I think it’s when we fall into routines that we slowly start to die.

Not immediately, of course. It’s not like there’s some time bomb countdown clock ticking down, waiting for the right moment. More like a restlessness. We become too familiar with our surroundings. We get too comfortable. We start to get bored. Then it sets in and you start wondering if maybe there isn’t something you’re missing out on.

It happens to everyone, I think. Doesn’t matter if you climb mountains for a living or file taxes in some dark office. Eventually the routine of it gets to you. We started out as nomads, and the moment we deny that wanderlust for too long it just eats away at our spirit.

People start questioning who they are. They make dumb decisions. Buy fast cars. Take vacations to places they don’t even care about. Maybe they’ll cheat on a spouse or suddenly take up a hobby like converting the entire garage into a custom tool shed. Something they can spend thousands of dollars on just to give to their kid before they pass on. As if that will be the thing that really defines their existence.

We get so caught up in trying to complete our day-to-day tasks that the moment we realize what we’re caught in, it’s a scramble to try to escape. Some people wake up too late and wonder where it all went wrong. Others figure it out early and crash and burn anyway.

I’m not sure which happened to me, but that’s only because I don’t think I’m qualified to say I’m alive.

After that family burned to death I swore I’d find a way to make a difference. To turn this curse into a gift. I knew what I wanted to do, but had no clue where to start. So I did the next best thing: explored.

Like a ghost I haunted power lines and electrical grids across the country, stopping only to draw in energy when I felt my own reserves run low. I explored construction sites, office buildings, and abandoned homes for survivors. Every now and then I found what I was looking for.

I helped a man start a car he was desperately trying to get moving, sparking its battery to life with a delicate touch. I threw a neighborhood into pitch-black silence to help a young couple hide from some sort of gang. Maybe raiders. They hunted for hours in the dark before calling off the search.

It wasn’t all bad. I found towns untouched by the chaos on more than one occasion. Settlements of order that banded together when everything else seemed to be so crazy. I tried to keep my distance. They worked so hard to maintain a sense of normalcy aside from the chaos my kind inflicted upon them. It seemed wrong to sneak within their ranks just to satisfy my need to reconnect with humanity.

So I opened myself to the ruins of the world in my search for a way to help.

Fort Derringer was the last stop for Federation troops before hitting the Canadian border. As a military outpost it was more or less a checkpoint for large shipments of weapons, building materials or aid supplies. Civilians were largely kept out and sent down side roads arcing wide around the facility. Fort Derringer wasn’t built for siege or secrets, but to hold and distribute valuable cargo across the Federation’s midwest.

The entire region was all flat land and farming community before the Reforestation Initiative kicked in. Then a man-made lake was built, complete with its own fancy bridge that traveled straight across the middle. Reinforced glass and thousands of lights lining the bottom of the bridge would make Faith’s Highway a popular tourist trap only miles away from the military installation. Take a slow stroll across the near-invisible walkway and glance down at the crystal-clear water below. Or drive, if your car met the rigorously-monitored weight limit. It was a romantic spot. Popular with young couples.

Fort Derringer itself was largely self sufficient. Towering walls and a steel reinforced gate. Climbing in would have been an incredible challenge, but I was lucky to have my own little shortcut via the concrete enclosed power lines feeding into the military facility underground.

The fort was a mess, but one filled with possibilities I had never considered. Here, in a facility hard-wired for electronic control, I had more than just a small measure of influence. Light firearms, ammunition, and food supplies had been looted long ago, but no attempt had been made to remove or disable the automated weapon turrets that lined the exterior walls. Cameras throughout the entire facility let me explore my surroundings with remarkable precision. In this place, made to serve the immediate needs of the digital age, I felt like I could make myself right at home.

So I did. I locked both gates into the facility, and set cameras to watch the perimeter. Solar panels and wind turbines along the exterior helped provide me plenty of nourishment. Enough to even feel comfortable testing the limits of my new form. I used to believe I was confined to wiring or circuits, but with enough strength and focus I could do so much more.

I could power more than just simple appliances, but complex ones as well. Short jumps between electronics was possible, though it was far from a subtle process. Assembly-line robotic arms. Cars. Trucks. Even those smaller mobile weapons platforms. After a few days of practice I started to understand how to manipulate circuit boards. I could even type -- although it was slow and difficult. Even still, it felt good to emoji again. A small, human thing.

A small part of me was hoping there would be more. A secret weapon. Some sort of tank or robotic prototype that I could learn to navigate and use to reconnect with the world. Bring order, represent justice. That sort of thing. But the truth is there was nothing there. Nothing of real value. I spent three months, alone without purpose or a real plan. I stopped exploring. Stopped caring.

Then came Zachary Gilbert.

He wasn’t really anybody important. A lone wanderer. Zach, as I would come to know him, was a street artist from Chicago. I found him through one of the perimeter cameras as he was exploring the outer walls, trying to find a way in. Once or twice he caught my cameras following his exploration, which only made him more determined.

I’m not sure what prompted me to let him in. Maybe it’s because I forgot why I locked myself inside to begin with. All I know is that once he stepped through that main gate, I had to find a way to communicate.

He was a young man. Tall, dirty, and clearly thin from weeks without a full meal. Wearing hiking gear that was well worn I watched from a distance as he tried to make himself somewhat presentable. When no one came to greet him, he worked to find signs of inhabitants. The usual amount of yelling. A healthy amount of skeptical fear.

But it was curiosity that drew him further into the base, and I wondered what would be the best way to reach out. I wasn’t a ghost, but I may as well have been. Sure I could start a car or close some blast doors, but what good would that do beyond scaring the hell out of him?

It took a few hours of wandering aimlessly about the facility, but it gave me time to think of the perfect way to catch his attention. When Zachary stepped into the main communications hub I finally made my move.

Hello.

I flashed my message on the monitor nearest to him. White letters on sitting in black space.

He paused for a moment, looking around to make sure he was truly alone. Then, unsure how to properly respond, he leaned forward and typed into the keyboard I was trying to manipulate.

“Hey there. Anyone home?”

Yes. And no.

“Is this like a hacker?”

No. I’m here.

“In the building?”

Yes.

“I don’t want any trouble. I’m just looking for others. Maybe a group.”

Just me.

“Oh.”

If I had to be honest, I was scared. We both were. I could see him through a webcam at his terminal. Coiled tense, eyes darting for the door. He was ready to go at any moment, but I wasn’t ready to let him leave. I had to do something. The words came slow.

There’s some food. Shelter here. We can meet when you’re more comfortable.

I could see the uncertainty on his face. He leaned in to type.

“Alright. What have you got?”

I unlocked ration stores in a sealed part of the Fort, and guided him with a subtle light show along the ground via the emergency evacuation guidance panels. He seemed to accept that I was just in a separate part of the facility. We talked via information terminals. I played the part of the helpful hacker. He, the confused but appreciative wanderer.

Together we explored Fort Derringer’s looted remains. It took a few nights to review the place top to bottom. I told him I was working from the primary server room, working around firewalls and complex subroutines. Anything I could think of that sounded high tech. If he didn’t believe me, he never said a word against it.

Our thorough inspection of the facility turned up some valuable supplies. More food, which was good for him. A portable generator, field radio system, and everything else you’d need to have a shitty family camping trip. Or, a few good weeks alone on the road.

We spent a few days planning the trip. He’d talk with me via computers across across the base. I’d watch him from security cameras, unlocking doors or providing light in rooms without windows. Like his personal flashlight, I guess.

Loading up a jeep with food and fuel we could make our way along the Canadian border, keeping to farmland and small communities until we found a group we could trust. He even volunteered to siphon gas from a few other cars that were left behind. Fewer stops meant fewer risks.

It was nice pretending. I mean, it was nice helping him too, but it had been so long since I’d had a chance to be normal. I knew as our planning came to an end that I’d have to try and find a way to tell him I wouldn’t be going. I never needed to. He brought it up in conversation one day. Just mentioned it while packing a duffel bag, instead of typing.

“You know, I’ve been all across the base twice over. Never found a room I couldn’t get into.”

A silence settled between us. I didn’t know what to say. He kept talking while my mind raced to find some sort of means to excuse my behavior.

“I’ve seen some shit out there. Bad stuff, but stuff I could explain. Desperate people doing desperate things to survive.” Zachary spoke softly, his hands kept busy folding supplies methodically. “One thing will really stick out in my mind though. Few weeks ago I was hiking. Thought I might have some luck finding friendly folk out of the cities. Climbed up this big ass hill, nearly broke my ankle.”

“Anyway, I get to the top and I look down across this valley and that’s when I see this wolf. Only, I know it wasn’t a wolf. It was green. Made of leaves and vines, all wrapped up. Even had these little lilies blooming on it. I know shit like that doesn’t exist. But there it was. Some kind of forest creature looked right at me, then ran away like I was in a fucking fairy tale.”

He zipped up the bag calmly, then looked around the room. There was a weariness in his expression I never noticed before. Maybe I had been just too busy playing pretend.

“I’m not gonna pretend I’m well traveled, but that shit is clearly unnatural. And about as weird as talking to a mystery hacker in the middle of an abandoned Federation whatever-this-is. So, straight up then. Are you real?”

Was I real? If there was any time to be honest with who I really was, this was it. I flickered the screen so he would know where to look.

Yes.

“Are you a ghost?”

Yes.

So much for being honest. But was it really that far from the truth?

“Did you die here?”

No. Someplace else.

“Can you come with me?”

I thought about that question long and hard. There were limits to what I could do and where I could go. I would never be whole again, but a lifetime ago I signed up to join the Federation because I wanted to be more than what I was. I wanted to be a hero.

That’s why I’m leaving this log. Once I leave this station the power will shut down for good, but maybe in a few years places like this will be back online. You should know I’m one of the lucky ones. If you find others like me, if there are others like me, I hope they’re still trying to stay connected with this world. We can still make a difference.

I have to go now. The truck is packed. I’m nervous, but I think this is for the best.

Wish us luck.

-Kenneth Howard, a.k.a. Discharge