The Writers' Circle

It's Dark. I take in the surroundings without opening my eyes.
Listen first, everything is quiet, I can hear the wind outside, whistling near me.
No birds, no other noises other than the odd creak of wood.
I Smell, old dusty wood, damp paper. I can feel the wind on my hand.
I sense, nothing. I slowly tense my muscles, feet first, working up my left leg, the up from my right. My legs are OK, Bottom, Back, shoulders arms.

Still no sounds I am ok to move.
-
The sun shone in via a broken dirty attic window, casting a strange dirty yellow sheen over the room, the bare floor boards creaked as they warmed in the pale light and dust motes danced in the air as the breeze stirred them.
The room was sparse, a small unit stood to one side under the window, its door hanging half off at the hinges where the damp had pulled the screws away from the cheap pressed wood. The open beams of the roof stood solidly above, home to hundreds of small spiders and insects that lived in their own microscopic world of hunter and hunted.
The corner of the room contained what looked like a pile of discarded old clothes; a stretched woollen jumper lay threadbare on the top, its holed arm dropping down to the floor as it rested on a hand than lay protruded from beneath.
A beetle scurried past on its search for food, stopping to investigate it ran across the top of the hand before vanishing below. The hand twitched involuntarily once, twice before the pile erupted as a head appeared, dropping materials to each side.
It wasn't a horrible head, the head of a beast or monster though it failed to be a beautiful head either. With slow deliberation its eyes opened, areas of white against dirt of the head, it looked around, trying to grasp its bearings from its surroundings. The hand reached up and rubbed hard against the bearded chin, dislodging dirt and old food from its deep and matted depths, the skin on the face was weathered, cracked and tanned from days in the sun, but if washed and clean shaved it would not be an unbecoming face.
He yawned, a deep and satisfying yawn before it clicking its neck, sending flashes of light up behind his eyes as he did, he stretched and groaned as he shook the sleep from his body.

Now there are few things in the world that could be deemed worse that waking up in a surrounding you don't know, or have any knowledge of how you got there. Many a person has woken up after a night out missing pieces of their clothing or in unknown surroundings. Some being thankful that their memories, now dulled and blank from the drink fail to recall what they did or who they did it with. But there is one that tops all of these. Waking in unknown surroundings without any memory of not only where you are but who you are.
He pushed the clothing to the side and licking his lips looked around the room, he tried to recall something, anything but no knowledge of who he was, where he was or when could be found.
His mind was a complete blank.
He sat trying to draw on memories, any memories at all but his mind was empty.
"Where the hell am I" he absent mind idly said to himself as he winced with pain, his head ached; a deep thumping pain when he spoke or moved too quickly. Reaching up he pressed his hand against the side of his head where it hurt and felt a bandage, with tender movements he touched the covering felling the stabbing pain when he applied the slightest pressure to an area just above his left temple.
He looked at his hand as he removed it; small smears of blood on his thumb told him it was a relatively fresh wound.
He grunted to himself as he pushed himself up, swaying a little from either tiredness or the wound he staggered to the window dragging his feet behind him as he walked.
He carefully tried to brush the window clean but the age of the dirt resisted; he spat on his sleeve and rubbed it against the glass, the wetness breaking down the dirt enough to move.
At first glance the sunlight was too bright for his tired eyes to see, he blinked a few times, trying to wake them up, rubbing them with his hand he looked again, still blurred but better.
He judged he was on the third or fourth floor of a building, rooftops flowed away from him in all directions he could see towards the horizon, the odd larger building breaking the flatness before him.
The clouds that had temporarily covered the light from outside shifted in the wind and the  sun shone brightly down again, straight into his eyes, he pulling his head away as his eyes started to water and he wiped his eyes on the back of his sleeve. 
He turned and sat down on the unit near the window, he ached all over, and he twisted his neck again and yawned.
So who am I? He wondered, trying to recall the previous night. He patted out a tune on his legs as he sat; nothing more than a series of light taps against his thigh but it was then that he noticed his attire.
Grey and black camouflage trousers, dirty and torn covered his legs, he stared at them.
He hadn't thought to check what he wore when he woke, so he now stood and looked himself up and down.
Camouflage gear covered his body; black laced boots covered his feet, and a black t-shirt hung loosely from his shoulders, an insignia sewn to his chest at the left.
A holster hung from his belt, the black handle of a pistol protruding from it.
He reached down and pulling the pistol out, on auto pilot he checked the magazine which was almost full before reloaded it and sliding it back into place.
"So I know guns then, interesting" he mused on the tone and gruffness of his voice.
"I guess I'm a soldier then. But where am I?"
He sat for a moment, breathing deeply in case any memories could be dislodged but nothing surfaced, he looked round the room again but there was nothing to assist him there either so back to the window he turned.
He tried to clean the window but the rest of it looked too unstable, he pulled out the pistol again and gently tapped at the glass until it cracked and dropped shards to his feet.
He looked out, watching a small bird swoop in the sky; it flew low towards the rooftops below, either chasing insects in flight or just enjoying the wind against its wings.
Everything looked still and calm, other than the bird nothing moved and there was a deep silence outside.
It took him a few seconds more for his brain to catch up with what his eyes shouted.
Every roof, every building was in a state of ruin.
He looked out; taking notice of the slightest details, some of the roofs had gaping holes in them; some were charred and burnt with their beams exposed like the skeleton of an animal picked clean in a desert. The large buildings that broke the horizon had broken tops, signs of collapse and destruction were all around him.
His eyes scanned the horizon, nothing moved, nothing but the wind stirred these ruins, no planes flew in the sky, only the clouds continued past.
He turning away from the window and the devastation outside, as he slid the pistol back into its holster he noticed the writing on his left hand as he clipped the clasp in place..
"Base North".
He held it close to his face, staring at it.
He patted down his pockets for whatever he was carrying, laying everything he found on the unit in a pile before he found a pen. He picked it up and pulled the lid free with his mouth, using his right hand he wrote the same words on the palm of his hand, twisting his hand from front to back he stared, it matched.
"Base North" he said to himself, so he had written it, but what did it mean.
He checked the items he had removed from his pocket, a spare magazine for the pistol and a number of free rounds, the pen and a handful of silver packed biscuits. Nothing to help him in figuring out the puzzle he had set himself.
He drew his gun again and released the safety, he walked to the door, pausing with his hand on the handle, breathing and preparing himself in preparation of what might lie beyond.
With resolution he turned the handle, a large click as the latch released. It made him realise how much the noises would be amplified because of the silence around him. Cursing to himself he pulled and cringed as the hinges creaked.
Outside sat the dark and gloomy hallway, nothing appeared to move, no creature waited to attack him. The hallway was short, leading to a set of stairs leading down.
Pistol ready he started his decent, every step seemed to creak as his weight pressed down on it, he could hear his own breathing in his ears and he breathed a sign of relief as he reaching the landing below. 
There was a pedal bike leaning again the wall next to the door at his left. 
Do I knock? He thought better of it, no point in giving away the fact he was entering. 
He listened outside the door, waiting for any sign that there might be someone inside, only the wind could be heard as it passed outside, so with a click he turned handle and push the door open.
"Hello" he called "Anyone home?" hoping for someone to answer, someone who could tell him what was going on but the room remained silent.
He entered carefully, the room stood in darkness, what looked like heavy curtains hung in front of the window, letting very little light into the room, he silently walked to the curtain, kicking a bottle with his boot he cursed as he pulled it aside letting the sunlight flood in, he turned to see what else was in the room.
"Shit" he shouted as he staggered backwards pulling on the curtain to steady himself he yanked it free from the wall "Shit".
Sat on the chair before him was a man, well it looked like a man, its skin had dried to its bones in the still atmosphere of the room, a hole in the side of its head and a pistol lay on the floor.
Automatically he picked up the pistol and checked the ammo, the magazine should have held twelve bullets, but only eight remained. He slid it into the back of his pants and tenderly reached inside the jacket of the man, searching for anything that might be of use. He found a packet of cigarettes, a lighter and his wallet; he pocketed the rest before opening it
"James Fibbery" He slid the identity card free and held it up next to the skeleton, "Born 23rd March 1997, so when did you die". He compared the face to that of the dead man, trying to guess the time the body needed to dry.
He guessed the age of the man at time of death to have been around the late thirties, so he could presume the year now was 2015 to 2020 at least, depending on mummification.
He absentmindedly dropped the ID and wallet back onto the body as he looked around the room. He could see a second room leading off to the left so he carefully pushed the door open and discovered where the other three bullets had gone.
A woman's body lay on the bed, face up. A bullet hole was clearly visible on her forehead. Her arms lay across her chest, positioned post mortem he guessed as he looked outside to the husband sat in the chair.
Mrs Fibbery then he presumed, her dress looked well ironed and unworn, Sunday best clothing possibly. Her two children lay at her side, so small and delicate, one boy and one girl.
He looked again at the body in the chair, what had driven the man to kill his family, why had no one come to remove them, no police called, no ambulance attending.
He walked back into the living room, carefully closing the door on the tomb as he left.
With no more information to be gained he started to search the cupboards for anything that might be of use.
After thirty minutes he had a collection of tinned goods, from beans and soups to tinned spam and corned beef. No water ran from the taps and the fridge looked sealed with dirt and mould and he didn't want to open it.
He moved out, clicking the door on the grizzly scene as he left.
He searched each room that he came to, no longer worried that someone would hear, he kicked open the next locked door, shattering the wooden frame he searched the room, mercifully it was empty but he found a backpack and more tins. 
Two hours had passed since he had woken before he reached the door to the outside, the backpack on his shoulders contained an assortment of goods, water was in short supply but at least he wouldn't go hungry.
He reached out with no small amount of intrepidation and dread he slowly pulled back the latch and swung the door open.