by Wendy Reakes
Before he closed the door, he once more looked around the room.
It would never be the same again.
It was eleven o’clock when the house was secure once more. "Let's get the children settled," Bill said to Dolly. She and Gladys took one each, stripping them and putting on clean pajamas. Their face and hands got washed with a clean flannel. Bill thought it was important to keep things as normal as possible. "Make them some cocoa, Dolly. They'd like that."
Lucy sat down upon the mattress, which they had laid on the floor of the sitting room. "Daddy, why are we sleeping down here?"
“Just to be on the safe side.”
“Will the nasty birds come back again?”
“I shouldn’t think so. It’s just a precaution.”
“You can shoot them, daddy.”
“Aye. Come on now. Settle down and mum will bring you some cocoa. You can have it in bed if you like.”
They both cheered.
“Shush, now,” he said, tucking a blanket over them.
Gladys carried two mugs only half filled with warming chocolate. “Careful, now,” she said. “Don’t spill it over those clean sheets.”
Dolly brought in a tray with a pot of tea and some cups and saucers. They tried to get Melanie to sit up, but she shook them off. Gladys sat next to her and stroked her hair. She calmed as her eyes gazed nowhere.
Bill looked at the fire. It was doing nicely. Glowing red, keeping everyone nice and warm and cozy. Then he thought about the fire in the kitchen. He hadn’t seen to it for a while. He hadn’t checked it. He was about to get up when he heard Harry say his name, quietly, like he didn’t want anyone else to hear.
When he looked up and saw Harry’s face as he stood in the doorway between the sitting room and the kitchen, Bill knew they were in trouble.
Harry stood in the doorway. He recalled a documentary he’d seen about Liminal space. Liminal meaning the time between the ‘what was’ and the ‘next’, a place of transition, waiting, and not knowing. The orator had described it as a place that exists between exiting one room and entering another. That’s where he was now, standing in liminal space, watching the lives of the Hock family as they guarded against foreign bodies. And as he mused liminal space, trying to recall what else the documentary had said, his eyes had cast to the grate in the kitchen. He saw movement there. A small wren, hopping over splinters of dead wood to the floor. Harry spoke Bill's name as if liminal space had become suspended in time like a black hole had opened and he was being sucked in.
"Bill," he whispered as he kept his eyes on the bird.
Then all hell broke loose.
Tiny birds, starlings, wrens, common thrush…came rushing down the chimney into the room like a raging, graceful torrent.
When the children screamed, Bill was there like a shot. He closed the door to the sitting room, protecting the ones left behind. Harry guarded his eyes with his arm as Bill did the same, looking for anything they could whip, to scatter the density of the birds. They were everywhere, hundreds of them, scattering, looking for places to land. Harry felt like he was in a giant birdcage. He grabbed a hand towel from a rack over the stove and he began whipping them away from his head, feeling their small bodies thud against the cloth in a sickening fashion.
Whilst his eyes were closed, he felt a draft enter the room. Bill had opened the door and now they had somewhere to whip them. Out of the door and into the night.
It took ten minutes to clear them out, but after they had all left, flooding out in the same torrent they had flooded in, Bill and Harry stepped outside. The sky was clear, the night air, sharp and brisk. It was what they needed to feel clean again, free of wings fluttering over their skin.
Then a tremendous roar blasted out, and Harry almost dived for cover.
There was no need. It was a plane, a Hercules, flying low overhead, from the direction of the sea, heading inland. Harry wanted to cheer. An everyday modern rescue was the order of the day. The Air Force would save them. The Air Force would take charge.
Then, when he thought nothing else could go wrong, an unidentifiable black cloud flew past the moon, shading it and blocking out the light.
Harry closed his eyes and pictured the birds flying into the path of the plane and getting shredded by the engines.
The plane came down a mile away, over the trees, burning the sky with deadly yellow flames.
Chapter 31
Matt reached the balcony to his parent’s room. It had been no mean feat, not with the sounds of the birds on the terrace above his head, but somehow, even in the dark of night, he’d managed it. He’d climbed over as deftly as he could manage, up over the hardened glass barricading the balcony. Upon it was a round café table with a single chair tucked under. Ellen sat there when she wanted to be alone. There used to be two chairs, but she’d taken it away when Harry left, saying it made her think about his absence. The chair was now in the shed with tools resting upon it in a jumbled mess.
The first thing Matt did was to go for the handle on the door. As he suspected, it was locked. He cursed his mother, at the same moment, wishing she was there.
He looked over to Gemma’s room. There was no balcony, but the picture window was one that slid across when unlocked. Gemma had been told many times in the past to remember to lock the window. ‘What if Molly goes in there?’ Ellen would say, failing to realize that if Molly did go into Gemma’s room, the last thing she’d do is get up on the window ledge in order to fall out.
Matt was worried about crossing from the balcony. It was hazardous and with his fingers stinging from the cuts, he wasn't sure he'd get there without falling to his death.
With nothing else in his mind but to save his sister, Matt placed his foot upon the balcony, ready to leap to the window, until he heard a knocking sound. His head swung about to see Molly standing in his mum's room with her thumb in her mouth, a teddy bear tucked under her arm and the birdcage with the lovebirds at her feet.
He breathed a sigh of relief. He made a motion for her to unlock the door. When the window slid open, he went inside and closed it after him.
"There are birds upstairs," she said as if it was just a minor, everyday occurrence that caused them only a slight annoyance.
“Don’t go up,” he said, rushing passed her. His mother would have hugged her first, so relieved to discover her safe. Matt was a different breed altogether. He didn’t believe in unnecessary affection. That was for girls.
He opened the door slightly. Outside, a narrow corridor led to the other bedrooms and family bathroom. His mother had her own en-suite, and now that he and Gemma were getting older, they complained daily about not having their own. His mother just said they were lucky to have a roof over their heads at all, and that if they were homeless, then the last thing they'd worry about was not having their own bathroom. Matt of course, after a lecture like that, would roll his eyes and drift off, avoiding any further embellishment of her wise words.
The corridor was clear. The staircase going up was open-plan. Matt often questioned that phrase when anyone used it. What other type of stairwell was there other than open-plan? His mother always rolled her eyes when he argued that point. ‘My grandparents used to have a door at the bottom of theirs,’ his mother would argue. The open-plan stairs went directly into the large sitting room where the birds, in their hundreds sat waiting for something. Honestly, he didn’t know what they were waiting for. He just knew they didn’t look like they were leaving any time soon.
“Stay here,” he said to Molly. She put her thumb back in her mouth and got into Ellen’s bed. He slipped out of the room and rushed quietly along the corridor. The stairs turned half way up, so he couldn’t see the birds. He could, however, see their shadows, looking as if he was making bird hand shadows on the wall.
He went up and turned the corner and then he went up some more.
They were just sitting there as if it was their home. Weird was the word that came to mind. Now, he could only hope that wh
en he walked among them, one of the others in the kitchen wouldn’t make a sudden noise to stir them into a frenzy.
As they pecked at his feet he walked slowly through them, pushing each one out of the way as he made a path through. He reached the door where the curtain had been pulled down from the rail above the windows. They were heavy drapes and the rail that held them was tough enough to withstand anything, except a crazy flock of birds.
He took hold of the window and placed himself outside where dead birds lay scattered about as if their necks had been wrung. Then he pulled the windows open, making a giant cavity for the birds to escape.
But they didn’t move.
Now he was at the side of the terrace, near the window and the door to the kitchen. He saw the guys peering through, wondering what was happening. He waited, and he waited, and then, fed up of the crazy creatures, he went over to the shed, took out a broom used to sweep leaves and threw it amongst them.
That was enough for the birds to take flight. Rushing through the open windows to the sky over the cliffs of the gorge.
Chapter 32
In Cornwall, they waited for the pending dawn. Bill sat on a chair in the kitchen next to the fire. He hadn't slept. Neither had Harry.
The last attack had been two hours ago when the small birds came down the chimney. Nothing since then. Bill had spent the long, still night thinking about the plane that had flown overhead. The pilot would be dead now and anyone else on board. He wondered if it had been loaded with army personnel, sent to their death by some big wig in London. Planes wouldn’t get off the ground with the birds attacking. It was tanks they needed. Tanks they used in the war to kill the Germans. He knew there were museums all over the country storing them. He bet they still worked too. Yes, it was a good idea. He hoped the powers that be had the same thoughts.
Across the room, Bill watched Harry’s eyes mesmerized by the fire. The flames were high now, going well. If any birds came down there, they would be frazzled. Good job too.
Yesterday, the warnings on the radio had instructed people to block their chimneys to prevent exactly what had happened to them earlier. He'd thought about it at the time when he'd barricaded the windows, but he passed it off as bad advice, since the smoke from the fire would fill the room and choke them all to death. Despite the fact he regretted ignoring their advice, he guessed that the ones who'd advised them had central heating with no worries regarding an open fire.
When it was light, he would go up to the cottage and bring down the firewood he'd put there only yesterday. If they needed more, he knew the council's tree was still in Arthur Reed's barn. All it would take was a trip over there. Besides, by Monday he'd have to go over when the police came to see the bodies. The Undertaker would come so that they could plan the funerals.
They had Sunday to get through first. By then, hopefully, it would be all over. Dolly had talked about going up to her sisters, but it would be senseless doing that.
“It’s all right for you, Bill Hock,” Dolly had argued. “She’s not your sister.”
“We don’t know what the roads would be like,” he’d argued.
"Well, we won't know that if we don't try."
He’d turned his back on her then. He loved Dolly with all his being, but at times she aggravated him sorely.
She had been upset all over again after the rush of sparrows down the chimney. The mess was too much for her. ‘Those dead bodies all over my furniture and my kitchen. And look at my stove,” she’d said shrill-like. “How am I supposed to cook on that after those filthy creatures have died all over it? Look at this, Bill. Bird muck! I’d be sick if I cooked on that stove.’
The final nail in the coffin came when she found a dead finch inside the kettle. It had been small enough to get through the spout and drown itself in boiling water.
She’d rushed from the room then, to the bathroom where she was sick in the toilet.
He’d cursed the birds as he listened to her heaving and retching. Gladys was with her, holding back her hair.
He’d taken the kettle and swilled it out good, then he filled it and boiled it twice before filling it again to make tea. Dolly had refused a cup, even when he said it would settle her stomach.
She didn’t speak much after that. She’d got on her knees and scrubbed the floor wearing yellow rubber gloves and a scarf to tie back her hair.
Mother had helped sweep up the birds and piling them against the fire. Bill didn’t want the smell of them burning, so they used a dustpan and brush to scoop them into a black bag. He threw the bag outside the door and slammed it shut again, as instructed by Dolly.
In the next room, the children were asleep now, as was Melanie, curled up on the sofa with a crocheted blanket covering her. They had been worried about the shock element of her ordeal, but they were keeping her as warm and hydrated as much as possible.
Across the room, Harry spoke. "What are your plans for tomorrow?"
Bill thought about it. He’d put in his mind all the chores he’d have at first light. The cows for one. They’d need milking. “I’ll assess the damage and make good the wood covering the windows. I was also thinking about putting some barbwire around them. I’ve got a big roll in the barn.” He imagined the birds getting caught up in it, impaling themselves on the spikes.
Harry nodded. “I’m going to take Melanie back,” he said.
Bill had already predicted that. If it were him, that’s what he would do. Get her home. “Do you want to try our doctor before you leave?”
“I’ve got a feeling he’s going to be overworked, don’t you?”
“Yes, but still…”
“It will be easier to just get her back. They’ll look after her at the Royal Infirmary.”
“They may be over-worked too.”
"It's a big place. Plenty of facilities since they modernized it," Harry said as if he'd already considered it.
“You don’t yet know how bad it is in the city.”
"I doubt if they’d have been hit as bad as the south. Cornwall’s bound to get the first lot of migrators. Besides, my family are there and if I don't know what's happening, I can't help them."
“The news will be back on at six, I reckon.”
“I can’t understand why they aren’t broadcasting all the time, can you?”
"Maybe it's the power or the signal…"
“Or, their facilities have been destroyed by the birds,” Harry finished.
“I can’t see that. The radio stations have padded walls, don’t they?”
Harry shrugged. “Not the whole building though, eh?”
“No, I suppose not.”
Bill leaned his head up against the wall in between the fireplace and the door, barricaded with the upright table. “I’m worn out.”
“When was the last time you slept?”
“Actually, before those birds came down the chimney I’d nodded off for a bit. I feel guilty about that. I should have been watching the fire.”
“It wasn’t your fault. Who could have predicted any of this?”
“I’ve been thinking about that.”
“What?”
"Wondering how it all started. What set the birds off? I mean, it's odd behavior isn't it?"
“I’ve been thinking about that too.”
“What’s your theory?”
“Genetically modified crops.”
Bill scoffed with a smile on his lips.
Harry was ready to convince him. “I’ve always said that one day the scientists would be responsible for altering our DNA. Well, maybe it’s the birds they’ve changed, not us,” he said, “I mean, they play around with stuff without us really knowing what’s going on.”
Bill pouted as he contemplated Harry’s opinion.
Harry grinned. “So, what’s your theory?”
“Ice caps.”
“Melting?”
“Yes. If there’s less land mass, maybe they’re coming inland looking for food.”
Harry shrugge
d. “At the end of the day, it doesn’t even matter. The only thing that matters is how the government will stop it, don’t you think?”
“If they know what started it.”
Harry nodded. “But I think they do. I think they know and they’re not saying. Not wanting to cause a panic.”
“Maybe,” Bill said. As he rested his head once more against the wall and closed his eyes.
When dawn came they were all awake, even the children and Melanie.
Dolly still refused to use the kettle, preferring to boil up a pan of water. “Put that kettle outside Bill,” she’d said. “We won’t use that again.”
They’d sat the children down with a bowl of cereal. Gladys nibbled on a piece of toast. No one else ate a thing. Melanie was sat up in the chair. She was silently lost in a place that only she knew about. When the birds had flown down the chimney, Melanie had stood up and paced into the middle of the sitting room watching the closed door. It was Dolly who’d noticed the wet forming at her feet. Gladys had got her cleaned up, finding some clothes of Dolly’s in the basket in the utility room. Melanie’s clothes were now soaking in the sink. Dolly didn’t want to rinse them until she knew she could hang them out.
The morning mist lay over the land outside the door. Bill had been unsure about opening it, afraid that the birds could have been waiting for an opportunity to strike. In the end, Dolly said. "I'm fed up of those bloody birds scaring the wits out of us. Open that door, Bill, and get some air in here."
Harry followed Bill outside as he stepped back to look at the state of the house. The boards had been pecked at and chipped away, leaving loose boards hanging without nails to secure them. The main one was the kitchen. It was the biggest window in the house. It was relatively untouched as if the birds instinctively knew that they'd have more chance of getting in, if they tried the others.
