The poor beasties never had a chance. The bodies lay scattered around my little station of death, blood squishing between my toes as I shift my weight on the soaked ground. The scent of their life permeating the air.

I look up, at the cloudy sky. How long have we been at this? A quick look at Dakota’s watch tells me. Six hours. Jessica started out with me, but inside she is nursing a cut, the knife on the rooster’s neck too unwieldy for her.

I run my fingers through the soft feathers, closing my eyes. The body under me is swiftly turning cold, chilled by the cool water falling from the sky. Is God crying for the lives I have taken? I would imagine so.

I turn my gaze back down onto the bird. It is harder than I expected to remove the head and the wings, being used to tiny quails with bones as big around as a spaghetti noodle. But the limbs separate eventually, skin separating from flesh with a disturbing ripping noise. This probably has a negative effect on my subconscious. Maybe I’ll end up one of those looneys hanging out behind Fred’s, preaching about the end of the world coming, riding passenger on the backs of ducks. Oh, wait, I already am.

This draws a soft laugh from me, and Dakota’s eyes track me as I totter across the yard on unsteady feet with ten pounds of dead flesh in my arms. Time to cook supper.