The Apocalypse (part one)

A heavy darkness was draped over the skyline of London as the moon's glimmering surface rose above the high rises that dominated the city. Soaring above the urban landscape, a British Buzzard aircraft's roar sliced through the misty, midnight sky. As it neared its destination, the hulking beast's pace slowed and hovered three kilometres above Newham. 

The street was almost deserted; only a couple of late-night pedestrians braved the labyrinthine alleys of Newham. The frosty winter wind nipped at every centimetre of my exposed flesh it could find: nose, forehead, neck. A lone streetlamp projected a flickering cone of light, dappling the street in a soft yellow hue. The cobblestone road stretched out like wet dragon scales, reflecting the silver moonlight. Rain fell in sheets. The wind howled with a mournful cry. Above me, onyx clouds flocked together like ravens, slowly engulfing the moon's pale-ivory light. 

I was returning home from my mundane office job in Canary Wharf.  My day had been an unremarkable series of meetings, emails, and the persistent hum of fluorescent lights; the highlight of my day was discovering a rogue coffee stain on my tie. I hugged my auburn trenchcoat closer to my body. Underneath the coat, I wore a pristine white shirt with subtle pinstripes and a badge reading ‘Hey! My name is Finley Bancroft!’ which my office manager, oh so thoughtfully, presented to me this morning. 

As I navigated the constricted streets, with the grace of a caffeinated penguin, I heard a muffled cough from an alleyway. For some reason that alludes to me, I decided to stop and survey the area, to locate where the sound originated from. In hindsight, I don't understand why I stopped but I regret the action. 

What I originally had taken for a pile of rugs strewn haphazardly across the street, unfolded, expanded, and stood up in one fluid motion. I was not sure if he was wearing a coat, a cape, or some other kind of garment but whatever it was, it was covered thickly and entirely in feathers. A face, kind and creased, with grey mutton chops, peered out from underneath the feathers. I found myself remembering a childhood play of Robin Crusoe and imagined this is what he would look like if he had a vendetta against birds. Then he smiled at me with yellow teeth and greeted me with a raspy “hello there lad” in a thick, incomprehensible Scottish accent.

“Oh hey” I replied, slightly taken aback.

“The end is coming tonight” he informed me, his tone carrying a touch of arrogance.

“Excuse me?” I asked, bewitched.

He chuckled in response.

Seeing that as a queue to distance myself from that peculiar encounter, I took my leave and left him behind with a brisk pace. 

I didn’t have much time to ponder on what happened though, as the sky suddenly happened to explode. 

I wanted to take a break from writing my other story so I decided to write this. I also need a willing nation to partake in another storyline (because beanstopia effectively ruined me last one) so if you're willing, please message me.