The Silence of Man: A Feathered Chronicle (Ch-2)

Part II: The Fading Echoes

Chapter 2: Glimpses of the Strugglers

"The silence, my little ones, was not truly empty," Mitthu began, settling its gaze on a distant, skeletal tower that once pierced the sky in what humans called a "city center." "It was filled with the low hum of desperation, a sound we, the Old Watchers, learned to discern from the air currents. After the Great Roar, when the dust began to settle enough for the sun to show its faint, bruised face, tales began to circulate among the surviving winged ones. My parents, and their companions who had scattered across the wide world, brought back whispers of the few, the very few, who remained."

Pip, usually the quietest, chirped softly, "What did they look like, Mother? The humans?"

"Ah, little Pip, they were shadows," Mitthu sighed, recalling the images passed down. "Not the bustling, colorful giants my grandparents spoke of, cloaked in strange, soft skins and moving with such arrogant speed. These were hunched, thin creatures, their own skin often peeling, their hair matted. Their eyes, visible even from our height, were sunken hollows of fear and a gnawing hunger."

The stories from far-off lands, carried on the wings of brave migrants, echoed the same grim observations. From the scorched plains where grand human fields once sprawled, a grizzled falcon spoke of figures shuffling through the barren soil, scratching at the ground with sticks, not for planting, but for anything that might have survived – a forgotten root, a desiccated insect. They would turn over rocks, peer into cracks, their movements slow and agonizing, a stark contrast to their former briskness.

A small swallow, who had flown from what was once a towering, watery land-bridge connecting continents, recounted seeing small bands huddled in the shells of what they called "automobiles," metal boxes that once moved them swiftly. Now, these boxes were merely makeshift shelters against the biting winds and the dust that never truly settled. They would light meager fires, their smoke thin and quick to vanish, not the thick plumes that once marked human settlements. Around these fires, figures would huddle, their faces grim, sharing what looked like scraps of dried bark or grimy, unidentifiable objects.

"My parents often perched on the high, shattered buildings that overlooked what they called 'factories'," Mitthu continued, its voice a soft drone. "These were immense metal carcasses, once roaring with human machines. Now, they were silent, broken. Yet, sometimes, a human or two would creep in, not to make their strange tools, but to scavenge. They would pick through the rusted remains, searching for anything – a scrap of metal that could be sharpened, a piece of fabric to patch their tattered coverings. They moved with a desperate urgency, yet their efforts seemed to yield so little."

The greatest change, however, was in their shelters. The grand, insulated nests they had once built were either pulverized or toxic. The few remaining groups would seek refuge in the deepest, darkest hollows of the ruins, in what used to be their "underground stations" or "sewers." These places, once ignored by our kind, now offered a pathetic sanctuary. The air there was stagnant, laden with the smell of despair and illness, but it was warmer, and offered some protection from the elements and from each other. They were no longer masters of the world, but rats, clinging to the shadows of their own destruction. The contrast was stark, a chilling testament to how quickly their power had crumbled, leaving them vulnerable and pathetic, struggling even to exist.