As Franka had promised, there were no others in the house. It must once have been a wonderful place to live in for that family with their four children, two young teenage boys, and two kids of maybe four or six, one of them a girl, at least that was what the pictures showed that still hung here and there. The mother was a tall woman with a mane of blond curls, an air of energy, the father, even taller, was dark haired and balding, with kind eyes, a lanky look. His long, slender fingers seemed made for delicate work. Pictures usually showed the mother out in the garden, digging, chopping wood, physically active, often with her boys, and the father reading, cooking, or bent over small objects. The kids were attractive, all of them, the daughter delicate like an elf, with her mother's fair curls and her father's dreamy eyes.<br/><br/>The kitchen and most rooms of the ground floor seemed to have changed little since the house had become a safe harbour for a group of survivors, only rooms that had been for guests or storage had changed significantly, piles of mattresses wrapped in plastic and frames for beds were crammed into a room that must once have been used for little more than ironing, a storage room was full to the brim with sacks of wheat and beans, a wild assortment of jars and cans. Indeed, a lot of hoarding had gone on, from washing powder over toothbrushes to batteries, nails and screws, whatever was useful and would keep, was stacked somewhere, the entire cellar, half the attic, and several rooms bore witness to that new habit. Some of the former guest rooms had apparently become people's bedrooms, here and there, personal items, pictures, a bag with a name tag, a book, and the general atmosphere gave it the feel of belonging to someone particular rather than awaiting whoever might want to sleep in it.<br/><br/>One room held nothing but a table with several notebooks. It's walls were plastered with photographs, drawings, poems, small items, a ring, a wristwatch, some token or other that must have belonged to someone known, liked, loved, maybe, certainly remembered, for there were names and names, everywhere, hundreds of names, dates of birth, of death, or with a blank spot that might still be stared at with hope, still, by someone who would not give up waiting. Who had they been, all these people, and who kept their memories alive, came to pray, cry, seek communication, the way mourners did at the graves of beloved? Looking closely, one could find Franka's corner. Over thirty names and a few pictures for her family alone, a picture of her best friends, taken while mountaineering in the Alps, in which her first and only love hugged her, a young man in his early twenties, then, tanned, toned, with short, light brown hair and bright blue eyes. A picture of Derrick and his wife hung in the room, too.<br/><br/><br/><div align="center">*************************</div><br/><br/>Franka laughed at Utem's comment. "You wish! You can have a shower with Derrick here, to cool off or let the warmth loosen you up a bit, whatever you need most." She stuck out her tongue, grinning broadly, then walked past Hackett to have the soldier follow her, gun in hand, no doubt, ready to fire a bullet into her back as soon as she felt betrayed. Moving noiselessly over the expensive wooden floor, Franka opened every door, switched on the light, proved it was empty, held no dangers, that the windows were secure, and moved on, the library with its endless rows of books, from floor to ceiling, a room with a sofa and some armchairs, with a piano and several other instruments, guest rooms, a room next to the kitchen with a long table, most of the furniture and carpets were antiques, costly, but everything showed taste, care, had been lived in, used, loved.<br/><br/>Room after room was opened for inspection. Franka did not speak once, only when she opened the last door to a generous bathroom with its two showers and tub she looked at Hackett. "So - can we have that talk you wanted while I get cleaned up, or must it wait till after your - allocation of long term tasking?" It sounded not exactly gruff, resigned, rather. Her face, voice and motions betrayed tiredness, the wish to be left alone, perhaps. Small rivulets from her wet and bloody hair had begun to soak her top, the stench of Infected clung to her, bloody crusts and dark smears on her neck and arms stood out next to scratches and blue and red marks from the recent fights. "Look, I really want to get that filth off me. You people keep touching me, no matter how often I tell you not to, it's a hell of a stupid risk."