The Birds, They're Back

by Wendy Reakes

  He shouted to his friends. Only one came over to help. It was Sim, holding out his hands as if he didn’t know what to do with them. Behind him, the others cowered and screamed, not knowing what danger lurked behind the door, only hearing it and sensing it like they would a monster under their bed. Matt didn’t know what to make of it. They were just birds for Christ sake. They were just birds. Had he dreamed what he saw? Maybe the wine had made him hallucinate.

  He felt Gemma behind him. “What do we do?” she yelled.

  Huh? How was he supposed to answer that? “Get the table. Pull it up over here.”

  Within seconds, while he concentrated on the pushing and flapping and squealing going on behind the door, they came back with the table. It was heavy, he knew that. It would be better than the door. Sturdier. “Slide it in front of me.”

  It creaked over the floor as the table replaced his body guarding the door.

  “What is it, Matt? What’s in there?”

  “I don’t know. Birds. They’re crazy, they’re crazy.”

  He slid down the table to the floor and grabbed the torch. The others were grouped together inside the dark kitchen, as Franco, in the middle, held a candle in front of them. They looked like a gang of kids walking around a haunted house.

  Matt shone the torch onto his hands. His fingers were bleeding profusely. Gemma slid down and covered them with a tea towel from the rack.

  “Oh, my God,” she said suddenly as she looked into his eyes. “Molly.”

  He gasped as he pictured his little sister falling prey to those crazy birds.

  “What do we do, Matt?” Gemma screamed over the noise of the birds on the other side of the door.

  “Call mum.”

  "We haven't got a signal, remember! And the landline is down."

  Then he remembered something, “I can get to her,” he said. “I know how to get to Molly.”

  The others sat against the table. “Don’t push at it,” Matt instructed. “It will swing outwards. Just don’t let them push it towards you.” The two girls were crying. “Gemma and Sim come with me.”

  They left the candle as the group on the floor blocked the entrance. Matt went to the kitchen door that led out to the terrace. He looked through the window. He couldn’t see much. “When I go out, close the door behind me really quick.”

  “No, don’t leave us,” screamed Gemma.

  “I have to. We can’t leave Molly. What if she gets up, comes upstairs and sees those birds? She’ll have a heart attack.”

  Matt unlocked the glass door and slipped through it quietly and efficiently. The others pulled it shut as soon as he was through. He looked along the terrace. His view was obstructed by an ornamental tree in a pot. He was glad of it. He kept near to the glass as he peered through a gap between the wall and the tree. He could see the doors to the sitting room. They had been left open only two feet wide. And inside the gap, birds clamoured over other birds, like they were cars in a pile-up on the motorway. The scene was hard to comprehend, as if it was otherworldly, like he was doped up. More birds flew in from beyond the mist, like spirits of the night. Some crashed into the walls, diving like kamikaze pilots, head first while blinded by the fog.

  All around was blackness except for the moon shining down upon the mist, giving off a haze of light that was just enough to see. He made a dash to the side of the terrace that jutted out over the gorge. He knew a place where the balustrade met the cliff face. From the side, he jumped over and landed on a firm flat rock, crouching down out of sight of the birds. He’d jumped upon it a few times before. If only his mother had known! She’d have thrown a fit.

  From the side, keeping a tight grip of the railings above his head, he was able to slowly cross the underside where steel girders held the terrace aloft.

  Below him was the gorge, and if he slipped, it would mean certain death. His hands were still bleeding, but he’d blocked out the pain long ago. The only thing that mattered now was reaching Molly before those crazy birds got her. Further along, a small balcony jutted out from his parent’s room. He just had to reach it and pray the window was unlocked. Knowing his mother, it probably wasn’t, but he had a plan b. He would go from their balcony over to the window next to it, to Gemma’s room. He calculated that she’d opened it at some point that evening if her friends were with her. He just hoped she hadn’t locked it afterwards. If all the windows were locked, he didn’t know what he would do, since the place was impenetrable.

  Suddenly, his right foot slipped on a wet rock. As a loose stone tumbled to the gorge below, he grabbed a girder and placed his left foot inside the part where the girder was secured to the rock face. He stopped for a moment to catch his breath. The sound of the birds up above was intense. Squealing and squawking as if they were discussing their own strategy.

  He moved some more.

  The balcony was near.

  Then the mist cleared as if the devil had taken away his cover just for the fun of it.

  Chapter 28

  Ellen Fear stood up, rubbing her aching back after sitting for so long on that crate. She’d had enough. She wanted to go home to her kids. She walked to the door where Mark Shark sat with his back against it. “Let me through,” she spat.

  “Not happening. Go sit down.”

  “You have no right telling me what to do. My husband and I own this place.”

  “Ex-husband.”

  That stung. How the hell did he know she and Harry were divorced. Then she realised how when she saw one of the chefs sitting next to him. "It doesn't matter what our marital status is. I am still a partner." That was a lie. It was the reason she and Harry had parted company. He had held the mortgage in his name, assuring her that he could make some decisive financial manoeuvres if she was kept out of the equation. He'd taken the lease in his name and when the restaurant lost money, he said he wanted to make her a partner to offload some of the debt. She'd refused, telling him he'd made his bed and now he could lie in it. She'd basically dug her own grave because the restaurant had suffered. She'd always regretted her decision not to help him, but when the restaurant began making a profit, he never held it against her. He'd fought for what he believed in and won. She admired him for that. "Please let me out. I have to get my kids. They're all alone."

  He shook his head. She was about to scream at him, hoping he'd throw her out, when the distant noise of the birds made everyone stand up and turn their faces upwards.

  They were back.

  The noise was muffled but it was unmistakable. They’d heard it before, earlier, when the birds had attacked the restaurant and the people on the terrace. All at once Ellen recalled the faces of the people outside, the man through the glass who had begged them to let him in, the waitress on the gang-plank, the man in the river with his eyes pecked out…

  But that was one noise…

  Ellen looked upwards. She knew that cellar well, better than anyone there, and she knew that the top two feet were above ground. The cellar flap was bolted from the inside, it was steel, impenetrable, but at either side were grates set in the wall, only six inches wide, offering air into the cellar from the outside. As the noise pounded their ears, she looked at the grill on the right. It was no longer there. It had dropped to the floor, shaken from its rusty screws and fixings. The hole was now a gap leading to a small shaft, upwards to a place outside. In the hole, perched on the ledge, was a small brown wren. It would be harmless if it hadn't brought its fellow assassins with it.

  A dozen of them rushed through the gap before Ellen had a chance to block it. The people screamed, as if at any moment they expected to be eaten alive by the tiny birds. Ellen grabbed the grill, abandoned on the floor and pushed it against the hole, blocking the arrival of more small birds, instinctively sniffing their way into the cellar.

  She held it in place and turned about, feeling it weighted upon from more birds outside the building. The people in the cellar were panicked now, whipping the birds with their jackets against the unforgivin
g walls. When all the birds were dead, and Ellen had wedged the grill to the hole, everyone took a deep breath. They had survived, and they planned to go on surviving.

  Chapter 29

  As the sound of the birds passed, Harry stood in the door to the kitchen, watching the Hock family. The children were sobbing, the old lady fussing over some cushions, and Bill’s wife was moving from room to room in an obvious state of distress.

  Bill grabbed hold of her and held her in his arms, and right then, Harry wished he was with Ellen and the kids so that he too could hold them, to keep them safe. What if the birds hadn’t struck Bristol? He hoped that were true but somehow, he knew it wasn’t. He remembered the call he’d made to Ellen when she was in the car with the kids. Gemma had been struck by a seagull outside the college. No, common sense told him, what was happening there in Cornwall, was happening everywhere, even in Bristol.

  In the kitchen, Dolly was picking up chairs and putting them straight. There was no table to place them around since that was up on its side against the door leading to outside.

  “Can we put this down now, Bill?” she asked, anxious to get her kitchen back how she liked it.

  “Not yet,” he said. “I need to be sure first.”

  "They're gone now," she said. Harry watched her eyes, so full of cautious hope. Her thoughts were all over the place, as was everyone else's, including his. How could anyone process the events that had taken place that day? Especially over at their friend's farm. The Reeds had been struck down, massacred by the frenzied, bloodthirsty birds. Who could comprehend that? He wondered about Dolly, about her background…her motivation. She was soft spoken, charming and kind. That was how he thought of her.

  She took the kettle from the range. It was so big she had to carry it with two hands. She rested it on the side and tilted it to pour the water into a plastic bowl inside the sink. She added a squirt of washing-up liquid and piled in dinner plates and cutlery. She looked upwards to the window as she slotted the first plate into the draining rack. He imagined her doing that every day, except that night, there was nothing to see, since the window was boarded.

  Harry went next to her and grabbed a tea towel, waiting for the dishes to come out. “You don’t have to do that,” she said.

  “I’d like to.”

  She smiled at him in a sympathetic fashion. “Your lady will be all right,” she said gently. “Give her time.”

  He pouted, trying to imagine Melanie back to the person she used to be. Somehow, he didn’t think she’d ever be the same again. Got knows what her parents were going to say. They lived in Gloucestershire, north of Bristol. “I should have rung her parents, to let them know about her injuries.”

  “But you wouldn’t have got through, would you?” Dolly reasoned. “The phone lines are out.”

  He shrugged as he rubbed the towel over the dishes, stacking them on the surface at the side.

  “I’ve got a sister living near Bristol,” Dolly said. “A place called Portishead. Her husband used to work as a tanker driver, but when he died she never fancied moving. She’s got a nice house, but I don’t think much of the area.”

  “Have you got in touch? Is she okay?”

  “Oh, yes. They’ve had no trouble with birds up there.” Harry felt encouraged until she said "But that was two days ago. I haven't spoken to her since then."

  “I hope she’s okay.”

  Dolly nodded glumly. “Yes. I should ring her tomorrow. The lines will be back up by then, don’t you think?”

  “I do.”

  The old lady, Gladys, came in and took the towel from his hand. “Move away, son. This is women’s work.”

  He backed out and went into the sitting room, to Melanie still lying motionless. He sat next to her and suddenly she opened her eyes. She screamed when she saw him and began to thrash out. He held her bandaged arms, "Don't, honey. Don't." She relaxed when she realised he was there with her. The look in her eyes sent chills through his body. They held a look of submission and resentment, and fear. It was the only way to describe it because, in all his days, he'd never seen a look like that.

  Gladys arrived with a cup of tea.

  Once again, Harry was pushed away, as if his presence was surplus to requirement. He worried that Melanie wouldn’t take to Gladys, but his concern was dispelled when she looked at her as a daughter would her protective mother. The old lady held her head up to sip some sweet, tepid tea. Melanie took it like an obedient child.

  He wanted to get a hold of her and shake her back to the person she was before those filthy birds assaulted her so shamelessly. Suddenly, he felt a rage burning in his belly, a rage so intense he thought it would burst from inside him. He paced out of the room to the kitchen, where Bill had left the two guns leaning up against the wall next to the fridge. He grabbed one as he violently pulled away the table from the door. His rage was choking him. It consumed him like a fire would paper, leaving a yearning, so bad, he had to shoot those damn birds until every last one was dead.

  In his haste, he moved awkwardly, when behind him he was forcefully restrained by Bill Hock. He was preventing him from moving, stopping him from venturing outside. Harry struggled, but the big guy was too strong for him. Bill forced him against the wall until his anger subsided.

  Then Harry sighed and slumped to the floor.

  Chapter 30

  Bill was systematic. Every move he made he’d planned to be purposeful. He wouldn’t waste one second being aimless, nor allowing the panic in his gut to throw him off course.

  Soon, he would go outside. If the birds were gone, then he could see the damage they’d made, and he could do the necessary repairs. He had his tools at the ready, in a bag next to the door where the two shotguns were kept. First, he needed to see to the family. He knew if he didn’t calm them down, give them something to do, their rising panic would overcome them, as his suppressed panic threatened to overcome him.

  He moved the stepladders into the kitchen. He'd used them earlier to check the loft before the birds had penetrated it. Now, he needed them again to take outside to check all his pre-fabricated barricades.

  A hand grabbed his arm. “You’re not going outside,” Dolly said, her eyes wide and fearful.

  “I may have to. Get ready for the next attack.”

  “I won’t let you. You can’t. Please, don’t go out there.” The trembling of her voice and the look of dread on her face was all it took for him to back down. Dolly’s well-being was his main priority, but she didn’t know her own mind. If he needed to put himself in danger to save her and the children, then that was what he would do, and she wouldn’t be able to stop him.

  Minutes ago, when Harry Fear had made that dash for the door, it had taken Bill a second to realize what he wanted to do. He had intended, in frustrated anger, to go out and shoot every one of those birds before they killed the people inside the house. It would have been a suicide mission. Pointless.

  No, Bill knew that whatever he did from there on, he had to be systematic. He had to know exactly what he was doing and perform the task with precision and grit. Nothing less would do. “Stay indoors while I go look outside,” he said to Dolly. I’ll be a minute, that’s all. I won’t be able to do much in the dark anyhow, but I have to see the damage. Make an assessment.”

  “An assessment, Bill Hock?” she said. “You’re not a surveyor or anything like that, are you.”

  “No, love.”

  “There you are then. You’ll stay inside until first light. I won’t have it any other way. Do you hear me, Bill? Do you?”

  “I do.”

  Then she stepped into his arms and hugged him around the waist.

  Harry was standing at the door between the kitchen and the sitting room. Both rooms were connected and beyond them the hall, where the doors were all closed.

  “We should all rest,” Harry said.

  Bill nodded. “First, we should go up and bring some mattresses down. Can you help me?”

  Harry nodded. O
f course he would.

  At the bottom of the stairs, Dolly came out and tugged at Bill’s sleeve. “Don’t go up there.”

  “I must. We need to make the children and mother comfortable. They’ll never get through the night and we don’t know what we’ll face in the morning.”

  “Bring blankets then.”

  “Aye, I will.”

  Bill and Harry walked up the stairs, one behind the other. Bill pulled out the coat that Harry had stuffed into the gap. He used the torch to peer through. The landing was clear of birds. He turned and nodded to Harry. Then systematically, they moved the armoire from its place at the top, back to the far wall.

  The atmosphere was eerie up there. The light from the torch threw shadows over the walls, as it lit every nook and cranny. It was silent, apart from their feet, creaking along the floor, a far cry from the torturous sounds the birds had made earlier. But it was the smell that made the place less of their own. When normally it smelled of polish and bleach, now it smelled of sweat and urine, and something else…dead meat. It smelled of old rotting dead meat.

  The door to the children’s room was the first he’d try. Once again, systematically, Bill pressed his ear to the door, searching for a sound that would deter him from venturing forth. Nothing, except maybe the wind whistling through the broken windows, rustling the curtains. He stared at Harry as he turned the handle slowly. Then he opened the door and looked inside.

  Dead birds lay upon the floor. One hung precariously from the lampshade next to Toby's bed, its neck broken. Nothing lived. The room was wrecked with discarded feathers while bird muck littered the floor. The duvets on Toby and Lucy's beds were torn to pieces and across the other side, the window was open to the elements as the boards he'd hammered against the frames had come loose with the force of their invasion.

  Harry passed him and stepped inside. He whipped off the ruined bedding in one easy pull and took the mattress. He dragged it out, while Bill did the same to Lucy’s. Bill went to the window and adjusted the boards, hammering new nails into them, giving them a swift tug to test their durability.