Part II: The Fading Echoes
Chapter 3: The War for Scraps
"The whispers of desperate lives grew harsher, my fledglings," Mitthu observed, shifting its weight, the memory of countless observed conflicts heavy in its ancient mind. "The humans, already few, found themselves not just battling the cold, the dust, and the sickness, but battling each other. Their grand structures had fallen, but their old instincts for ownership, for taking, remained. Only now, there was nothing left to take."
"Why, Mother? Why fight if there was nothing?" Squeak piped up, its voice a tiny, confused chirp.
Mitthu let out a low coo. "Because, little Squeak, even a single drop of clean water, a morsel of forgotten food, became a treasure. My parents told of seeing them gather, their numbers barely enough to cast a shadow on the ruined ground. They would eye each other, not with the curiosity of new discovery, but with the cold, calculating gaze of a predator. And then, the shrieks would begin."
From high above, the Old Watchers witnessed what humanity had become. A small group, perhaps five or six figures, would discover a hidden cache – a leaking pipe offering potable water, or a collapsed building revealing a few untouched, ancient food packets. The joyous, if weak, cries of discovery would instantly draw others from the surrounding desolation.
Mitthu's mother had once recounted a scene she observed near a skeletal bridge. Two small factions, both emaciated, both draped in rags, had stumbled upon a forgotten supply truck, its metal shell rusted and pierced, but its interior holding a few sealed containers of what humans called "canned goods."
The first group, led by a tall, gaunt man with a jagged scar across his cheek whom the birds later, through repeated observation, began to internally refer to as 'The Scarred One', had already forced open one can. As he lifted the contents to his lips, a sudden cry erupted from a nearby pile of rubble.
"Water! We have water here!" a hoarse female voice echoed.
'The Scarred One' froze. His eyes, burning with a feverish intensity, darted towards the sound. The two groups, perhaps twenty feet apart, stood utterly still, like two starved foxes scenting a single, hidden rabbit. The silence stretched, broken only by the distant, mournful cry of the wind through shattered glass.
Then, a small, young woman, perhaps barely a fledgling herself in human years, staggered out from the second group, carrying a plastic bottle filled with murky, but precious, water. She held it like a sacred chalice, her eyes wide with fear and desperate triumph.
"We need this," she croaked, her gaze falling on The Scarred One's group, not in aggression, but in a plea.
"But the humans, my dears, had lost the ability to simply take what they needed and move on," Mitthu explained. "They could not see the vast, empty spaces around them, only the small, precious thing another held."
With a guttural roar, 'The Scarred One' dropped his can and lunged, a sharpened piece of metal clutched in his hand. His companions followed, a ragged wave of desperation. The other group, though weaker, met them with desperate ferocity. There were no grand strategies, no reasoned negotiations – only a primal scramble. The air filled with ragged shouts, the sickening thud of bodies, and the tearing of cloth. The woman with the water bottle stumbled, dropping her precious find, and in the ensuing chaos, the bottle was crushed, its contents seeping into the contaminated dust.
The birds watched, detached yet understanding. There were no victors in these battles. Always, bodies lay still when the frenzy subsided. Some were taken by the 'winners', not for burial, but for another kind of desperate sustenance that turned Mitthu's stomach even in the retelling. The meager gains were always outweighed by the new wounds, the further depletion of their already nonexistent numbers. This was not survival; it was a slow, deliberate gnawing at their own dwindling existence, a tragic echo of the very war that had brought them to this state.
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