The winged man leaned forward as though transfixed, blue light spreading over his face. He raised a thick eyebrow, puzzled. "What the hell--"

CLICK.

It was a soft electric cough, but it settled over the three in the pickup with a deep chill. They sat up as one, galvanized, in the second of terrified silence that followed.

Then a wail rose up above the dark outline of the trees, from the mouths of old sirens, howling like ghosts in the night in one long unbroken shriek.

The winged man forgot the owl. His face turned sharply towards the sky, searching for the shapes of wings. His sister reached to turn the storm lamp off. His older brother shifted uneasily.

"Sirens again," he said. "We'd better--"

He was cut off, then, as the field beyond the rotting fence lit abruptly and the air split--fire bloomed up from the grass, belching black smoke, white hot at its center. Immediately the three in the pickup scrambled to get out, unable to see the attackers but knowing they were there somewhere beyond the fire--

"Shit--" the oldest barked, and as he did, every color and light warped, sucked together and down into blackness. "Run. RUN!"