Page 4 of Hunted By Fae
The oddity of it is enough to draw in more attention, lure people closer to the hood of the pickup truck.
That chilled trepidation in my chest is spreading.
I make to push into the crowd, to leave the shade of the popup bar, but I manage only one step before a sudden shriek splits the air—but not human.
My heart slingshots.
I swerve my wild gaze up at the sky.
It’s not flies this time.
It’s not buzzing.
It’s… a plague of birds.
Flocks upon flocks of them. And all that I can hear are their cries.
Crows, eagles, hawks, even robins and jays, they swam the sky together, screeching. It all garbles into one deafening cry that wipes the dance silent.
The music can’t be heard anymore.
I toss a look at the stage.
The band members are loosening their tension on their guitars, the mics, and their slack faces are lifted up to the sky.
Like thick black clouds, the birds move in such masses that the light starts to dim, and dim—until it’s a mere dusky glimmer washing down on us.
All around the dance, people have stilled.
Most stay out in the open, necks arched back, faces aimed up at the thousands of birds in wonder. Others, in a split moment, start pushing in a swell for the spots of shelter.
And that pushes a current of people my way.
I drop into a crouch and duck under the edge of the table.
My neck cranes, and I watch the billowing cloud of birds smear the sky.
I’ve never seen anything like it.
Their screeches grow louder and louder.
I smack my hands to my ears with a wince.
That billowingflap, flap, flapof wings is pressing down on me; I feel it, the violent force of disturbed air, like someone is flapping a blanket above me, over and over, and all I can do is cringe against it.
Then I see it.
There, among the birds.
Jagged wings, talons, fox-like faces.
Bats.
The bats move with the birds… in the middle of the fucking day.
My face slackens with the horror.
The horror of realisation.
