* * * *
When I finally get back to the house, it’s past midnight. Sam’s passed out on the couch, some movie with Keanu Reeves flashing light throughout the room. I don’t bother turning it off, and my mind is too preoccupied to find it distracting. I go check on Doug. He’s sleeping soundly, curled up in a ball, his blanket kicked down to the footboard. Both arms are accounted for. I stretch the blanket over him and return to Keanu and my wife.
Pulling out my phone, I sit down on the couch, and before I realize what I’m doing, I’ve typed “seagull attacks” into the search bar. The results stun me.
There’s an article from The Guardian about mail being halted to certain streets due to seagulls attacking postmen. The report documents hospitalizations, dogs bleeding to death, heart attacks… There’s another BBC article about a woman who tore her Achilles tendon while trying to escape a gull attack in Great Yarmouth. “Seagull Attacks a Soaring Problem in England” is the title of a few articles that have responded to my search. There’s even a story about a woman who’s forced to wear a colander on her head as a helmet of protection against the attacking birds. Some other poor woman was held up in her house for four days because of these things invading. YouTube videos show up in my search results. I watch a few. Nothing interesting. Bunch of drunk college kids throwing Cheetos on their sleeping friends. Bored of that particular time of life, and all the links to videos of spring breakers in wet T-shirts, I exit YouTube and continue scrolling. Tapping on another link, I begin reading about seagull talons, their razor-sharp, two-inch beaks, and their 65 kph diving speed. The site is European, and my dumb American mind can’t do the calculation. I know it’s fast, though. As I read through a series of preventatives that have been used to repel seagulls, I also learn that it’s illegal to kill the birds without a permit. Oops. I’ll have to plead self-defense.
The website says that there’s a “gag call” that gulls use to tell people to “go away.” If the request isn’t honored—or understood—they then perform a “low pass.” And if the person still doesn’t get the hint, well, then it’s crap and vomit followed by talons to the back of the head.
Sheesh. I had no idea seagulls could be so vicious, and my view of them has been forever altered by this new knowledge. However, there’s no sign of the sort of behavior I witnessed today. Scavenger carnivores, yes. But a zombie’s frenzy over fresh meat? I do see that certain gulls prey on other gulls, as hawks prey on seagulls, but that doesn’t satisfy the feeling that there might be some kind of…I don’t know. I don’t even want to think about it.
The child’s arm is the last thing on my mind as I fall away on the couch and into a world that would make Hitchcock proud.
7
I wake up early, though not as early as usual. Douglas is still sleeping, as unbelievable as it is, and I should probably take the opportunity to go back to sleep. I have no idea if and when Doug will ever sleep this late again. But I can’t. I’m antsy. So I ease off the couch and whisper in Sam’s ear, “I’m goin’ for a walk. I’ll bring back breakfast. You’re on.”
You’re on. It’s the command designated for Doug detail. I’m out, so our boy is now under your watch. I wash my hands of his wellbeing for the next hour or so. Though, I guess in all honesty, I can’t really be sure her grunt was affirmation of this responsibility or not. Oh well.
I’m still in my clothes from last night, but I don’t care. I unlock the door, not even having to use the bathroom, and head down the sidewalk.
The sky is overcast, gray. The air is cool. It feels nice, and I want a coffee.
I step out of the shop with a cardboard cup in hand and make my way toward the beach. There are joggers on the boardwalk that remind me it’s been far too long since I’ve been in shape. Soon, I tell myself. It’s what I always tell myself. I savor my first sip of coffee. Irish cream and sugar. Perfect.
The sand is still cool on my flip-flopped feet, and I walk halfway to the water before I sit down. Dolphins are playing.
A few drops of rain spot the sand. A minute later, thunder rolls across the sky, faint and faraway but coming.
A girl is jogging down by the water, coming toward me, blond ponytail wagging, really short, tight shorts, and a hot pink sports bra. I try to keep my eyes off her, but I can’t. And then something else does catch my eye. A seagull—no, two seagulls—circling above the beach, their black-tipped wings outstretched. Is it strange that a beautiful, half-naked girl is running past me, and I can’t take my eyes off the birds? But there’s something about them that seems…different. Probably because of my dreams last night. I don’t like them anymore.
I watch as one suddenly goes into a dive, and at first, I assume it’s aiming for something in the water, a fish or something. But it never alters its course.
I try to call out to the girl, to warn her, but it happens too fast.
The gull soars down, its sharp beak a javelin lined up with the back of her neck.
The girl never sees it coming, and the earbuds that are pumping motivation into her head drowns out the loud squawk that sounds just before impact.
The bird’s beak plunges into the base of her neck like a folded pair of scissors. The girl pitches forward, stumbles, falls. The bird wrestles its face out of her neck while she screams, trying to reach behind her head and discover the source of her pain. The bird stands on her back, oblivious to the girl’s flailing, and blinks. Blood drips from the curved tip of its beak.
I get to my feet, and I’m only two strides closer to her when the other bird dives.
It falls like a missile, straight down, and sticks right into her back. The suddenness of it, the impact and the sound it makes, stuns me. I think the bird, if not the girl, must be dead from a broken neck or smashed skull. But no, the bird plants its claws into her flesh and rips its beak out of her back. She cries out, flailing, as both gulls peck at her sweaty skin, shredding her sports bra to pieces. The girl rolls onto her back, but the birds are just as content to attack the front of her body. She’s waving her hands at them, kicking and screaming, her eyes closed tight.
I’m throwing my own hands in the air, screaming and shouting like a lunatic. Maybe I shouldn’t have left the coffee. I could’ve scalded them with it. The white seagulls stop their pecking for a second and look up at me, blood staining their feathered chests. It isn’t until I’m five feet away that they finally take off into the air. “Shoo! Shoo!” just doesn’t cut it, and I’m swearing up a storm as if a certain combination of expletives might cause them to explode right out of the sky. But they fly away without even a look back.
I grab the girl’s wrists and wrestle them down by her side, trying to get her to calm down. She’s even prettier up close, and I hope the few red lines across her face don’t leave her with scars. “It’s okay. They’re gone.”
She doesn’t relax, but she manages to open her eyes.
“You were attacked by seagulls,” I tell her, realizing that she never saw them. It sounds terrible, and I can tell from her eyes that she doesn’t believe me.
Uh oh.
“Get away from me!” she screams. Then she looks up the beach. “Help! Help!”
“Hey…”
“Help!” She’s crying, blood everywhere.
“Shhh… They flew away. They’re gone.”
“Get away!”
“I’m trying to help you…”
“Help!”
I see someone sprinting to the boardwalk, waving their hands to a police officer who just happens to be passing by. It’ll be good for this poor girl. Not gonna be so good for me.
The cop comes charging down the beach at us, gun drawn.
“Get away from her!” he orders, aiming at me.
I’ve never had a gun aimed at me before, and I must say that it is very unsettling. Especially when I’ve done nothing wrong—quite the opposite, actually. But when there’s a gun pointed at you, you’ll do just about anything. I put my hands up and step away from her, shouting,
“She was attacked by seagulls!” It doesn’t sound any better the second time, but as the officer slows down to a trot, now just a handful of feet away, I can tell he’s scanning the beach around us. Looking for a knife, I guess. Or a hook, or a sharp piece of driftwood… Some kind of weapon consistent with the wounds covering her body.
“Sit down on your hands,” he says to me, but his face is concentrated on the girl. She’s stopped crying now and has become very still. There’s so much blood. The cop checks her pulse.
My stomach twists like a wet rag. “She’s not…” I can’t even say it.
“No.” He raises a radio to his lips and calls for an ambulance.
Lightning strikes the liquid horizon.