Fookie picked up a metal rod and banged it on the ground, making a hollow clang that reverberated down the street, fading away to silence…almost. A single fat roach marched out from under a broken box, and he banged the steel rod down again, crushing it in half. “I’m boss here,” he said to its remains.

Lifting his head, he could just hear the faint sound of a radio playing somewhere, and he headed toward it, hoping some of his friends had woken and were gathering for another idle day on the streets.

He kicked at a soda bottle, sending it spinning down the road, and watched as it whirled to a stop. Something crashed into the ground beside it in a dark and wet explosion. Fookie frowned and took a few steps closer. Another thing struck the littered street further away, breaking glass, and sending a small billow of dust into the air. Then came another and another. One of the things flapped once, weakly, and then lay still. A blackbird, then, he guessed.

He approached one of the smashed birds and lifted his rod, ready to poke at it, but paused mid-reach as the street rumbled beneath him. Fookie looked up and saw a few windows open and heads stick out; scowling faces stared down at him, as though somehow he was the cause of the deep vibrations.

Fookie looked above their heads, then higher – the brightening sky was filled with circling birds – not all the same – some huge crows, some starlings, pigeons and tiny fast-moving sparrows that darted in among the tornado of feathers and fury. They took turns peeling off, and then dive-bombing the ground, committing suicide in some sort of strange attack on the Earth.

Another vibration, shallow this time, as though something was getting nearer. Fookie looked around, confused, and not a little frightened now. The ground jumped up and down, and mortar and tiles fell from roofs to explode on the already debris-littered street. As if a signal had been given, the remaining birds all started to dive at the ground, striking hard, dying instantly. They were silent missiles of flesh and feather; their fury was unbounded.

Fookie placed his hands up over his head and ran for a tattered awning as the birds continued to explode in red wetness around him.

“Crazy,” he screamed once under cover. He pointed his rod at the small bodies beginning to pile up in the street. “Crazy.”

He could hear alarms going off, and shouts of confusion and also of terror. Fookie thought it might be a good idea to retreat home for a while and looked up to check for more birds. The sky seemed empty so he ran hard – just as the ground gave a mighty heave. Right then, from out of every doorway, window, drain, and crack in the pavement, roaches streamed in long lines, falling over each other, excited, skittering and scattering, moving faster than anything Fookie had ever seen.