The Last Scarecrow

35 | Quarterback

The sound of Twelve leading the birds into battle was something that Erin would never forget. Wings beat, feathers rustled, squawks and caws and chirps of all kinds blasted around in a ferocious war cry.

In the confusion, Erin slid Marshall back into the toll-top bath and launched herself at the wickerwoman. Her fingers dug into the Loren's knotted grassy exterior, clawing and tearing for all she was forth. The wickerwoman stumble back, arms windmilling as she teetered the top of the farmhouse roof.

Erin seized her chance and dived for the pistol. Connecting sharply with the wickerwoman's arm, the gun fell loose, clattering against the broken tiles and skidding to a halt in the gutter. With a swift kick to the midriff, and a heft double-handed push, Erin thrust Loren over the top of the farmhouse, falling into the shadows beyond.

Erin turned, dropping to her knees and slid down the roof. She sailor pistol nestled on a bed of dry leaves that had become lodged in the metal guttering. Taking the gun, she tucked it inside her pink belt, then returned to Marshall.

As she hoisted him into her arms, Erin looking across Coldharbour Farm.

Wickermen and Redkites had taken positions across the courtyard, in crudely built towers, behind farming equipment, amongst the piles of garbage and bodies on the shoreline.

Amidst them stood Number Eight. The blood smeared skeleton was wrapped in her dark patchwork cloak, the creepy dolls heads concealed beneath.

The birds circumnavigated the island.

Erin dragged Marshall down the ladder.

The Black Peril bobbed gently on the water beyond the walls and lookout towers, beyond the Redkites and the wickemen and Number Eight.

"What are we doing?" Marshall whined, as Erin faltered.

"Change of plan," she said, staggering towards the barn. "I'm going to hide you."

Hank and Shun barely bothered to apprehend them, their eyes fixed on the swirling dangers above. Erin helped Marshall through the barn doors and into the haybale fortress. Coiling him up in the furthest reaches of the cardboard stronghold, she brushed the hair from his redden face. "You'll be okay," she whispered. 'Stay here. Stay quiet."

Crawling as fast as she could, Erin returned to the barn doors.

Outside, Number Eight was screaming.

Arrows skimmed through the air.

The massive cloud of birds moved effortlessly, avoiding the arrows as they arced in the air and vanished into the water beyond.

Twelve spun, her wings spread, encouraging the wickermen to open fire.

As each stepped out from their covered positions, handfuls of birds broke off from the main group and sped towards them.

A dozen or more birds descended on each wickerman, grabbing him by the shoulders, head, arms, lifting him into the air. Screaming like terrified children, the wickermen rose above Coldharbour Island, their legs kicking wildly. The birds tore and wrenched at the grass and moss and twigs, finally dropping the wickermen to the ground in dissected, motionless clumps.

Erin smiled. It was almost unfair.

Eight waved her fists at the heavens. "I'll kill you all! Mark my words!"

The birds replied with feverous shrieks and hoots, jeering and mocking the scarecrow.

"I'll break your wings and make a crown from your feathers!"