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fredbassettTitle : Crow on the Cradle, Part 5 of 15
Author : fredbassett
Fandom : Primeval
Rating : 18
Characters : Stephen/Ryan, Lester/Lyle, Cutter, Claudia, Abby, Connor, OCs.
Disclaimer : Not mine (except all OCs), no money made, don’t sue.
Spoilers : None
Summary : Lyle’s mother is on the scent of a story and it looks increasingly like the ARC team aren’t the only ones with knowledge of the anomalies.
A/N : this is my first official Primeval Big Bang! With many thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
lukadreaming for incomparable beta work and for holding my paw throughout a very long writing process. The total word count is 51,277 and I will be posting in 15 parts.
An early morning mist veiled the Kent countryside. Attentive staff stood in the imposing hallway of Farnley Hall and handed out waterproofs to anyone who needed them, but on the whole the guests had come equipped for most weathers and Barbour clothing was in evidence everywhere.
Four green Range Rovers were parked on the gravel driveway in front of the hall, each with a driver standing ready to open the door for their passengers. The men were uniformly well-built, with close-cropped hair – and in one case a shaven head, glistening with the moisture suffusing the air – all dressed in khaki, wearing multi-pocketed jackets or waistcoats and the sort of boots that wouldn’t have looked out of place on a parade ground.
In the doorway, a man leaned against a mock-Doric pillar, a rifle slung casually over his shoulder and a pistol holstered against each thigh. He was dressed more casually than the others in a pair of black combat trousers and a dark green jacket, again with a multiplicity of pockets. He was of little more than medium height, but strongly-built, his light-brown hair cut short. He had the air of a man who was well-able to handle himself in a tight spot. His jaw line was softened by stubble so heavy that it was almost a beard and a slight smile hovered on his lips. The man’s boots were well-worn and hadn’t seen polish in months. He nodded to the guests, but made no attempt to emulate the way the men by the vehicles were almost standing to attention.
Ed Mason came through the main door, chatting animatedly to two women. He nodded to the man, but didn’t effect any introductions, even though both of his guests glanced in that direction with obvious interest. Over the course of the next ten minutes, the remainder of the men and women who had dined the previous night at Farnley Hall made their way out to stand under the portico.
Mason conducted a discreet headcount and then raised his voice enough to be heard. “Ladies and gentleman, I trust you all had an agreeable evening and slept well last night. I’m sorry that the weather I’d ordered has failed to materialise. Rest assured I’ll register all appropriate complaints.” He paused briefly for the expected laughter and then continued, “I thought we’d start the day with a little tour of the facilities here, just to whet your appetites for what’s to come during your stay. I’d just like to remind you all that, as we agreed, cameras and mobile phones are strictly forbidden in the park. Please respect that.” His eyes scanned the crowd, looking for anyone who showed any signs of discomfort.
Satisfied, Mason waved a hand at the fleet of Range Rovers. “Please make your way to the vehicles. They’re all equipped with the same radio system, so I’ll be able to provide a commentary as we pass through the park.”
“You’re starting to sound like something off Jurassic Park!” called one of the guests in amusement.
“How did you get the T. rex past the zoo inspectors?” laughed one of the others.
Mason laughed with them and ushered the men and women into their transport for the morning. He got into the first Range Rover in the fleet and the brown-haired man slipped into the back seat of the same vehicle.
“I reckon at least three of them have got cameras,” the man commented in a Texan drawl.
Mason stared at him sharply, clearly annoyed that the other man had spotted something he’d missed. “Then your lads had better be on the lookout, Dewar. No photographs. They know the rules.”
“They’re paying a fucking fortune for this,” Dewar replied, unconcerned by Mason’s irritation. “They’ll think that entitles them to break as many rules as they want.”
“And it’s your job to make sure they behave like good little multi-millionaires,” Mason snapped.
“I thought it was my job to make sure they all stayed alive.”
“That as well,” said Mason, thumbing the switch to turn on the radio transmitter. “Ladies and gentlemen, if I might have your attention, we are about to enter the lion enclosure. Please ensure that all windows and doors remain closed. This is the largest of its type in any zoo in the country, including Longleat. Here we have…”
As Mason’s commentary continued, the convoy drove slowly through a pair of tall gates into a fenced enclosure. The tour had begun and men and women were now staring out of the windows at the parkland on either side of their cars, looking for their first glimpse of the promised wildlife.
* * * * *
Abby stared around her at the crowded conference room. Joel Stringer had just retold the tale of Ratty and Mole’s break-in. Cutter was already firing off questions and Connor was displaying pictures of Terror Birds on the large, flat screen mounted on one wall.
“Phorusrahcos,” he pronounced happily, when Cutter paused in his questioning to draw breath. “Gastornis are too big and heavy to be mistaken for mutant ostriches.”
“It was dark and they were scared to death,” Stephen pointed out.
“My money’s still on phorusrachos,” Connor said, and promptly pulled up a list of Terror Bird-related facts and figures.
“Abby,” Lester said loudly, cutting through the debate. “Perhaps you’d care to enlighten us on the rules and regulations relating to private zoos, or at least,” he amended hastily, with a glance at two over-enthusiastic former academics, “those parts that are pertinent to our particular predicament.”
“You want a way of getting in without all guns blazing,” she said. “And without kicking any doors in.”
“Indeed,” Lester agreed, to the evident disappointment of the various Special Forces officers lounging at ease around the room.
“It’s not going to be easy,” she admitted, and watched as the soldiers perked up again. “Mason had what’s called a Periodical Inspection last year and came up clean. He’s not due another of those for at least three years.”
“There must be a loophole in the regulations somewhere that we can use to our advantage,” Lester sniffed. “This is bureaucracy, for goodness sake. Every piece of legislation has a loophole.”
“Maybe,” Abby conceded, although privately she thought they were still going to run up against difficulties. “Our best hope is to trigger something called a Special Inspection. It’s up to the local authority if they want to invoke one of those and if they do, they get to determine who goes on the inspection team, providing it includes at least one vet.”
“Sounds good,” Cutter commented, winking at her. “I distinctly remember you telling me that you once considered studying to be a vet, lass.”
“You’re getting the hang of this, Professor,” Lester said approvingly. “So what circumstances can give rise to a Special Inspection?”
Abby glanced down at her notes. “It’s really down to the local authority to decide whether there are circumstances that call for one. They’re meant to make preliminary enquiries first…”
“I think we have enough information to satisfy that particular need. We have an ex-employee testifying to serious neglect and animal cruelty.”
“We have?” Abby was sure she probably looked as puzzled as she felt.
“We have,” Lester said decisively. “You’ve got until Monday morning to put something together that’ll pass muster. I’m sure Mr Temple can arrange for some headed notepaper from the appropriate department in the council, along with a phone number that can’t be traced back to here. I’m also sure Miss Wickes is more than capable of answering the telephone in an appropriate manner when Mason rings up to complain about the lack of notice. A few local authority identity cards would be useful, as well, Mr Temple.”
Connor grinned widely. “Cool.”
“I’ll take that as a yes,” Lester murmured. “Now, would someone care to apprise me of where we stand with regard to our background checks on Mr Mason’s hired help?”
“I’ve called a few old mates,” Lyle said. “Blade’s done the same. Carl Dewar turned down a couple of job offers and then dropped off everyone’s radar about three months ago.” He slid a piece of paper across the table to Lester. “This is a list of his known associates who’ve done the same. Three of them are ex-Blackwater employees, one guy was chucked out of Saracen after his bosses got sick of buying off rape victims and two more are ex-Sandline. We’ve traced the three names the girl could remember. Johnson, the one who got bitten by the bird, is Graham Johnson, he’s one of the ex-Blackwater guys.”
From her recent discussions with Stringer, Abby recognised the names of the companies concerned. Blackwater was a private military company – since rebranded under a name she couldn’t remember – who’d made a fortune out of defence contracts with the US government. Saracen was another private security firm, as they liked to call themselves, and Sandline was much the same. It seemed from what Abby had heard that the world of the military and ex-military moved in much the same circles, and companies like the ones Lyle had just named were a fruitful source of employment, particularly for ex-Special Forces soldiers who wanted to continue in the same line of business.
Lyle glanced down at his own copy of the briefing document. “Ben Harris is the one who got chucked out of Saracen for one rape too many. I ran across him in Sierra Leone once. He’s a sick little fucker. The most likely candidate for ‘Ricky’ is Ricky Carey, ex-Sandline. He’s a logistics expert. He dropped off the grid at about the same time as Dewar. They’ve worked together a few times. I suspect Mason had already started to doubt the wisdom of using the sort of local muscle he’d put in place for the abortive Cumbrian heist. If we’re right – and I think we are – Mason’s got a more professional mob on board now. If we go up against them the place’ll resemble a war zone in five minutes flat.”
“And the Home Secretary won’t sanction that,” Lester said, looking pained at the prospect. “Subtlety, gentlemen, that’s what we need here. Did they teach it at Hereford?”
“So no air strikes?” Lyle grinned.
“Regrettably not. And, before anyone suggests it, an artillery bombardment is also out of the question. I shall leave you all to come up with an acceptable plan for implementation at the earliest opportunity.” Lester stood up and headed for the door, remarking as he went, “And do remember the magic words, children.”
“Please and thank you?” Lyle muttered.
“Plausible deniability, Lieutenant. But practicing the others wouldn’t go amiss, especially for those occasions on which I am kind enough to bring you tea and biscuits in bed.”
And with that, Lester swept out of the room.
* * * * *
The convoy of Range Rovers left the monkey enclosure and made their way slowly across the parkland. The mist had started to close in around them, blanketing the area in a damp, grey shroud. Trees loomed up occasionally, but visibility was down to no more than about 25 metres in any direction.
Ed Mason thumbed the switch on his radio and started speaking again. “Thank you for your patience this morning, ladies and gentlemen. We will shortly be returning to the hall for lunch but before we do, I’d just like to take up a little more of your time – after all, you haven’t just come for creatures you could see any day of the week at Whipsnade or Longleat, have you?”
He picked up a remote control device and pointed it at the gates looming up in front of his vehicle. The fencing on this enclosure was made up of solid metal bars four metres high, with an over-hung section almost a metre wide. The visitors sat a little straighter in their seats, peering out of the windows into the mist.
“Please ensure that your doors and windows remain closed at all times, ladies and gentlemen,” Mason advised. “Under no circumstances should you leave the vehicles. In the unlikely event of a breakdown, remain where you are and follow the instructions of your driver.” A slight smile quirked his lips as he glanced over his shoulder at Carl Dewar, lounging at ease in the rear seats, a rifle cradled across his knees. “That should get their interest.”
The convoy moved forward across the short grass at no more than 10mph. Mason’s guests continued to look out of the windows, clearly wondering when they were going to learn what was being kept in this particular enclosure.
In the third Range Rover, George Henderson glanced at his wife and muttered, “The bugger’s a bit of a showman, but this had better be worth the money. He’s not getting another penny out of me until we’ve seen something a bit more interesting than a few moth-eaten lions.”
Before she had the chance to reply, movement in the mist caught her attention. “There’s something out there,” she said, peering over her husband’s shoulder.
“It’s a bloody ostrich,” Derrick Grigson said, disgust evident in his voice. “Mason had better start making good on his promises…”
A moment later, a tall form started running towards them and even through the vehicle’s closed windows an irate shriek could be clearly heard.
“Bit big for an ostrich,” Henderson commented, sounding interested for the first time since the tour through the park had started.
The creature charged towards them on stout, heavily-muscled legs. Short, stubby wings were held close to its body, but the beast’s feathers were fluffed up as it contrived to make itself look even bigger and more threatening. Lizzie Henderson shrank back in the seat as a feathered crest rose up on a head that was far too large to belong to any ostrich or emu. It was a flightless bird, but one wholly unlike anything she or her husband had ever seen.
“Bloody hell…” George Henderson said his eyes wide with amazement.
The iridescent green crest on the bird’s head lifted to its fullest extent and without warning it struck hard at the passenger side window.
Lizzie Henderson screamed loudly and, with the exception of their driver who took the attack with commendable calm, the other three men in the car jumped violently. The thick, curved beak, clearly designed for rending the flesh from its prey, rammed into the window again, rocking the vehicle on its wheels.
“No need for alarm,” said Mason’s voice over the radio. “The windows are armoured glass.”
“Now he tells us,” Derrick Grigson complained. “What the bloody hell is it?”
“Annoyed,” said their driver, failing to keep the amusement out of his voice. “They really don’t like the cars.” He pressed the accelerator and the vehicle started to move forward again slowly.
Another shriek sounded on the other side of the car followed by a loud scraping noise as a second bird gouged a long slash in the paintwork. Then moments later, more shapes dashed out from the mist and the Range Rover was surrounded by at least six of the giant birds, all pecking viciously at the vehicle, bringing it to a halt again. The Range Rover shook under the onslaught, then there was a loud bang and the vehicle lurched slightly to one side.
“We’ve just lost a tyre,” the driver announced into his radio. He let the clutch out again and the Range Rover moved slowly forward, one wheel rim now digging into the soft earth of the park.
As they moved off, one of the massively powerful, hooked beaks slashed hard at the windscreen, ripping off one of the wiper blades and tossing it aside as it dived back in, beak open, displaying a reddened tongue. A pair of angry yellow eyes was fixed on the occupants of the car and Lizzie Henderson let out another scream as a faint crack started to appear on the glass, spreading outwards from the impact. As though sensing weakness, the bird hammered its beak again at the same spot and the crack started to spread.
The driver swore softly and kept the vehicle moving as blows rained down on it from all sides. The convoy continued to make its way through the enclosure and eventually the birds gave up their pursuit. The occupants of the damaged vehicles stared backwards at the flock of giant, predatory birds and tried, without noticeable success, to bring their breathing under control in the silence that had fallen.
“Well, you certainly don’t get that at bloody Longleat,” Derrick Grigson announced with evident satisfaction. “Maybe this isn’t going to turn out to be a waste of dosh after all.”
Author : fredbassett
Fandom : Primeval
Rating : 18
Characters : Stephen/Ryan, Lester/Lyle, Cutter, Claudia, Abby, Connor, OCs.
Disclaimer : Not mine (except all OCs), no money made, don’t sue.
Spoilers : None
Summary : Lyle’s mother is on the scent of a story and it looks increasingly like the ARC team aren’t the only ones with knowledge of the anomalies.
A/N : this is my first official Primeval Big Bang! With many thanks to
lukadreaming for incomparable beta work and for holding my paw throughout a very long writing process. The total word count is 51,277 and I will be posting in 15 parts.An early morning mist veiled the Kent countryside. Attentive staff stood in the imposing hallway of Farnley Hall and handed out waterproofs to anyone who needed them, but on the whole the guests had come equipped for most weathers and Barbour clothing was in evidence everywhere.
Four green Range Rovers were parked on the gravel driveway in front of the hall, each with a driver standing ready to open the door for their passengers. The men were uniformly well-built, with close-cropped hair – and in one case a shaven head, glistening with the moisture suffusing the air – all dressed in khaki, wearing multi-pocketed jackets or waistcoats and the sort of boots that wouldn’t have looked out of place on a parade ground.
In the doorway, a man leaned against a mock-Doric pillar, a rifle slung casually over his shoulder and a pistol holstered against each thigh. He was dressed more casually than the others in a pair of black combat trousers and a dark green jacket, again with a multiplicity of pockets. He was of little more than medium height, but strongly-built, his light-brown hair cut short. He had the air of a man who was well-able to handle himself in a tight spot. His jaw line was softened by stubble so heavy that it was almost a beard and a slight smile hovered on his lips. The man’s boots were well-worn and hadn’t seen polish in months. He nodded to the guests, but made no attempt to emulate the way the men by the vehicles were almost standing to attention.
Ed Mason came through the main door, chatting animatedly to two women. He nodded to the man, but didn’t effect any introductions, even though both of his guests glanced in that direction with obvious interest. Over the course of the next ten minutes, the remainder of the men and women who had dined the previous night at Farnley Hall made their way out to stand under the portico.
Mason conducted a discreet headcount and then raised his voice enough to be heard. “Ladies and gentleman, I trust you all had an agreeable evening and slept well last night. I’m sorry that the weather I’d ordered has failed to materialise. Rest assured I’ll register all appropriate complaints.” He paused briefly for the expected laughter and then continued, “I thought we’d start the day with a little tour of the facilities here, just to whet your appetites for what’s to come during your stay. I’d just like to remind you all that, as we agreed, cameras and mobile phones are strictly forbidden in the park. Please respect that.” His eyes scanned the crowd, looking for anyone who showed any signs of discomfort.
Satisfied, Mason waved a hand at the fleet of Range Rovers. “Please make your way to the vehicles. They’re all equipped with the same radio system, so I’ll be able to provide a commentary as we pass through the park.”
“You’re starting to sound like something off Jurassic Park!” called one of the guests in amusement.
“How did you get the T. rex past the zoo inspectors?” laughed one of the others.
Mason laughed with them and ushered the men and women into their transport for the morning. He got into the first Range Rover in the fleet and the brown-haired man slipped into the back seat of the same vehicle.
“I reckon at least three of them have got cameras,” the man commented in a Texan drawl.
Mason stared at him sharply, clearly annoyed that the other man had spotted something he’d missed. “Then your lads had better be on the lookout, Dewar. No photographs. They know the rules.”
“They’re paying a fucking fortune for this,” Dewar replied, unconcerned by Mason’s irritation. “They’ll think that entitles them to break as many rules as they want.”
“And it’s your job to make sure they behave like good little multi-millionaires,” Mason snapped.
“I thought it was my job to make sure they all stayed alive.”
“That as well,” said Mason, thumbing the switch to turn on the radio transmitter. “Ladies and gentlemen, if I might have your attention, we are about to enter the lion enclosure. Please ensure that all windows and doors remain closed. This is the largest of its type in any zoo in the country, including Longleat. Here we have…”
As Mason’s commentary continued, the convoy drove slowly through a pair of tall gates into a fenced enclosure. The tour had begun and men and women were now staring out of the windows at the parkland on either side of their cars, looking for their first glimpse of the promised wildlife.
* * * * *
Abby stared around her at the crowded conference room. Joel Stringer had just retold the tale of Ratty and Mole’s break-in. Cutter was already firing off questions and Connor was displaying pictures of Terror Birds on the large, flat screen mounted on one wall.
“Phorusrahcos,” he pronounced happily, when Cutter paused in his questioning to draw breath. “Gastornis are too big and heavy to be mistaken for mutant ostriches.”
“It was dark and they were scared to death,” Stephen pointed out.
“My money’s still on phorusrachos,” Connor said, and promptly pulled up a list of Terror Bird-related facts and figures.
“Abby,” Lester said loudly, cutting through the debate. “Perhaps you’d care to enlighten us on the rules and regulations relating to private zoos, or at least,” he amended hastily, with a glance at two over-enthusiastic former academics, “those parts that are pertinent to our particular predicament.”
“You want a way of getting in without all guns blazing,” she said. “And without kicking any doors in.”
“Indeed,” Lester agreed, to the evident disappointment of the various Special Forces officers lounging at ease around the room.
“It’s not going to be easy,” she admitted, and watched as the soldiers perked up again. “Mason had what’s called a Periodical Inspection last year and came up clean. He’s not due another of those for at least three years.”
“There must be a loophole in the regulations somewhere that we can use to our advantage,” Lester sniffed. “This is bureaucracy, for goodness sake. Every piece of legislation has a loophole.”
“Maybe,” Abby conceded, although privately she thought they were still going to run up against difficulties. “Our best hope is to trigger something called a Special Inspection. It’s up to the local authority if they want to invoke one of those and if they do, they get to determine who goes on the inspection team, providing it includes at least one vet.”
“Sounds good,” Cutter commented, winking at her. “I distinctly remember you telling me that you once considered studying to be a vet, lass.”
“You’re getting the hang of this, Professor,” Lester said approvingly. “So what circumstances can give rise to a Special Inspection?”
Abby glanced down at her notes. “It’s really down to the local authority to decide whether there are circumstances that call for one. They’re meant to make preliminary enquiries first…”
“I think we have enough information to satisfy that particular need. We have an ex-employee testifying to serious neglect and animal cruelty.”
“We have?” Abby was sure she probably looked as puzzled as she felt.
“We have,” Lester said decisively. “You’ve got until Monday morning to put something together that’ll pass muster. I’m sure Mr Temple can arrange for some headed notepaper from the appropriate department in the council, along with a phone number that can’t be traced back to here. I’m also sure Miss Wickes is more than capable of answering the telephone in an appropriate manner when Mason rings up to complain about the lack of notice. A few local authority identity cards would be useful, as well, Mr Temple.”
Connor grinned widely. “Cool.”
“I’ll take that as a yes,” Lester murmured. “Now, would someone care to apprise me of where we stand with regard to our background checks on Mr Mason’s hired help?”
“I’ve called a few old mates,” Lyle said. “Blade’s done the same. Carl Dewar turned down a couple of job offers and then dropped off everyone’s radar about three months ago.” He slid a piece of paper across the table to Lester. “This is a list of his known associates who’ve done the same. Three of them are ex-Blackwater employees, one guy was chucked out of Saracen after his bosses got sick of buying off rape victims and two more are ex-Sandline. We’ve traced the three names the girl could remember. Johnson, the one who got bitten by the bird, is Graham Johnson, he’s one of the ex-Blackwater guys.”
From her recent discussions with Stringer, Abby recognised the names of the companies concerned. Blackwater was a private military company – since rebranded under a name she couldn’t remember – who’d made a fortune out of defence contracts with the US government. Saracen was another private security firm, as they liked to call themselves, and Sandline was much the same. It seemed from what Abby had heard that the world of the military and ex-military moved in much the same circles, and companies like the ones Lyle had just named were a fruitful source of employment, particularly for ex-Special Forces soldiers who wanted to continue in the same line of business.
Lyle glanced down at his own copy of the briefing document. “Ben Harris is the one who got chucked out of Saracen for one rape too many. I ran across him in Sierra Leone once. He’s a sick little fucker. The most likely candidate for ‘Ricky’ is Ricky Carey, ex-Sandline. He’s a logistics expert. He dropped off the grid at about the same time as Dewar. They’ve worked together a few times. I suspect Mason had already started to doubt the wisdom of using the sort of local muscle he’d put in place for the abortive Cumbrian heist. If we’re right – and I think we are – Mason’s got a more professional mob on board now. If we go up against them the place’ll resemble a war zone in five minutes flat.”
“And the Home Secretary won’t sanction that,” Lester said, looking pained at the prospect. “Subtlety, gentlemen, that’s what we need here. Did they teach it at Hereford?”
“So no air strikes?” Lyle grinned.
“Regrettably not. And, before anyone suggests it, an artillery bombardment is also out of the question. I shall leave you all to come up with an acceptable plan for implementation at the earliest opportunity.” Lester stood up and headed for the door, remarking as he went, “And do remember the magic words, children.”
“Please and thank you?” Lyle muttered.
“Plausible deniability, Lieutenant. But practicing the others wouldn’t go amiss, especially for those occasions on which I am kind enough to bring you tea and biscuits in bed.”
And with that, Lester swept out of the room.
* * * * *
The convoy of Range Rovers left the monkey enclosure and made their way slowly across the parkland. The mist had started to close in around them, blanketing the area in a damp, grey shroud. Trees loomed up occasionally, but visibility was down to no more than about 25 metres in any direction.
Ed Mason thumbed the switch on his radio and started speaking again. “Thank you for your patience this morning, ladies and gentlemen. We will shortly be returning to the hall for lunch but before we do, I’d just like to take up a little more of your time – after all, you haven’t just come for creatures you could see any day of the week at Whipsnade or Longleat, have you?”
He picked up a remote control device and pointed it at the gates looming up in front of his vehicle. The fencing on this enclosure was made up of solid metal bars four metres high, with an over-hung section almost a metre wide. The visitors sat a little straighter in their seats, peering out of the windows into the mist.
“Please ensure that your doors and windows remain closed at all times, ladies and gentlemen,” Mason advised. “Under no circumstances should you leave the vehicles. In the unlikely event of a breakdown, remain where you are and follow the instructions of your driver.” A slight smile quirked his lips as he glanced over his shoulder at Carl Dewar, lounging at ease in the rear seats, a rifle cradled across his knees. “That should get their interest.”
The convoy moved forward across the short grass at no more than 10mph. Mason’s guests continued to look out of the windows, clearly wondering when they were going to learn what was being kept in this particular enclosure.
In the third Range Rover, George Henderson glanced at his wife and muttered, “The bugger’s a bit of a showman, but this had better be worth the money. He’s not getting another penny out of me until we’ve seen something a bit more interesting than a few moth-eaten lions.”
Before she had the chance to reply, movement in the mist caught her attention. “There’s something out there,” she said, peering over her husband’s shoulder.
“It’s a bloody ostrich,” Derrick Grigson said, disgust evident in his voice. “Mason had better start making good on his promises…”
A moment later, a tall form started running towards them and even through the vehicle’s closed windows an irate shriek could be clearly heard.
“Bit big for an ostrich,” Henderson commented, sounding interested for the first time since the tour through the park had started.
The creature charged towards them on stout, heavily-muscled legs. Short, stubby wings were held close to its body, but the beast’s feathers were fluffed up as it contrived to make itself look even bigger and more threatening. Lizzie Henderson shrank back in the seat as a feathered crest rose up on a head that was far too large to belong to any ostrich or emu. It was a flightless bird, but one wholly unlike anything she or her husband had ever seen.
“Bloody hell…” George Henderson said his eyes wide with amazement.
The iridescent green crest on the bird’s head lifted to its fullest extent and without warning it struck hard at the passenger side window.
Lizzie Henderson screamed loudly and, with the exception of their driver who took the attack with commendable calm, the other three men in the car jumped violently. The thick, curved beak, clearly designed for rending the flesh from its prey, rammed into the window again, rocking the vehicle on its wheels.
“No need for alarm,” said Mason’s voice over the radio. “The windows are armoured glass.”
“Now he tells us,” Derrick Grigson complained. “What the bloody hell is it?”
“Annoyed,” said their driver, failing to keep the amusement out of his voice. “They really don’t like the cars.” He pressed the accelerator and the vehicle started to move forward again slowly.
Another shriek sounded on the other side of the car followed by a loud scraping noise as a second bird gouged a long slash in the paintwork. Then moments later, more shapes dashed out from the mist and the Range Rover was surrounded by at least six of the giant birds, all pecking viciously at the vehicle, bringing it to a halt again. The Range Rover shook under the onslaught, then there was a loud bang and the vehicle lurched slightly to one side.
“We’ve just lost a tyre,” the driver announced into his radio. He let the clutch out again and the Range Rover moved slowly forward, one wheel rim now digging into the soft earth of the park.
As they moved off, one of the massively powerful, hooked beaks slashed hard at the windscreen, ripping off one of the wiper blades and tossing it aside as it dived back in, beak open, displaying a reddened tongue. A pair of angry yellow eyes was fixed on the occupants of the car and Lizzie Henderson let out another scream as a faint crack started to appear on the glass, spreading outwards from the impact. As though sensing weakness, the bird hammered its beak again at the same spot and the crack started to spread.
The driver swore softly and kept the vehicle moving as blows rained down on it from all sides. The convoy continued to make its way through the enclosure and eventually the birds gave up their pursuit. The occupants of the damaged vehicles stared backwards at the flock of giant, predatory birds and tried, without noticeable success, to bring their breathing under control in the silence that had fallen.
“Well, you certainly don’t get that at bloody Longleat,” Derrick Grigson announced with evident satisfaction. “Maybe this isn’t going to turn out to be a waste of dosh after all.”
no subject
Date: 2011-06-10 04:35 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-10 04:42 pm (UTC)