39

The once-pigeon blasts through, and around, and over Clyde. He is bowled to the floor, collapses in a tangled heap. One hand flaps spastically, drums against the ground.

Then the bird-beast is on me. A moment of beating thunderous darkness. Its stench engulfs me. It batters at me, tiny feet scraping, beaks gouging. And the sound—above the flutter and twitch—the screeching of its calls. A horrifying chorus. One shriek, echoed, changed, repeated, but undeniably one sound, one utterance.

And then it’s off me and over me. It barrels toward Devon and Kayla. Devon stares, open-mouthed, wide-eyed, horrified. Kayla steps in front, sword drawn. And then they are lost to me, swallowed by the thing.

It swirls around them, pulsing, distorting. Wing after wing after wing unfolds in a great swath. A limb made of limbs. Each individual component flaps madly. Each one in desperate need of a body. Feathers and bone unfold then dissipate, fold back into the mass. Something like a head rises up. A hundred heads. A hundred pairs of black eyes twisted in pain and fear. A hundred gray beaks. The thing writhes and twists. I hear a woman screaming at the heart of it.

Then it rises. It swarms upwards, elongating, fluttering. Kayla and Devon lie in a heap, streaked with blood and guano. Devon is clutching her arm to her stomach, face twisted in pain.

Kayla’s sword is still drawn. But the gleaming blade is free of blood. Not a single avian body part lies upon the ground. And surely, even on an off day, Kayla could filet that bird and serve it up for barbeque in under eight seconds.

And when exactly was the last time I saw her actually stab something?

Above us the pigeon wheels, screeches, circles back for more.

I can’t rely on Kayla. “Clyde!” I yell. “Clyde, get something between us and it. That wall spell. Go, go, go!”

He lies there on the ground.

“Clyde!”

His arm spasms.

“Clyde! Offline now! I need you here!”

The pigeon is almost on us.

“Clyde!”

Then it’s too late. The mass of bird hits me in the gut, drives me back and down. I roll, face mashed against smooth and fresh asphalt. The stink of tar fills my nostrils. I feel my jacket tear, feel the shirt beneath giving way. I’m dragged by the momentum of the bird, tumbling, grazing down the street, barreled over and over.

I come up on my knees, haul my pistol bodily out of its holster. I point it at the thing as it swarms over Kayla and Devon. Lift, you bastard. Lift up so I can fill you full of holes.

“Clyde!” I scream. “Clyde, get out of cyberspace now, you bastard!”

“Sonics.” Clyde’s voice is barely audible as the pigeon-thing shrieks and lifts to the sky. “High-fr—” And then the roar of my pistol cuts him off.

The gun kicks in my hands. Blood and feathers explode out of the mass of pigeon. I bring the gun to bear again. It’s easy to hit something this damn big. I fire. Again. Again. The pigeon twists through the air. Up and away behind a building.

I’m sweating, breathing hard. My hands are shaking. I turn, sitting back on my heels. I stare at Clyde, still lying on the street.

“Sonics?” I ask him. “Are you fucking kidding me?” Not our usual near-death-experience banter, I admit, but I’m a little on edge right now.

“High-frequency sonics,” Clyde repeats. “Should drive it off.”

“Should? Should?” I can’t believe what I’m hearing. “You know what would drive it off? Spearing the fucking thing on a spell. Now—”

But it’s too late for more chastisement.

It’s down at ground level, streaking along the street towards us. I drop onto my stomach, sight past Clyde, pray that I can aim at least that well.

Boom. The gun kicks. Boom. Again. Die you fucking thing. Just die. Boom, boom, boom. The clot of birds spins and careens, sheds parts of itself. Chunks of bird fly loose, folding in on themselves as they spiral away, folding into nothing, non-events.

The pigeon slams into Clyde, barrels him over. Regardless of internet connectivity, sonics, or spells. Then it’s over him, storming into the muzzle of my gun. I fire. I fire. I fire. I stare into a thousand beaks stretched wide. Boom. And then, moments before beaks and wings strike, it pulls up and away, keening.

Click. My gun runs dry. Click, click, click. I keep firing anyway, finger spasming.

A fresh magazine. I need—I tug one free. I can hear someone sobbing. Devon curled up, fetal, Kayla standing, impotent over her. The old magazine falls away from my gun. There are police sirens in the distance. Too far away.

“Clyde,” I say. “Clyde, I need—” But then I look at him. A tall pale-skinned man lies, face staring empty-eyed up at the sky.

Where is it? Where’s the goddamn mask?

The pigeon swoops down. And there. Caught in a jagged tangle of feet. The mask is coming down at me.

I slam the new magazine home. I aim. I try to think of something that Kurt Russell would say.

“Oh shit and balls.”