San Francisco has been carved up like a turkey into a feudal structure. I feel like an anthropologist living among a tribe of cannibals—watching, probing, studying, but always eyed like I might be next on the dinner menu. I have to watch the Children, the Hackers, the Scavengers, and the Forsaken… along with who or whatever else may be out there
This is the rant I will put at the start of all my communications to the East Coast. Why? In part because I can. Also, I don’t know if these reports will be intercepted by anyone, and if they are, then just one report won’t be enough to establish context. And, because, as long as I keep writing these reports, someone will know I’m still alive... Even if it’s only me. The last thing my wife asked of me was to live. And I keep my promises.
So, to the East, I have a message. My name is Kevin Anderson. I am many things. Soldier. Spy. Widower. Pain in the Ass. Exile. Inconvenient. I am hurt. I am weary. I'm bone tired, on the edge of exhaustion, perhaps even on the edge of sanity. But I am still alive.
Come and get me.
Codename: Winterborn (The Last Survivors Book 1) Page 35