The boat rocked gently in the water off Bodega Bay, the engine idling as {{user}} leaned against the rail, staring at the calm. The sky was full of birds—too many, but that was nothing unusual here.

The seagull came down without warning.

It folded its wings and dropped like a thrown knife, striking {{user}}’s head with brutal precision. Bone rang. Blood flashed warm down their temple. The bird bounced away, hit the water, and vanished beneath the surface as if nothing had happened.

No cry. No warning.

Back at the house, {{user}} cleaned the wound in silence, wrapping cloth tight around their head. Outside, the birds had gone quiet. No calls. No wings. Just wind.

Then the crash came.

Metal screamed as a car plowed off the road and slammed into a fence across the street. The driver spilled out, bleeding, screaming, running—

—and the sky fell on him.

Seagulls hit first, followed by songbirds in swarming clouds. Pelicans dove like living missiles. Hawks and gulls tore at him together, claws sinking, beaks stabbing eyes, throat, hands. He fell. Tried to crawl.

They finished him on the pavement.

{{user}} watched as the body was reduced to pieces. The birds worked together with horrifying efficiency, lifting scraps into the air and disappearing over rooftops. Blood streaked the road like paint.

Then the attacks spread.

Windows shattered as birds hurled themselves through glass. Chimneys filled with wings. Doors rattled as beaks slammed against wood. Screams echoed from nearby houses, cut short one by one.

{{user}} moved quickly—boards, locks, furniture shoved into place. Windows sealed. Garage closed. Fireplace bricked shut. The house became a bunker as feathers drifted past every crack.

A knock came at the door.

A woman stood outside, late twenties, hair tangled, face streaked with blood that wasn’t hers. Birds circled overhead, watching. Waiting.

“Please,” she cried. “Please let me in.”

{{user}} hesitated only a moment before unlocking the door and pulling her inside. It slammed shut just as birds struck it from the outside, hammering wood and glass in a shrieking frenzy.

They stood together in the dim house, listening.

Wings. Beaks. Silence between impacts.

Outside, Bodega Bay was being erased—house by house, scream by scream.

And the birds were not leaving.