Generic Apocalypse Story #63841

I honestly have no clue what was the beginning of the end of the world. Really, I don’t think you can pinpoint it to an exact period. Birds have always existed, y’know? Well, not in like dinosaur times or whatever. Did they? Whatever. That doesn’t matter. Just a tangent. 

Point is, it’s really not our fault the world ended. I bet it woulda ended no matter what, actually. Well, maybe not, if the dinosaurs were still alive. Our if whatever took over instead of us killed all the birds, or wasn’t affected by what they did. But that just wasn’t the way the cookie crumbled, right? What was I talking about again?

Oh! Yeah! The birds! So, I’m still not sure what’s up with them. Only that in the middle of the summer like two or four or eight years ago, all the birds in the whole world just kinda went wild. Like, just lost it. It was kinda like Planet of the Apes, but worse. Like if all the monkeys or gorillas or whatever could fly and also if dead ones went crazy too. Oh, and some reptiles. Not turtles, but definitely snakes and lizards and some crocodiles. But yeah. The dead ones came alive. Which totally screwed over those assholes who hunt and stuff birds. And anyone at the museum. Did you know dinosaurs count as birds?

Dead bones can’t move though. So that wasn’t too awful. At least until like a year after. That’s when the birds started getting weird. Like people. But way, way too young. Like fetuses. If they went bad. Fingers and hearts and heads. People and bird parts. Beaks on the ends of wings on the ends of every finger that was on them. These new bits didn’t slow them down. That much.

Jesus, listening to those things flop and crawl on the ground was the worst. Some of them ran, and that wasn’t too cool. Not the worst, though. But walking down the street to get food? Terrifying. You’d have to watch your every step, make sure that pile of flesh you stepped next to was just a bird that suffered heart failure and not an obese living landmine made of fat and fingers. I’ve watched a couple people get snatched by them. Never too good.

Recently, things have been getting slightly stranger. I’ve been watching out the windows, as you’re wont to do when there is no internet anymore and you’ve read everything in your library. And I’ve been seeing people. More than I’ve seen in a while. These people are dressed like birds too, garbed in different colors, but always wearing feathers and beak masks. I’d call it poor taste, but they walk with the birds like they’re pets. 

I’d call them a weird cult, too, but they keep showing up in my dreams. Every time I go to sleep, it’s the same dream. I look out the window. One walks by- a different one every time. I look at it. It looks at me. It continues past. Every time I sleep, I see them. Their awful one-by-one parade.

I- I don’t think they’re human. Something’s wrong with them. Like they were, but also weren’t supposed to be here. Like- they’re made of things from here, but also aren’t from here? I don’t know. 

As the days pass and I dream more and more, I’ve found myself thinking about eggs. And how birds lay them. You know, maybe birds aren’t really birds. Maybe, they’re just eggs. Just the short, fragile things before the big ones are born. Maybe people were never supposed to be here in the first place. Maybe we’re just cosmic mistakes. Ones birthed by that big asteroid that killed all those dinosaurs. That cracked all those eggs. Oh well. It was fun while it lasted, right?