A short story by Craig Cormick
Rod Taylor took Tippi Hedren by the hand and carefully led her out of the house. One of the seagulls pecked viciously at his ankle. Tippi Hedren froze. But Rod kept walking. He guided her past the gulls and crows and all those other black birds and sat her in the car.
Then, very carefully, he started the engine and drove slowly down the driveway, watched by the birds. Hundreds of birds. Thousands of birds.
The End. Roll credits.
What a movie, eh! Hitchcock really knew his stuff.
I look up at the clock. It is nearly midnight. I pick up the remote and change the channel. Superleague. Blow that! I change the channel again. More Superleague. I change to another channel. Still Superleague! Even on SBS.
I switch off the TV. Forget it. I'd rather go to bed.
It is about three in the morning when the radio alarm comes on. Blaringly loud.
I sit up in bed, arms flailing wildly, fighting with the covers. It takes me a moment to wake up properly. The radio is playing Superleague. I reach over and try to turn the volume down. It doesn't work. I hit the snooze button. Still nothing.
I rip the bloody thing from the wall. That does the trick. I settle back in bed and bury my head under the pillow. Then I hear a noise from down the hall. Voices! Somebody's inside. I slide out of bed quietly and reach for the cricket bat I keep behind the door.
I tiptoe down the hallway, my heart beating loudly. Just before I reach the lounge room I know what it is. The TV set is on. Superleague again. I pick up the remote and hit the off button. Nothing! I walk over and pull the plug from the wall. Fizzzzzz. The picture and sound fade. I listen hard. There is still some noise. I follow it back down the hallway. It is the radio in the spare room. Superleague, of course.
I smash it with my cricket bat. Batter it into the carpet until it stops broadcasting. I know something isn't right here. And then I remember that quizzical look on Rod Taylor's face as it occurred to him that the bird attacks were more than bizarre coincidences.
What did he do then?
Well, he had Tippi Hedren chasing him at the time, which made his options and motivations a little broader than mine. But I remember he drove into town to see what was up. And there was this enormous flock of birds perched outside the local primary school. They chased the school kids down the hill, pecking at their eyes and ears. Terrifying them.
And then the seagulls trashed a few cars and exploded a petrol station. Even Rod Taylor knew something was wrong then.
I go over to the window and look out between the venetians. Nothing out there. No Superleague. No birds. And nobody who looked even remotely like Tippi Hedren. I go back to bed.
But when I lie down I can still hear a match commentary coming from somewhere. I walk around the house and find that every radio I have, even that daggy cap radio my brother gave me for Christmas last year, was on, and they are all broadcasting Super-bloody-league. I get stuck into each of them with my trusty cricket bat until I've left circuitry and wires and batteries scattered all over the carpet.
What should I do now? Rod Taylor rang the police. I go back down to the lounge room and lift up the phone.
The attack takes me quite by surprise and makes me slip and hit my head on the doorframe. There is Superleague coming down the phone line. I throw the receiver from me. I put my hand up to my temple and find there is some blood there. This has gotten serious!
I decide to get dressed and get out of the house. I run back down to the bedroom. I open the cupboard and a large pile of shirts falls out on top of me. Superleague T-shirts!
I shout and scream, flapping my arms wildly, trying to fight my way to the door. I'm not going to make it. The T-shirts are going to get me. I am going under. But then I reach out one hand and drag myself clear.
I pull the door shut and lean against it, panting and gasping. They'd nearly gotten me. What could I do? Superleague was trying to get me. I'd have to board up the windows. Lock myself inside. Turn off all the power. Smash the TV. No. That was over-reacting. Friends is on tomorrow night. I don't want to miss that.
What would Rod Taylor do? He'd put on a tight shirt that showed off his biceps and he'd save the day. I decide I have to warn people. The community has to know.
I think of the kids at the school down the road. What hope would they have? Superleague ads and promos poised outside the classroom, chasing them down the streets, pecking at their eyes and ears. Terrifying them.
I open the door and can see in the dawn's first light that the front lawn is strewn with Superleague flyers. I hold my breath and tiptoe slowly down the steps. There is a slight breeze and some of the flyers move menacingly towards me. One rears up and lunges at my ankle.
I edge over to the carport and open the car door. I hop in and feel much safer. I'd feel better still if I had Tippi Hedren with me. But I don't know if she'd go for the Bananas in Pyjamas pyjamas I'm still wearing.
I carefully start the engine and drive slowly down the driveway, watched by the Superleague flyers. Hundreds of flyers. Thousands of flyers.
They rustle after me. But I feel confident now. This is where I am going to get away. I turn onto the road and accelerate away. And about half way to the corner the radio comes on. Startling me. Sending me veering into a parked tree. Super-bloody-league! Aaaggghh!