This house provided these two men with food. It seems when a family commits mass suicide they do not care much about the food they leave behind. In other houses these men have found bowls of oatmeal left on counter, blackberries on the cutting board, ready to be spilled haphazardly into these breakfast meals. But what the men saw were blackberries covered with a thick, hairy mold. And on the granite of the kitchen counter, the oatmeal sat stagnant. In the complete stillness of death, the most still object was the meal that the inhabitants were about to eat. The symbol of sustenance turned into death when the mean saw the faint taint of blood and bits of bone speckle the top of the bowl, in place of the blackberries.
This house, this kitchen, was much more civilized. Their food lay in drawers, in refrigerators, and walk-in pantries. When you're on the move, it counts to pack light. What counts even more is how much firepower you plan on carrying with you. This amount usually reciprocated how many rounds you could fire right at another human being without having to live with the regret later. There would be men, women, and even children who relished the death of another. They would use their weapons to take blood from others. They felt no remorse, they felt that they were justified.
After all, this is what they were commanded to do. The two men in this house packed light and carried little firepower. After seeing the amount of blood they had, they could not handle seeing any that was because of them.
When they entered a house they searched it for people. After it was safe, they searched the kitchen, allowing there was no blood in the kitchen. They both carried large hiking backpacks. They carried food that was portable and would sate their appetites while they scurried from shadow to shadow. This was their life. They hid, scavenged, and avoided blood. The physical and mental toll was more than they sometimes could handle. But it was alright, this way of life was ending today.
CHAPTER 3, YO
In a house, a TV flickered. A man in a black hoodie with a white cross smeared in paint across his chest hobbled in front of the cameras and sat down. You could tell that when people saw him, they shied away. Even if they had the same white cross painted on their chest. His haggard, twitching eyes did him no help easing the uneasy around him. He had lost his reason long ago, maybe it was never there. Maybe it was the miracle that sent him over the edge, or maybe it was a condition from birth. Maybe it was a chemical imbalance in his brain that affected his mental condition. But when you looked at his torn, hard, bloody hands and his dark eyes, the way they earnestly looked for fear in your own, you knew he was not someone you wanted to be around.
This house, this kitchen, was much more civilized. Their food lay in drawers, in refrigerators, and walk-in pantries. When you're on the move, it counts to pack light. What counts even more is how much firepower you plan on carrying with you. This amount usually reciprocated how many rounds you could fire right at another human being without having to live with the regret later. There would be men, women, and even children who relished the death of another. They would use their weapons to take blood from others. They felt no remorse, they felt that they were justified.
After all, this is what they were commanded to do. The two men in this house packed light and carried little firepower. After seeing the amount of blood they had, they could not handle seeing any that was because of them.
When they entered a house they searched it for people. After it was safe, they searched the kitchen, allowing there was no blood in the kitchen. They both carried large hiking backpacks. They carried food that was portable and would sate their appetites while they scurried from shadow to shadow. This was their life. They hid, scavenged, and avoided blood. The physical and mental toll was more than they sometimes could handle. But it was alright, this way of life was ending today.
CHAPTER 3, YO
In a house, a TV flickered. A man in a black hoodie with a white cross smeared in paint across his chest hobbled in front of the cameras and sat down. You could tell that when people saw him, they shied away. Even if they had the same white cross painted on their chest. His haggard, twitching eyes did him no help easing the uneasy around him. He had lost his reason long ago, maybe it was never there. Maybe it was the miracle that sent him over the edge, or maybe it was a condition from birth. Maybe it was a chemical imbalance in his brain that affected his mental condition. But when you looked at his torn, hard, bloody hands and his dark eyes, the way they earnestly looked for fear in your own, you knew he was not someone you wanted to be around.
