Silver Creek who's in a bunker? who's in a bunker?

his son was dead.
in the passing weeks, boone's mind was a sea of static, marked by stretches of black and faces detached from names. his head hurt. his eyes hurt. his bones hurt.
his son was dead.
it was the only thing he remembered from that day; not the vicious teeth which left him permanently marked, not the face of the woman who bore his boy, not even the woman who had sent him out beyond the borders — all he knew was that he had a son, and that said boy was dead.
he cried often, still, tortured, pained cries. no one had come for him. his son, his wife, who was his wife? he remembers the love he felt, the warmth of it, but nothing — else.
he does not remember waking up here, stumbling upon this strangely familiar earth. he had been here before. had he? no, he couldn't have. yes, no, no, no, yes. yes. yes.
no.
it became his sanctuary, this sliver of blooming life buried deep in desolate, thick woodlands. he fished, he nursed his wounds, he slept for most of every day. each day was the same. no one had come for him. his son was dead.
he missed his wife. who was his wife?
his son was dead.
his son was dead.
his son was dead.