Page 67 of What Rough Beast

I run.

They follow.

There’s a rush of feathers, and I throw my arms over my head, try to protect my face as they dive, grabbing. Something brushes against my cheek, and there’s a searing heat in my scalp as I lose a chunk of hair, then a stab at my elbow.

“WIDOW!”

She’s out of the office in a second, shotgun in hand, swinging it in my direction when she spots me. I hit the brakes, gravel going out from under my feet as I go down, birds descending on me the moment I stop moving. Widow fires, the shot passing well above me, but doing its job. The birds scatter, and she hauls me to my feet, steering me toward the office. She slams the door behind us, and I hear little feathered bodies hitting it, desperate to get at me.

“What the hell, Widow?” I ask. “Why do birds hate me?”

The puppy comes up, nuzzles my knee as I collapse to the floor, reminding me of what I saw right before a flock of cowbirds tried to eat me.

“And why the fuck is Panda in the compost?”

“Ohhhh,” Widow says, eyebrows going up. “You found him, did you?”

Her placidity should be calming, but instead it infuriates me . . . until her face changes, morphs into something else.

“How deep did you dig?”

“I . . .” I back away from her, my heels pushing against the floor, my head solidly connecting with the counter. It shudders, the red light in the incubator flickering.

“Dammit!” I yell, at the same time that Widow screams, “Careful!”

I reach up to touch the back of my head, feel a lump forming there.

“You okay?” Widow asks.

“Yeah,” I tell her. “Not bleeding just—”

But she’s not talking to me. Widow has the egg out of the incubator, holding it up to her face, into the light. A dark shadow moves inside, the leathery skin stretching with it, reaching for her. It extends, pressing against the boundary, outlining a shape.

It’s a hand.

“Jesus Christ!” I scream, jamming myself under the counter, wrapping my arms around the chest. “What is it, Widow? What the fuck is in there?”

She glances at me, as if I’m interrupting, then slowly puts the egg back, closing the incubator. She crouches down, knees creaking, eyes level with mine.

“Do you really want me to answer you?”

I shake, my whole body quivering. “What’s wrong with me?”

“You’re in shock, I’d say,” Widow answers, eyes passing over me with the air of a clinical assessment. “I’ll get a blanket from the warmer.”

She goes to the back, returns, holds out her arms, tempting me from my hiding place with the blanket outspread.

“Come out from under there,” she says. “We need to talk.”

“You need to talk,” I tell her, crawling out. “Answer my question.”

“Which one?” Widow asks, draping the blanket over me. I clutch it closed at my neck, then sit in the office chair.

The puppy senses the warmth, makes a leap into my lap, staring up at me with Panda’s face, recognition in his eyes. I rest my hand on his head, let him lick my wrist. Widow leans against the counter, crosses her ankles. Her normal calm is back, replacing whatever I’d witnessed earlier.

“Why did you ask me how far I dug in the compost?” I ask, shivering. “What’s in there, Widow?”

“C’mon, Ava. You saw the graves, and you’re a smart girl. What did you see out at the graveyard?”