Pigeon

"We're all sons of bitches now." - Kenneth Bainbridge


The sound of rain falling. That's all there is to be heard these days. As the man watches the buildings, he vaguely remembers a time when it was not so. Those buildings - crooked, crumbled, fallen, collapsed or on the verge of collapse, but each and every one of them a mere shadow of their former self - they, too, hadn't always been so. They used to stand proudly and confidently, certain to last for many years. Now they are but carcasses, skeleton claws reaching up to the perpetually dark skies.

He remembers when people used to reside in those buildings - how full of life they were. Now, surely, some hide in there for the incessant precipitation, but most of the buildings don't make very safe shelters. How long since he himself lived in one of them? Seven years? Eight? It doesn't matter. Lately, he doesn't even remember his own age, although he believes he can't be any older than twenty-one.

Shortly after it happened, many years ago, he often wondered if they had been the only ones. Now, thoughts like that hardly ever occupy him anymore. All of it simply doesn't matter. If there's anything the past seven (or eight? or nine?) years have taught him, it's this: only survival matters.

Of course there had been other survivors. After they got over the initial shock of losing their homes, their relatives - losing everything except for their own lives, although a fair number of them chose to escape this brave new world by taking those own lives - they became aware of how unenviable their new situation really was. For a while, all went well - until supplies ran out. They now had no choice but to feed on surviving animals, and eventually insects. It wasn't before long that humanity itself grew scarce.

Plants, trees and crops died as the earth grew barren. Pregnancies led to an unusually high amount of miscarriages - often killing mother as well as infant - whereas healthy children usually died within their first year in the harsh environment. Man's vast genius had ultimately proven to be most effective in the crafting of his own demise.

In spite of the many signs, the blow had come almost as a complete surprise. The months before, there had been incessant talking about "the War to end all wars", something they called "the War on Terror". Attacks were carried out, violence begot more violence, and then quite suddenly it was all over. Ideology, religion, racism or blind hatred - whatever the cause, the result was the same. One white flash was all it took.

There's another sound, much like falling pebbles, besides the rain now. He blinks and tries to locate the source. He had been reminiscing - that was stupid. The world is a far more dangerous place now, and thinking about the past will get him nowhere. After all, no memory will bring his home, his family or his world back.

Moving carefully over the debris of what once probably was an impressive building - quite possibly a tourist attraction even - he soon discovers the cause of the sound. A boy, moving around frantically, causing the rubble underneath his feet to shift. He is young, barely twelve years old, and naked except for some scraps of fabric wrapped around his lean body. His filthy, unkempt curls are dripping with rain, and the cold is causing what little hairs he has on his scabbed arms to stand upright. Clutched to his chest, he holds something that looks like a sack of grey and brown ruffled feathers. A smear of fresh blood decorates the corner of his mouth.

The taller man recognizes the dead bird in the boy's hands. Once, a long time ago, there used to be a lot of them. Somewhere in a far-off memory, he even remembers the name - pigeon. But regardless of what it was once called, it's food now.

Realising he is no longer alone, the boy clutches the carcass even tighter to his bare chest. "M-mine," he exclaims hoarsely, the result of barely ever using his voice. Saying this simple word seems difficult to him - or is it perhaps remembering how to speak that's causing him this difficulty? Keeping his gaze fixed on the man before him, he slowly starts to back away. "Mine!"

Years ago, the man would have argued with him. He would have tried to convince the boy to share this bird, this rare delicacy. Now, he is hungry, and all thoughts of sharing are forgotten, as well as all words of persuasion - he doubts this wretched child would understand him if he tried, anyway. With a growl, he lunges himself towards the skinny creature standing between him and his meal.

At this, the boy lets out a shriek and stumbles backwards, tripping over some rubble. He falls flat on his back, the air getting knocked out of his lungs and several sharp pebbles stinging his skin. Immediately the taller man is on top of him, jamming a knee in the boy's stomach - making the child gasp for air even more - and feverishly reaching for the dead bird.

The frightened boy tries to sit up, which only seems to agitate the man further. The attacker thrusts his hand in his victim's face, slamming the poor child's head to the ground. Because of the nauseating impact of the blow, the boy releases his grip on the pigeon, but quickly recovers by clawing at the man's eyes. The man, with no intention of waiting around idly for his eyes to be clawed out, slams the child's head forcefully to the ground again. Not giving the boy any chance to recover or retaliate, he snatches the bird and leaps to his feet.

Before he can make a run for it, he feels a sharp pain in his leg. The boy has grabbed his ankle, digging his fingernails into it and looking up with tears welling up in his eyes. "Mine." It's barely more than a whisper this time.

His patience wearing thin, the man kicks the boy in the face. Immediately the boy lets go and tries to roll over, in order to protect himself from further blows. Warm blood running down from his ankle, the man kicks him again. And a few times more, just to make sure he won't have any more trouble with the child.

Leaving the sobs of the naked, bleeding boy behind him, he takes some time to study his prize. It wasn't a very big bird to begin with, and the boy had already taken some considerable bites out of it. He feels a painful jab of hunger, powerful enough to bring him to his knees. No matter what size the bird is, it's food. That's enough.

He sinks his teeth in the raw meat, tearing it up. Blood trickles down his chin. It's the best feeling he's had in a long time - adrenalin coursing through his blood and food in his mouth - and for the first time in a very long while, everything seems to be alright.

There's an explosion of black and red flecks before his eyes. It's accompanied by a searing sting of pain in his right temple, but he's already beyond feeling that, just the same as he is beyond feeling his bowels evacuating. The red flecks grow less, and in the end there is only black.

"Mine," the boy says, dropping to his haunches and watching the red stuff seep out of the man's head with distant interest. The same red stuff is currently gushing out of his painful nose and dozens of other places on his body - it's also splattered over the rock he used to make the hole in the man's face. He drops the rock - it doesn't look like the mean man would try to take away his food again now.

But what a sensation! Even though he is hurting in numerous places, his heart is beating louder than ever before, his skin tingling all over, from his arms to his legs to the tip of his erection. He can't remember ever feeling anything quite like this. He carefully picks up his bird, even though he is too excited to eat it right now.

The new world is pure. It's no longer about ideology, religion, racism or blind hatred. It's about survival - the honesty in killing for survival, the pureness of being true to one's nature. It is indeed an extraordinary sensation.

After the boy is finished, he carefully makes his way through the debris. He is going back to the world he's known for the greater part of his life - the perpetual doom mankind brought down upon itself. On the ruins of what was once called London, rain falls down from a grey sky in which birds soar no longer.