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THE FISHING BOAT DRAWS CLOSER still—as close as the fishermen dare without running aground; the submerged rocks along this stretch of coast are infamous.

Now they can make out the body a little better, the spreadeagle of the limbs.

“Must have fallen from the cliff path,” one says.

“That’s quite a way down.”

“Makes you wonder. How long you’d be conscious of falling—before you hit the bottom.”

“Jesus, mate. Don’t say shit like that.”

The breeze has picked up. A section of material lifts and billows like a sail: the white fabric crazed with streaks of blood.

“It’s one of them,” says another. “Got to be. From that place. They had their opening weekend do there last night, didn’t they? Could hear the music down in Tome.”

The relief of it. Not a local, then. One of them. The alien species. The invaders.

“Tide’s gonna take ’em soon,” one says. “Or should we—”

“Fuck no. Not going any nearer. We’ve called the cops. We’ve done our bit.”

Smoke continues to fill the sky to the west. “It’s got to be connected, right? To what’s going on at that place.”

“There was chat in the pub last night,” one guy interjects. “About the Birds.”

“Pull the other one, mate.”

A shrug. “Just telling you what I heard from Joe Dodd.”

“Oh, old Joe. Right. Well he does like his fairy tales. Few pints of bitter down, was it?”

“I dunno. Maybe. But there’s been talk for a while of locals sorting ’em out. Could be someone finally snapped...”

They stop talking at the sound of sirens and a sudden cavalcade of flashing blue lights above the clifftop.

“Well, here they come. Not our problem anymore. Wonder what they’ll make of all this.”

They all fall silent again. In spite of all the blood, the hair might actually be the worst thing. It’s the way it moves. Ruffling in the breeze, giving the false impression of life.