CHAPTER ELEVEN: LOOSE ENDS

The campsite was quiet. Richard had prepared dinner—roasted squirrels, again. He left Collins and Johns to their own devices.For Collins, this meant keeping the group's weapons. He did it with almost obsessive fervour. With nothing but a screwdriver, he set about disassembling their guns. One at a time, careful not to lose any parts, looking for any signs of wear or damage. When he was positive the weapon was in working condition, he put it back together and got to work on the next one. It was a habit he had picked up in the 90's, during his first few years in service. Back then, he was all over the place. He had the endurance and stamina of a good soldier. But, he lacked discipline. It wasn't that he acted against the rules, he was just raring to go, 24/7, to the point where rules became second priority.His sister had written to him then, to offer words of advice. She was an anchor of a woman, someone whom Collins could rely on to put up with him anytime. Anchor was very fitting—she had gone to join the Navy at around the same time he joined the SAS.Dear Zach, I hear you're having trouble in the Brecon Beacons again. I'm not going to lecture because I know you won't read it, so I'll be quick. What I'm asking is for you to slow down. You got all the time in the world to do your training, so calm the hell down and relish your time. Yours truly, Bell.Collins smiled to himself. He kept the letter in his helmet at all times, but he didn't need it to know what it said. Pulling back the slide on his Desert Eagle, he began to ponder where on earth her sister could be. On the other side of camp, Johns was asking himself the same thing. That VHS tape was resting on his lap, but he couldn't bring himself to actually touch the thing.That meant turning it on, and he didn't think he could follow through with that. He remembered his brother well enough to not need the tape to listen to his voice, so why was he wanting to listen to it?The question ate away at him until he could stand it no longer. He took the thing in his hand, pressing the little play button with the other. A little tone played, and then he heard his brother's voice, a lively, youthful baritone. It radiated enthusiasm in a measured, scholarly manner."Hello- this is Dr. Anthony Johns speaking, here with entry 17 of my research into the many worlds theory. Uninitiated listeners may know this idea as the multiverse theory. They hold that same hypothesis, that our universe is one of many parallel to it, yet just like it. I want you to picture a paper. Any kind will do, A4, A5, red, white, whatever. Let's say this paper is our universe. The idea is that the universes in question exist on top of each other. Like a great big infinitely tall, possibly infinitely expanding stack of paper.""This theory has made headway in the media—mostly as a plot device for action films, I believe. And due to how difficult it is to prove, it may stay fiction. For example, the thought experiment I presented you with is drastically oversimplified. First of all, the universe is infinite and steadily expanding. Meaning our piece of paper would have to be infinitely long and wide. It also means that the paper can't be two-dimensional. Research in string theory and other subjects has shown proof for up to 11 dimensions. That's seven more than the ones we can perceive—length, depth, height, and time. It also questions how the universe can be infinite. It must encompass everything we know, will know, and will come to know. And how yet they exist alongside more infinite universes just like it. As much as this sounds like hair-splitting, it is true. There aren't reams of infinitude as there are reams of paper—that's like having... well, err—that's the thing. You can't compare the boldness of such a theory to anything we can readily perceive."A knocking at his door interrupted Ant's little science rant. John was so lost in the research log that the sudden silence snapped him out of the trance. Back to grim, bleak reality. Where no one looked to the stars or questioned the universe, instead only looking for their next meal."Oh, I think that's Graham. I've got to go. If you'd like more info on this topic, my papers should be accessible online or at the Cambridge Uni library."Silence once more.John swallowed, unsure of what to make of the torrent of emotions tumbling about in his head. For a moment, sweet nostalgia for a world far gone caught him. Where people had time to actually think about more than guns and Blighters. There was a surge of joy he felt hearing his brother talk. He didn't understand half of it. But it was still a relief to hear.John's eyes dropped to the log, but the words meant nothing now. The silence was a heavy burden, weighing him down. He felt lost, unsure of what to do or think.It was all so bittersweet. Johns felt disgusted at himself for a moment. The others weren't wallowing in the past, so why should he? With a sigh, he pocketed the tape, sitting down next to the Sergeant.Meanwhile, Richard was busy attending dinner. The roast squirrel was coming well, but now he needed a side to go with it. He had some apples in his duffel bag, but they could be saved for later. There was still a can of Heinz beans left, though. He could make that work.He was the Prime Minister; if he couldn't make some beans work with a squirrel, how could he run the government?For a moment, he allowed himself the smallest of smiles. God, it sounded daft. Even worse, it sounded exactly like the kind of thing Clark would say. Clark the Snark, he used to call him. Clark was only too happy to return the favor, usually some variation of his nickname. Richard recalled a time in his life when he deeply regretted bearing the name Richard. The "Vote for Dick" jokes were driving him half mad. But people did vote for Dick. He supposed he did have Clark to thank, to some extent.Clark himself was sitting atop Roger's Chevy, next to the car's owner. He had produced that dusty tone he nicked from the church, by Father Nicholas. Roger was leafing through a book of his own, a paperback that couldn't be more than two hundred pages long."What's that you got there? Some kind of spellbook?" Roger asked, stuffing his book into his back pocket."I wish. Something on the anatomy of the blighters.""Chu need that for?""Well, err," Clark started. "Know your enemy?""Goodness me, first Merlin's spell book, now Sun Tzu?" Roger tutted, taking another Marlboro Light out of his breast pocket."Fine, let's see what you're reading," Clark said, raising his eyebrows in a "I've got you now" sort of way.Roger was only too happy to oblige, taking his paperback back out. It was a slim thing, titled The Book of the Stag."The hell's that, then?""This," Roger raised his chin proudly, "is the only book on Earth that has my name in the acknowledgments.""You're joking me.""I ain't." He shoved the thing into Clark's hands, pointing at the name of the author. "Read it.""Err- Edwin Winston? Ain't that the fella who everyone fancies to be the next Stephen King or Lovecraft?" Clark said, squinting at the book."Something like that - only got to publish five books before this whole thing went down. "Technically, it was four. "But this launched the day before the blighters came," Roger said, lighting up the Marlboro."Poor guy. Is that the only copy of that book, then?" Clark asked with mild interest. This conversation was so normal, he couldn't help but want to know where it was headed."Yeah, kind of anyway. They're probably sitting on long-abandoned WHSmith shelves across the country. Or Roland's wiping his bum with one. You never know, really."Roland's harsh, low voice sounded out from inside the car: "I only do that with the newspaper, mate."Roger was grinning now, ear to ear, "Putting the Sun where the sun don't shine?" The whole exchange was immature. But it didn't stop all three of them from giggling like schoolboys at some phallic graffiti.