. He had sweated past decapitated office buildings and crushed harbours strewn with boat corpses. He climbed mountains via the old veins of crumbling highways. He slept in brick houses which held unknown ghosts and cracked in the wind. Food was plentiful- label-less cans of surprise meat and fruit, or wild animals that would easily accept their end. Potatoes and corn dotted his path in some regions. 
 
 The walking did n't bother him. Not walking did n't either. At night he would read whatever he could find. *On the Beach. Dog Tricks for Dummies. The Hunger Games. Dune. Atlas Shrugged*. Authors dead to his praise or curses. Once he found a solar powered house, and let his mind binge on a hard-drive for a week. Dunc needed that rest, but would n't have stopped if he realised how close he was. One more week and he would be there. 
 
 When that week was up and he stood in front of the hospital doors, he suddenly felt nervous. He had felt it before, around people. When he was in primary school and he brought in his dads medical kit for show and tell. Standing up in front of everyone to talk about it. He stumbled on the word *immunology* and went bright red. Dunc realised how silly it all was now, and longed for his face to be flushed from embarrassment rather than a steep hike. 
 
 He pushed open the door. *Ward seven*. That's what he was looking for. He had memorised the laminated map and narrative of directions left to him by his father. He kept it, but did n't need it. Especially now. He pushed the elevator button out of habit, accepted the obvious denial and found some stairs. 
 
 Somewhere at the end this latest part of his journey was a sign declaring his presence in Ward seven. So close now. He wandered back and forth, swiping at dusty name plates until he found it. His father's old office. His dad had worked here, often slept here, and probably died here. Dunc jiggled the handle but was unsuccessful. He kicked the door. It was weathered enough to snap- the mouldy door frame cracking in a few different spots. Inside, on the desk, he found what would change his life. A simple note in writing he still recognised after fifteen years. *Fifteen years*. Of walking. Sleeping on the ground, or in abandoned beds. In houses missing their roofs, or left as shells from vicious summer fires. Loneliness. Alone-ness. Walking, for this. He picked up the note. 
 
 *Duncan, * 
 
 *I hope this letter finds you well and wish that I could have done more to be with you at the end. I wasted my last days here, researching, writing and trying to stop the inevitable. * 
 
 *For this, my dearest and now only son, I am sorry. * 
 
 *Even if I had have wanted to leave, I do n't think the Government would have let me. * 
 
 *I hope your has Uncle prepared you for the journey here, and for what is ahead. On the other side of this note is a list of instructions; a map of sorts, to help you make it to your cousin. She knows to wait for you, and is probably the second last person left on this earth. * 
 
 *In the drawer, is a gun. You are now old enough to make your own decisions, and I trust you are strong enough to make the correct ones. * 
 
 *Your father. *
