Crack!
Just like that the polished wooden end of my baseball bat connected in a sickly fashion with the side of the mans cranium. A spray of blood shot off in the direction of the swing and I watched with keen vision as drops of glistening red blood shimmered in the sun lighted air on their journey down to the earth. With a muffled grunt he fell like a sack of potatoes into the tall weeds.
Wow...I wish I had a potato right now.
Shit. This isn't a very good first impression. Plus now there is a strangers red bodily fluids on me. Yes, I did just kill a man, but I did have a good excuse though. I was really just returning the favor, not that I'm dead, that would make me a...what are those things called? Ah yes, zombies. Anyways, he did try to shoot me though, which I found very rude, not to mention one of his bullets had managed to rip my jeans. I mean, if you saw a stranger would your first intention be to put a bullet in them? I didn't think so.
I guess I could see where he was coming from though. I understand, what with the world gone to shit and everything that people might be a bit jittery, so maybe it wasn't so unreasonable to think that if you saw a person with huge black wings suddenly fly overhead you that you would want to take a pop at them. Oh, yea I forgot to mention that along with being a lover of potatoes and baseball bats that I am also a freak of nature. Well, technically a freak of genetic engineering. Along with having an extremely flexible spine, black eyes with razor sharp vision, two sets of eyelids, precise hearing from up to three miles away, and a highly developed nervous system, I also have two pitch black wings with a span of twenty four feet (I'm pretty proud of the fact that I have managed to measured them myself). They are pretty thin actually, in fact probably less than a foot in width, so they fold pretty neatly into my back. It's impossible to side them though, so I rarely wear anything other than my tan hoodie blazer over my black tank top, which now had damp spots of blood on it (dammit). You should of seen me trying to fit my wings through those tiny slits I made in the back of the jacket. Alright, it really wasn't that funny, it was hell, so I don't plan on doing that again soon. Just because I'm a freak doesn't mean I can't have a fashion sense, right? Technically its not my fashion sense, but that's to complicated to explain at the moment and unless your highly educated in the area of cognitive science and neuroscience I don't think you would be to interested. But its not like I can just drop by some store and order custom made clothes for nineteen year old feathered girls. Anyways, Fashion isn't really my main concern right now. I'm pretty sure everyone currently living on this small planet is concerned with the same familiar subject.
The apocalypse. The big show stealer of the human race. First their was fire, then machines, I'm pretty sure pizza come after that, and now aliens. It's pretty hard to keep up with the trends these days. But it's no biggie. This is probably the closest I can possibly come to fitting in with my sister species. After all, integrating can be tough on people who are different, especially now that everyone's so edgy and usually have guns on them. Wow, look how off topic I've gotten. Where was I? Oh right. I slowed the rate of my wing flapping and stretched them out for more air resistance and fell into a slow descent until I eventually touched down on the weed covered dirt. Normally by now I would be gripping my now blood covered bat in my right hand with the strength of a thousand men, but after a few kills you get used to it. As I walked my wings tensed as I grew nearer, an involuntary reaction whenever I get anxious. My wings had a of body language in their own special way.
After observing him I could see that his chest was not rising and only after I was unable to hear a heartbeat did my wings relax. They drooped slightly as I kneeled down to get a closer look. He was a chubby guy, wearing plaid hunting clothes and black duffel bag and his eyes were wide open, lifelessly staring into the ground. Two streams of blood had trailed down his left cheek from his nose and the blood vessels in the whites of his eyes seemed to have bursted upon impact, giving his bloodshot eyes a creepy diseased look. I'd be lying if I said I didn't feel a little bad for the guy, but he did shoot first and I only acted on instinct. It was fight or flight and since I made the dumbass mistake of flying over large open land without scouting first, there was nowhere to take cover, and no chance of reasoning. There never really is though. Reasoning I mean. Getting caught up in my own thoughts while flying happens more than you think though. Fools with guns posed more of a threat to me than the spiders did...or whatever they're called. Spiders is just a cute nickname I came up with for the aliens. I've heard other while eavesdropping on small groups of people. Some call them aliens, some bugs, exo's, and even demons. I've yet to hear the term spider, but who knows, maybe it will catch on someday. So far I've been mostly successful in steering clear of them, only a couple times have I had a close call. The first time I might of underestimated there ability to jump and climb a tree as fast as a squirrel on drugs, and the second time a freak thunderstorm pounded me into the ground in the middle of a city of rubble. Lets just say I try to avoid cities now.
After going through the deceased's sack I found a case of nine millimeter bullets, the correct caliber for the only gun I had but rarely used. There was also a canteen containing a horrid smelling substance, probably alcohol, and sixteen cans of beans. I pulled out a pistol buried in the bottom and by chance my hand brushed the side of the man's jacket and the sound of paper crinkling came from his pocket. I gingerly unbuttoned his pocket and pulled out a folded white paper that was stained with with blood on one corner. I unfolded it to see a messy scribble of ink.
Tom,
DO NOT COME BACK TO CHARLESTON.
We have been compromised. A portion of us have survived the attack and we are moving North of Charleston. Make your way to North Charleston.
I pray you receive this letter.
God be with you,
Brigadier General Jim Porter
It seemed to me it was important, not that I had the slightest idea what a brigadier was but it sounded special enough. At least now I knew that this guy was a messenger instead of some lone drunk. 'Sucks for whoever the recipient is.' I thought as I folded the paper back up and stuffed it in my boot. Along with that I took the case of bullets, four cans of beans, and a knife out of the bag and opened my own messenger bag. It was a nice case with a beautiful tanish leather that I might of taken from an expensive looking store. It didn't fit enough supplies to last more than a week, but I'm only one person and I actually don't need as much energy as normal people require. After I buckled the bag shut I examined the blade for a few moments before strapping it around my upper leg and discarding my own. It was getting dull anyways.
I turned away and made a move to start running for take off when my ears suddenly tingled and grew tense. I instantly froze and closed my eyes so I could hone in on the noise. North of me I could faintly make out footsteps...lots of footsteps...weak laughter and voices that sounded like a murmur at this distance. Even louder were car engines, probably heavy trucks and a few motorcycles. The noise seemed to be coming from north and heading south, the opposite way this man was walking. If he was coming from the south and them north, then eventually they would of met.
'Could they be the ones heading for this Charleston he came from?' After thinking thinking for a shameful amount of time I decided it would not be best to take flight south, so north seemed the best option. Ok, not really, but damn am I curious and plus the wind is in my favor. Besides, who can deny the calling of adventure?