The sun was setting at it's feverish pace as the chunk of forbidden land spun around in space on it's elongated orbit. The orange light cast thick, black shadows on the ground, giving whatever was left a sense of purpose as it lay still in the piles of rubble and debris. The items didn't flinch in the breeze, nor did they falter when dust sprayed their cold surface. The rubble remained as such, even when unpadded feet walked silently among them. The air was prepped and chilled for the night that would soon rise, however, the weather's calm temperament was due to it's proximity among the soul source of heat in their galaxy. The revolution around the sun was about half way complete, and thus was mid season. Winter was soon to come, each night gradually becoming more and more bitter, but it was still the ideal prep season.
Scavengers, human and pest alike, both scourged and bled each pile dry before continuing onto the next, desperately pillaging anything that was remotely edible or conceivably useful in finding that there of. Skeletons of people swarmed the plains of endless rock and stone, savoring all the light that landed on their skin yet starving in it. Once night fell, most would need to return to the holes from whence they came, for heaven forbid them be outside during the night or they would freeze and never move again, their shadows becoming permanent. During the day, the people thrived off of their own suffering as they find their morsels.
During the night, the beasts were let out.
Once all the fragments of man had returned to their caves and clothes and the moon made it's appearance, brute force took over. Those who had something, those who had whatever amount of food in their bellies, those who chose life came from their death like silence and roamed the lands. They were the ones that saw the potential. They were the ones who were lucky enough to have items of worth. These people were the ones that truly prospered. But only prospered with death all around. These people fought, these people murdered, and these people licked blood of their hands. These horrors were the reason the Earth seemed so plain to the low lives. The reason it seemed so dry and coarse and with nothing to live off of. They took it for themselves, they stole it, and left nothing behind.
Of course, here was always something, and of course, not all parts had been discovered, but this was when he came out. When the smell of blood was in the air and the fire burned in their eyes. The dead of night.
The stars burned brightly and the moon was high in the sky, but there was little light provided that evening. Clouds lingered above with amusement, teasing the eye with flecks of starlight and casting eerie shadows. It only gave off not enough light for a portrait, but plenty enough for a silhouette of the sharp that contrasted the smooth sky. Protruding like a sore from the dark depths of his hood, the beak lifted into the air, the eyes behind the goggles flickering and wavering long the linings in the clouds. The short figure, along with the light cane by it's side, stood still on a mound of heavy concrete stones that had once been a shop. A lovely, small shop that was just dust in the sands of time.
The plague doctor looked down from the sky, eyes falling upon the black images that started to crawl out of their own homes. One at a time, men and woman joined the night owls and hissed at passerby's, gripping pieces of barbed wire and stone like it was bread. The pair of eyes watched the cogs turning and cranking in each of their tired heads, puzzling pieces that would never fit together for a makeshift weapon or container.
Underneath the white peak, a smile peered.
No one dared to venture near another survivor, not with their valuables. So to not disturb the vague peace, the bird figure stepped back in it's bare feet, kneeling down and disappearing behind the mound of rubble. Ears attentive to it's surroundings, the infamous smuggler awaited for the night's events to unfold.