Driven by torment, the dying hawk made its escape and, bowing its head for the final time, spiralled out of the bitter night. Its skull cracked against the sleek body of a towering building, just seconds before its corpse sprayed over the car windscreen beneath it. The lifeless creature stared upwards into the opaque night with its one remaining eye; its skeletal remains were encircled by grubby, matted feathers that had been ripped viciously from its skin, and thick steam oozed from its carcass. The hawk was just the first of many creatures about to meet their maker.
From his dream, Nigel woke, as dawn broke over the city. He’d just clambered out of an enormous ashtray to avoid being crushed by giant cigarettes and made his way over to a sky-scraping glass of wine, where he’d be safe. The tiny person in his fantasy, out of place and ready to be stubbed out, was a far cry from the successful 36-year-old that had woken with the birds every morning for nearly 20 years. As an early riser he’d caught the worm; he’d caught the whole insect population, and now he was on the hunt for bigger game.
As he flicked open his blinds and inspected the inner city surroundings, his eyes were pulled down to his pride and joy. "Bastards," he muttered under his breath, realising that his car had once again been used as a waste ground for the 3am kebab-eating crowd. "Absolute idiots..." With that, the single man rubbed his eyes and opened the en suite bathroom door, where he’d shower and change. He would hit the city streets before most people started breakfast.
After typing in his security code and locking his apartment door, Nigel walked briskly to the concourse where his car was situated. With kitchen tissues in hand, he braced himself for the not so elegant job of clearing fast food from the front window of his car. Just as he got within touching distance, a boy of around nine ran towards the owner of the sporty BMW and told him not to touch the flesh that lay slain on his vehicle.
Never had Nigel been so perplexed or speechless in his life. His face twitched in confusion until his mind regained itself. "What are you doing out on your own at this time of the morning?" he asked calmly.
"Sir, don’t touch the bird on your car," the boy said, in a deadly serious tone. "It’s venomous, full of poison and a brute to cure if you’re infected."
"Look, who are you?" Nigel asked, wondering if the boy really had just used the word 'brute' and if indeed he’d referred to the meat and slime on his car as ‘the bird’.
"I’ve been his prisoner since I was born. Snatched from me own cot, I was. He caught my friend and he’s been doing the most cruel of things."
"Who has?" said Nigel. “Who are you talking about?"
"Hank."
"Hank who?"
"Don’t know, sir. Only thing I know, he’s not a pleasant man."
"Where are your parents?"
"God knows, sir. I didn’t know they existed ‘til one of the older boys told me of this world. Told me I was more than likely taken from me parents. Hank’s the only person I seen ‘til I was seven. That’s when he took more kids from the streets."
"We’ve got to get you to a police station, son. They’ll help us find your parents."
"No, we can’t go the police. Police is no good to us, that’s what Hank told me, plus we’ve got to make sure no one touches my friend."
"I was going to ask you, where is your friend?"
"She’s there on your motor." The boy pointed to the mangled hawk.
Having deemed the boy crazy and more than likely a waif, talk of the winged creature had gone straight over Nigel’s head. On closer inspection, he now realised that the substance he’d mistook for last night’s throw-away scraps was, as the boy had told him, a bird.
"Poor Milly," the boy said tenderly, "we escaped together, while the other birds were being worked on." Nigel looked on helplessly at the boy and asked him his name.
"George, sir," he replied.
"Well, George. Firstly I want you to tell me what would happen if I wiped your friend from my window."
"Instant death, sir. In fact, we’re too close now. You see, Hank has a laboratory and he’s been working on the thing he calls 'his secret' for as long as I can remember. He traps birds, you know; sparrows, pigeons, seagulls, everything. He goes away and he brings them back to the attic, that’s where me and the boys stay, and he feeds them and tends to them. Then he takes them away, down to the other parts of the building... Milly’s the only one to escape. And me, of course."
"So, how do you know I’d die?"
"It’s easy. One of the boys found a paper written by Hank. Says that every bird he catches, he’s gonna inject this liquid in them and send them back out. It won’t be ‘til they die that they’ll start to kill off people. That’s why we gotta stay here, ‘case anyone gets near Milly."
Nigel didn’t want to believe, but felt he had no other option. He and George sat and watched the sun drift higher into the sky for a half hour or so. His new, strange-sounding buddy told him about the attic he’d been locked in as the pair of them kept their eyes peeled for anyone going near the BMW.
* * * * *
On the outskirts of the city, nestled at the top of a disused building, a mile and a half from George, Hank cursed himself for allowing the boy and hawk to flee what he believed was a secure holding area.
In what he referred to as the attic, a large, dingy and darkened room on the highest level of the building, Hank screamed at the four pre-pubescent boys that he had, over the last twelve months, grabbed from the lanes, alleys and underpasses of the city. Confined to a small section each, the boys were Hank’s secret weapon in his quest to send the streets into panic. His wretched tone was enough to make the dead rise.
For almost eight decades, and after numerous attempts at plotting the downfall of a society that let him down, Hank had now perfected a plot to sabotage, corrupt, and terrorise it in a most devastating way. The passing of time had little relevance; the man’s mind had been so focused, that in his bicentenary year, it seemed that the second half of his life had been a never-ending pursuit for revenge.
The thought had struck the Victorian-born man in the earlier part of the 20th century. It was cunning, skilful and genius; birds were part of human life and apart from domesticated pets, they were the animals most frequently seen by humans. People fed them, people got close to them, people marvelled as they took flight. With that in mind, Hank decided that his fluttering friends were the ideal transporters of a disease so deadly it would put the plague in the shade. The absolute brilliance of it, though, was this: he wouldn’t take death to the doors of the unsuspecting, he would send it there.
By 1999, having amassed enough birds in his basement and underground bunkers to create a catastrophe, the time was right to drop a bomb on the city before it celebrated the new millennium. To find the perfect potion, some birds were destroyed in the most unspeakable of ways and some were left to suffer for weeks on end. It didn’t matter. Hank had created something that was unstoppable.
He would send the disease-ridden birds into the air in their hundreds, carrying the virus that would spread to humans should they touch or breathe in the fumes of the creature immediately after it died. He estimated that once a hundred people caught the disease, which was inevitable, it would cause an epidemic so large and outrageous that by sundown the vast majority of the city would be infected, and more than likely, dead.
What Hank failed to recognise, however, was that when he sent them out, they wouldn’t automatically die. What would happen should they simply fly away to the most remote of places and perish there? What would occur if they migrated? Wouldn’t his years of villainy have been in vain? His next move was a swift return to the drawing-board.
After a few months of poring over his knowledge of medicine, he read an article that interested him. It said that boys under the age of thirteen had the strongest, freshest blood known to man. The report went on to say that if men had the same blood now as they did when they were twelve, many would survive longer.
Hank had a theory; if a young male’s blood would add years to a man’s lifetime, then perhaps it would give the birds a little longer, too. If he could increase the level of poison, then the birds would survive until they fell from the sky over the city. Toxic rain...
He licked his lips at the thought.
Hank needed the blood of a pre-pubescent boy to test his wild theory and then, perhaps, his wickedness could be put to practice. After kidnapping George from his grandmother’s sitting room as she slept, the baby became Hank’s very first prisoner.
The man waited five years and did additional tests on the birds he had captured before taking blood from young George. In his first experiment, he injected the red liquid into a sparrow already infected with the disease he had mastered; it died within ten minutes.
Subsequently, Hank tested all species of birds over a two-week period and to his delight and shock, all of them died within an hour. The largest were last to fall, but that was inconsequential. He could have sent a number of birds on test runs, but that wasn’t how he wanted it to work. This had to be the biggest event in history.
Knowing that he’d need more blood, he spent the next four and a half years kidnapping children, and then stored the blood he took from them, anticipating the right moment.
Two of the unfortunate victims were to meet their end in the very room the sparrow had. Hank played a cruel and twisted child’s game to choose his victim and in turn, took one boy to the lower levels of the building. When the child was thrown into the airtight room, Hank injected an owl and then threw it inside with the boy.
Before the clock on the outside wall reached fifteen minutes, the owl, having scared the boy out of his wits with its shrieking and howling, hit the floor and died. Three minutes later the young boy died from the fumes that had burst from the owl’s feathered corpse.
With the second child inside, Hank then placed a new batch of diseased birds into the room in order to see if more birds meant a quicker death. It did. The ghastly man grinned as the boy was overcome by dead flesh falling over him. The youngster was gone merely seconds after the owls, hawks and pigeons breathed their last.
Now making his way down to the second level, Hank realised that as George had escaped, the boy was likely to report everything he had seen for the past nine years. The birds had to be released today; otherwise it would be too late.
* * * * *
After 30 minutes of hearing George’s tales, in Nigel’s head, the debating was over. The critical point had come and it was time to inform the police. Pulling his mobile phone from his jacket, Nigel paused and wondered if he was doing the right thing. His hesitation was enough to give George enough leeway to ask him what he was doing.
"I’m phoning the police. Something I should’ve done way before now."
"No, don’t tell them!" the boy cried.
"But the other boys are in danger," Nigel tried to reason.
"No, they’re not. He just takes blood from us, that’s all. He feeds us and everything."
"But you’re used to those conditions. The other boys..." He trailed off; the kid wouldn’t understand.
"What you mean, mister?"
"It doesn’t matter. We need to get to this place you’ve been staying in as soon as we can. Tell me where it is."
"I don’t wanna," the boy shouted, "you’ll tell the police. It’s safer we goes alone."
"What about your friend?" Nigel nodded to the decomposed bird.
"S’pose we can’t leave Milly," the boy sighed and looked across at his companion.
Nigel pressed call and put the phone to his ear. The boy looked at him with disgust and turned to run. Nigel collared him. "I’m phoning my friend. We need someone to look after Milly, don’t we?" Even as he said it, the words didn’t sound right.
"Honestly?" George asked, his eyes wide and searching.
"Damn! Michael’s phone is switched off! The lazy..." He kept his profanity on the tip of his tongue and turned to George. "I need to know how far away your building is."
"Over that way, sir," George pointed to the east.
"Is there anything near it that you can remember?"
"Just fields and water."
"A river?"
"Think that’s what it’s called."
Suddenly the floodgates opened as Nigel remembered the old, condemned structure his mother had told him to steer clear of when he was a teenager. Nigel, of course, hadn’t kept away, but neither had he been inside. The whole place had looked so unsteady that he was surprised it hadn’t been demolished long ago.
"Right, we’re going," said Nigel, running round the car to avoid George’s friend.
"What about Milly?"
Nigel got into the car and climbed over to open the other door. "Get in," he said. "Milly’s coming with us."
"What you mean?"
Before he could answer, Nigel pushed himself over into the driver’s seat and started the engine. Within a minute, and with George safely fastened into the passenger side, the pair were on their way to Hank’s hideout. Nigel’s first worry was beating the 7.30am city congestion.
* * * * *
Having taken all of the diseased birds from the underground bunker and injected them with boy’s blood - blood that had been lying untouched for years, in some cases - Hank then locked tight the first floor door that he had the birds trapped behind and gave himself 15 minutes maximum to infect the clean birds; firstly with the disease and then with boy’s blood.
Now on the second of four floors, surrounded by the larger birds; falcons, ospreys, owls, eagles, seagulls, the man who’d spent the better part of his life plotting to bring a city to its knees, was literally living on borrowed time.
Frantically, he grabbed any creature he could and shot it with both injections. He fumbled with bottle after bottle in the half-light until, in a moment of sheer psychotic madness, he flung one of the glass containers with the virus in it and sent it spiralling to the concrete floor, where it smashed. Cruelly, he ripped down any bird he could from its perch and threw it on to the diseased floor. A frenzy ensued, as bird after bird crashed and zipped, screeched and wailed, scratched and convulsed.
Uncertain which birds were infected and which weren’t, Hank kept wondering how stupid he’d been. Milly had been George’s best friend for as long as the child could remember, but the boy was becoming a danger; asking too many questions and becoming suspicious of Hank’s activities. To teach him a lesson, Hank decided to kill the best friend young George could ever have. He pulled her feathers out, picked at her fragile skin and injected her. He made George watch.
Milly, however, was strong and broke free of Hank’s clutches. She circled the room before George opened a tiny window to let his beloved friend out. When Hank eventually realised what was happening, it was too late. If he could have, he’d have thrown George out after the departing hawk, but the window was barely big enough for Milly.
Hank couldn’t let the hawk get away and ran from the attic to the ground floor, hoping Milly would drop from the sky to her end. It was in vain. To make matters worse; whilst Hank was searching the darkened area, George got out of the open door and ran as fast as he could.
From nowhere, a golden eagle hovered above Hank’s head and squealed to high heaven. Without thinking, the man snapped off one of the creature’s talons as if snapping a thin branch from a tree and used it to claw at the other birds. As the eagle retreated to its perch, a thick gooey yellow liquid dripped from its gaping wound and landed squarely in Hank’s eye. He screamed in revulsion, wiped it away with the back of his hand and licked it off. The whole room erupted in a manic bird chorus. Hank was left with no other option; he had to open the door that led down to the first level.
Heading towards the light, each and every bird flocked to the far end of the room and made their way to the ground floor.
* * * * *
George and Nigel swung into the grounds beside the building, and just in time too; Milly had begun to bake as the sun beamed down on her lifeless body. The hawk was disintegrating quickly and Nigel thought she might end up melting through his windscreen.
"Where will he be?" asked Nigel as he pushed George into the back seat.
The boy didn’t answer until they were both out of the car and safely away from the almost non-existent Milly. "He’ll be taking blood from the boys by now. Always does in the morning."
"In the attic?"
"Yeah."
Just before Nigel could suggest they break in and help the boys, he heard what sounded like a metal hatch being opened on the roof. As he and George stepped back, the voices of children filled the air.
"It’s the others," said George. "They’re me friends."
The largest boy was the last of the four to wave at George, but none of them opened their mouths. Nigel knew something was wrong and quite soon his intuition was proved right when an old man, who Nigel presumed was Hank, moved to the side of the roof and spat over the edge. The black liquid that fell from his mouth landed on the BMW and he gave Nigel the middle finger as a present.
"George, how could you?" The man laughed hysterically. "I told you, we don’t bring people here."
"Why don’t you let the boys down, Hank?" said Nigel.
"Tell your friend that he’s got no right telling me what I should do. In fact, it don’t matter if I let them go or throw them off the roof. We’re all gonna be dead by the end of the day anyway!"
From the door directly in front of them, George heard a bustling of activity and pulled on Nigel’s jacket. Nigel was too focused on Hank; looking up, he watched as the man grabbed one of the smaller boys by the hair and sent him spinning to the ground. The man’s crazed laughter echoed and then died. The door was at bursting point. Nigel’s focus was instantly moved from the dead boy on the wasteland to his left, to the entrance in front of him. He saw the wooden frame being pressed and pushed and scrambled for George, who had stepped towards it.
"Come on, pal. We’re off!" he shouted. The boy made no attempt to defy him and the pair of them got into the car.
On top of the building, three boys sobbed and wept for their mothers, as Hank prayed for the ground floor door to burst open. Having sent the smaller birds from the third floor and then shooed them into the ground floor room, he knew it wouldn’t be long until his master plan was put to work.
He had less than a minute to wait. Wood creaked and cracked, metal hinges became loose and snapped, and from the mind of a maniac came a swarm of birds Hitchcock could only have dreamed of. Eagles, seagulls, finches, sparrows, kestrels, falcons, thrushes, owls; every bird of prey, every garden bird, every species Hank had laid his hands on and bred, decade after decade, flew out of the condemned building in an enormous swarm. Hank watched in amazement as the plan he’d been working on for so many years unfolded in front of him. He knew he was on his last legs and so he jumped. His body got lost as the birds he’d fed, from birth in most cases, swept past his vision.
What Nigel wondered as he pulled away, was just how many of the birds dropping from the sky were infected and why in god’s name would a man spend so much time planning a revenge he wouldn’t even witness.
George was on his knees in the back, staring at the pack that was chasing him. He hoped they were reaching out for Milly.
