man made vultures

The house was silent except for the sound of his own breath, ragged and uneven, echoing in the emptiness. He stepped through the doorway, closing it behind him as quietly as he could. The door creaked a little, the sound like a whisper in the stillness. Outside, the world was shrouded in darkness, but inside, the dim light of a single, dusty bulb flickered in the entryway. He had killed her not ten minutes ago; the deer girl's body lay sprawled out on the front porch, blood seeping into the weathered wooden boards. He tried not to think about her, about the look of shock and fear frozen on her face. He had to keep moving.

The human glanced around, taking in the old-fashioned décor. The walls were lined with faded wallpaper and floral patterns that looked like they belonged in a different era. Family photos hung crookedly in mismatched frames. He avoided looking at them for now. The place felt frozen in time, like a museum of someone else's life, someone else's memories. It was disconcerting, but he had no time for sentiment. He had to focus on the essentials—he had to survive.

He tightened his grip on the hatchet in his hand, feeling the cool weight of the metal. He'd grabbed it from a rack near the door, its edge still sharp enough to do some damage. He wasn't used to using melee weapons, but he couldn't rely on the rifle slung over his shoulder. It had only a few bullets left, and there was no telling when—or if—he'd find more.

He moved deeper into the house, each step careful and measured. His boots thudded softly on the floorboards, the sound amplified by the quiet. He felt his nerves prickling, every sense on high alert. He was in enemy territory, unfamiliar and unforgiving. He had to find supplies—food, water, anything that could help him survive this strange world. His stomach growled, reminding him of how long it had been since he'd eaten. He couldn't afford to be picky.

moves to living room

The living room was the first stop. It was a cluttered space, with old furniture covered in thick fabric. A floral-print couch sat beneath a large bay window, its cushions faded and worn. A low coffee table was strewn with magazines, books, and an ashtray filled with cigarette butts. The air smelled faintly of smoke and something sweeter, like cinnamon. He scanned the room, looking for anything useful. There was a glass cabinet against the far wall, filled with small ceramic figurines and knick-knacks. He moved closer, prying the door open with the hatchet. Inside, he found little of value—just dust-covered trinkets. He rifled through them anyway, pushing aside old photos and porcelain animals, until he spotted a small, silver candlestick at the back. It was tarnished but solid. He grabbed it, slipping it into his pack. Silver might be valuable.

His eyes fell on a stack of DVDs and music discs on a shelf. He paused, considering. Maybe they could be used for barter—who knew what might be valuable here? He grabbed a handful and stuffed them into his bag. Next to them, he found an old-fashioned cigarette case with a few bent, dried-out cigarettes inside. He pocketed those too. Nicotine would help keep him awake and keep his mind sharp.

moves to kitchen

He moved to the kitchen next, feeling a little more at ease. This room was brighter; a single window let in a sliver of moonlight, casting eerie shadows across the floor. He could see the outlines of pots and pans hanging above the stove, a wooden rack filled with knives, their blades dull with age. He ignored them; his hatchet was more reliable. He went straight for the fridge, pulling it open with a grunt. The light flickered to life, revealing shelves lined with milk, cheese, and some wilting vegetables. Useless. He dug deeper, pushing aside containers and cartons, until he found what he was looking for—bottles of water. He grabbed three, twisting the caps open to check. They seemed clean enough. He shoved them into his bag, then turned his attention to the pantry.

The pantry door was locked. He felt a surge of frustration and anger. He could have sworn there was no time for locks in a place like this. He tried the handle again, but it was jammed tight. He took a step back and swung the hatchet hard against the wood, splintering it with a single blow. Two more swings, and the door burst open. Inside, he found shelves lined with canned goods—soup, beans, fruit, everything he could have hoped for. He grabbed as much as he could carry, cramming the cans into his bag until it felt heavy on his shoulder.

Next, he looked for anything with a longer shelf life—TV dinners, boxes of crackers, instant noodles. Anything that didn't require cooking or refrigeration. He found a couple of cans of cola and a few bottles of fruit juice on a lower shelf. He took those too. Sugar and caffeine would keep him going for a while, at least. He spotted a half-empty bottle of whiskey on a shelf and snatched it down. The alcohol would help disinfect wounds or start a fire if needed.

He opened a few drawers, rifling through their contents. Cutlery, cooking utensils, an old lighter, and some matches. He pocketed the lighter and matches. He found a small stash of coupons in one drawer—probably worthless, but he grabbed them anyway, just in case. His fingers brushed against a few old silver spoons. He added those to his growing collection of valuables.

moves to dining room

He moved on to the dining room, a long, narrow space with a large wooden table in the center. The chairs were old and creaky; their upholstery faded and stained. There was a sideboard against one wall, its drawers filled with table linens and napkins. He found a small, delicate tea set made of china—useless. Then he saw the silverware drawer. He yanked it open, finding a set of silver knives and forks. They were a bit tarnished, but he knew they could be valuable. He stuffed a handful into his pack, feeling the weight increase on his back.

A cabinet in the corner caught his eye. It was locked too. He felt a mix of irritation and curiosity. Why was everything locked in this place? He searched the room for a key but found nothing. Frustrated, he swung the hatchet again, breaking the cabinet open. Inside, he found a few bottles of wine and some more expensive-looking liquors. He grabbed a couple, feeling the bottles click against each other in his bag.

goes up to bedrooms

He moved quickly to the bedrooms, starting with the one closest to the stairs. The door was slightly ajar, and he nudged it open with his boot, holding the hatchet at the ready. The room was small and cluttered, filled with the remnants of a young girl's life. He could tell it was Stacy's room from the sign—the girl he'd just killed. There were posters on the walls of pop bands and movie stars, a desk cluttered with schoolbooks and makeup, and a bed covered in a rumpled pink quilt. He pushed the door wider, stepping inside. The air was thick with the scent of perfume, the kind that teenage girls wore—a little too sweet, a little too strong. He tried not to think about her. She tried not to remember the fear in her eyes or the way she'd tried to run. He had to keep moving.

He began searching the drawers, pushing aside hairbrushes, notebooks, and jewelry. He found a silver necklace with a small locket. He opened it; inside was a tiny picture of Stacy and her parents, all smiling. He shut it quickly and stuffed it in his pocket, feeling a brief pang of guilt. Then he found a box of cigarettes hidden beneath a pile of clothes. He grabbed those, along with a cheap plastic lighter. He continued searching, finding a few bottles of perfume and makeup—maybe useful for trade, he thought. He pocketed them too.

He found a small set of keys on a nightstand. Grabbing them, he figured they might save him some time. He moved to the closet and swung the doors open. Inside were more clothes, shoes, and a small safe at the bottom. He tried the keys—one fit, and the safe opened with a satisfying click. Inside were a few wads of cash, a silver ring, and an old wristwatch. He grabbed them all.

He moved to the next bedroom—Stacy's parents', by the look of it. The room was larger, with a big wooden bed and heavy curtains that blocked out the moonlight. He flicked on a small bedside lamp, casting a yellow glow over the room. He searched the nightstands first, finding a few prescription bottles—painkillers and sedatives. Those could be useful. He took them, then moved to the dresser. There, he found a jewelry box filled with rings, bracelets, and a few more silver pieces. He took what he could.

In the closet, he found an old toolbox. He opened it, finding a few tools—a hammer, a wrench, some screwdrivers. He took the hammer and a small pocketknife. They could come in handy.

moves to bathroom

He stepped into the bathroom next, the smell of lavender soap hitting him. He opened the medicine cabinet and found a few bandages, antiseptic cream, and more painkillers. He grabbed them, then checked under the sink. More cleaning supplies, some toothpaste, and a bottle of rubbing alcohol. He took the alcohol, knowing it could serve multiple purposes—disinfectant, firestarter, or drink, if it came to that.

walks back down and goes to the basement

He moved on to the basement. The door was heavy, and it took some effort to pry it open. He flicked the light switch, and a single bulb buzzed to life, casting long shadows across the concrete floor. The basement was damp and cold, filled with old boxes and dusty shelves. He descended slowly, his eyes scanning the room for anything useful. He found an old camping stove, still in its box. Perfect. He grabbed it, along with a few canisters of fuel he found nearby. He checked the shelves—more canned food, a few bottles of water, and an old, rusted toolbox. He took the food and water, ignoring the tools this time.

In one corner, he found a small wooden chest. It was locked, but he found a key on a nearby shelf and opened it. Inside, he found some old coins, a few silver candlesticks, and a small, tarnished copper pot. He took the silver and copper, leaving the rest.

He moved back upstairs, his bag heavy with supplies. He felt a strange mix of satisfaction and guilt. He had what he needed for now—enough to survive for a few days, at least. But the house felt different, heavier somehow. He glanced at the photos again as he passed, the faces smiling back at him from another time, another world. He tried to shake the feeling off. 

photos of the family of deer. Smiling, happy. The girl he killed— stood between two older deer and a younger one. their arms around her. Her antlers were small in the earlier photos, almost like little nubs, but they grew taller and more elaborate in each picture. In some, she was laughing with friends; in others, she was posing proudly in front of a school building. A few showed her holding trophies and ribbons. She had lived a full life—he could see that much. It made him feel... Gross. He forced himself to look away. 

He noticed the younger one was in all the older photos but none of the newer ones. Did something happen to them? Did they pass away, and was this girl the family's only child left? And did he take that away from them? a pit formed in his stomach, the thought of the parents pain. reminded him of his own when his sister died. He left home on that day to make a camp in the woods.

camp, oh right, hes probably going to need to make a camp to hide in. Until he can find some way out of this nightmare world of monsters, he must have slipped into some weird backwoods dimension where all the animals lived like humans. question is? How will he get out? He isn't quite sure, but. He does have this list of deer to hunt his dad had bought from a hunting lodge. the grand deer slam of all species. For some reason, when he killed that girl, one of the names faded out like the ink was smeered. Could that be the key? Was this some great hunt in another dimension, for some hed imagine was their wildest dream? But he was mixed on that opinion; on the one hand, the forest was more lush and green; on the other hand, it was also filled with monster people.

He was going to need more than just food and water to survive. This world was unpredictable—cold at night, wet, and unfamiliar. He needed shelter. Not just any shelter, but something he could set up quickly and easily, something that would keep him hidden from prying eyes. He had to find supplies to make a temporary shelter or at least something that could get him through the first night.

His mind raced as he mentally cataloged what he would need. Nails, clotheslines, rope, tarps—any kind of fabric that could be used to create a makeshift tent. He needed something to tie things together, to secure loose pieces of wood, to keep the rain out. His gaze drifted back to the kitchen, where he had already scavenged most of the food and drink, and he made his way back, looking more closely this time.

He rummaged through drawers and cupboards, moving aside cutlery and old newspapers, until he found a roll of duct tape. He grabbed it quickly, shoving it into his bag. He kept searching, finding a few loose rubber bands and some twist ties. Not perfect, but they might come in handy.

He moved to a small utility closet by the back door. The door was locked. He fumbled with the keys he had taken from the girl's bedroom, trying each one in turn. The fourth key clicked, and the door swung open. Inside, he found shelves filled with cleaning supplies, old cans of paint, and boxes of odds and ends. He spotted a small spool of wire, frayed at the edges but still strong. That would do. He grabbed it, adding it to his growing collection of supplies.

He dug deeper into the closet, finding a tangle of clotheslines and a handful of clothespins. The clothesline was sturdy enough—thick and woven, not the cheap plastic kind. He pulled it out and stuffed it into his bag. Then, he found a small box labeled "hardware"—he pried it open, revealing a jumble of nails, screws, and thumbtacks. He picked through them quickly, taking what he could.

He glanced around the closet, his eyes landing on an old raincoat hanging from a hook. It was worn, the fabric thin in places, but it looked like it would fit him if he cut it down a bit. He pulled it off the hook, shaking off the dust, and tried it on. The sleeves were too long, but that could be fixed. The hem fell almost to his knees, which was perfect. It was better than nothing. He folded it up and crammed it into his bag.

Next, he needed something for shelter—something to keep the rain and cold out. His eyes darted around the room, searching for anything that could work. A thick blanket hung over the back of a chair. It was woolen, heavy, and would keep him warm. He grabbed it, then checked the linen closet in the hallway. More blankets, some thinner, some thicker. He took two more, layering them on top of each other in his bag. They were bulky, but he didn't care. He'd need the warmth.

He remembered the boots he was wearing were starting to wear thin, the soles almost completely smooth. He glanced around, looking for shoes—anything that might work better. He found a pair of old rubber boots in the closet near the front door. They were clearly not made for human feet—too wide, too short in the toes. But he figured he could modify them with the knife he found earlier. He slipped them on, feeling the tightness around his arches. He'd have to cut them down a bit; maybe add some padding, but they'd keep his feet dry for now.

As he moved through the house, he noticed some loose wooden planks stacked against the wall in the garage. They were small and narrow, but they could be useful—firewood, maybe, or support beams for a makeshift shelter. He picked them up, testing their weight, and decided to take as many as he could carry without overloading himself. He tied them together with the clothesline, making a crude bundle that he slung over his shoulder.

He returned to the bedrooms, looking for more clothing. He found a pair of oversized sweatpants in the father's closet. He took them, knowing he could use the fabric if not the whole garment. There was an old wool sweater, too—frayed around the cuffs but warm. He grabbed it, thinking it might serve as extra insulation against the cold nights. A thick, hooded jacket hung on a hook near the back of the closet. He snatched it up, feeling the weight of the fabric and the thickness of the lining. It would keep him warm and dry and maybe even serve as another layer for his makeshift tent.

He needed more cord or rope, something stronger than the clothesline. He checked the basement, heading down the creaky steps with a flashlight he found earlier. The air was damp and smelled of mildew. There were shelves filled with old tools and rusted equipment. He spotted a coil of thick rope hanging from a peg on the wall. He yanked it down, feeling its weight. It was rough and frayed in places, but it would hold. He added it to his pile.

On a workbench, he found a roll of electrical tape, still partially wrapped. He grabbed it, figuring it would come in handy for securing the rope or patching up holes. There were a few more tools—a rusty pair of pliers, a hammer, a hand saw. He took the scissors and the hammer, leaving the saw. He couldn't carry everything, and the hatchet would do for cutting wood if needed.

He went back upstairs and checked the bathroom for any small bottles—found a bottle of antiseptic, some band-aids, and a small pair of scissors. He shoved them into his pockets. In the back of his mind, he kept counting the minutes, feeling the pressure of time ticking away. He couldn't stay in one place too long. He didn't know who might come looking for her—friends, family, or something worse. He needed to be gone before anyone realized she was missing.

Finally, he stopped in front of a tall, narrow wardrobe in the hallway. It was locked. He tried the keys he'd found earlier, but none fit. Frustrated, he jammed the hatchet into the seam, prying at it until the lock gave way with a loud snap. Inside, he found some old coats, thick and heavy, perfect for layering against the cold. He took one that seemed the sturdiest, then spotted a small toolbox on the floor. He opened it, finding more nails, some duct tape, and a roll of heavy-duty trash bags. He took the trash bags—they could be cut open and used as waterproofing for his shelter.

With his bag now heavy and his shoulders aching from the weight, he took one last look around the house. The photographs on the walls seemed to stare back at him, the smiling faces frozen in time. He turned away, focusing on the supplies he had gathered. It wasn't perfect, but it would have to do.

He walked back to the front door, feeling the weight of everything he had taken pressing down on him. He glanced once more at the girl's body on the porch, then quickly looked away. No time for regrets. He needed to find somewhere safe, somewhere to set up a camp and wait for the dawn.

He stepped outside into the night, feeling the cool air bite at his face. He pulled the jacket tighter around him, adjusted the weight of the pack on his shoulder, and started walking, his eyes scanning the darkness for any sign of movement. He had what he needed for now, but he knew this was just the beginning. Survival in this new world would be a constant battle—a fight against the elements, against hunger, and against his own conscience.