He sat in the brush with a gaping wound, pecked into him by one of the birds.

Nothing had been the same since the birds had turned on his town. They were trained as killers and they’d gone straight to his heart. He had nothing on him aside from the clothes he was wearing when he fled in his car.

He controlled his breathing so as not to make noise and draw attention to himself, and he held his chest tight, blood seeping out between his fingers coating his hands in the thick red liquid.

His other hand was limp beside him and brushed against his pocket, he felt something inside and reached in to pull out a small blue crayon he’s found that he had decided to bring home to his son.

He pulled the crayon out and looked at the smooth waxy point and then down at his would.

He laughed to himself in disbelief as he snapped the end of the crayon off and gently pushed it into his wound. It stung, but after a minute the bleeding stopped. He rubbed his hands together to warm them before rubbing his finger on the exposed side of the crayon, setting it into his skin. It wouldn’t hold forever, but just for now it may do enough to keep him alive.