PHEASANTTSSZZZ

At the end of Friday, Roger opened the office hole puncher and scattered little paper circles over the floor, lazy ass of a cleaner wouldn’t vacuum otherwise.  Strange gypsy creature, came from Eastern Europe, country was full of foreigners, didn’t feel like England anymore.  Roger replaced the hole puncher and turned, there the cleaner was looking at him.  Had she seen what he’d done?  Embarrassed he made conversation; “Ah, you’re in early.  It’s the weekend, what?  Off to do something interesting tomorrow?”
“I am working.  What are you doing?”
“Shooting, supposedly, weather’s stormy, damn birds may not fly.  They’re very stupid - pheasants,” he looked at her, thinking of pheasants with the h missing and putting her into that category.
The cleaner hesitated a moment, then said; “They’ll fly at sedaH Park.”
“Cedar Park?  Never heard of the place.”
“sedaH Park.  They need birds culled, shooting is free.  You can eat them afterwards.”

It was blowing a gale and raining at Roger’s friend’s estate.  He wasn’t perturbed, in fact the weather challenged his marksmanship, but the birds didn’t fly.  He mentioned sedaH Park to his friends, but they wanted to go to the pub.  So he drove alone as directed, down a tiny country lane that got narrower and narrower, until he reached a large entrance.  On the pillars either side were two statues of large scary looking pheasants.  As a man pulled the gate open, the window of Roger’s Range Rover slid down; “Hello there, come to shoot, told it’s free.”

The man said nothing, he pointed down the lane with a thin gloved hand, his body completely covered by waterproofs and his face concealed by a large hood.
On Roger drove, he saw a sign for a car park and pulled in; his was the only vehicle there.  Normally his chocolate labrador, Buster would come bounding eagerly out when he opened the boot, but Buster cowered whining.  “What’s wrong with you, old boy?  Fed up of the weather, what?  Out you come!” ordered Roger.
Buster emerged reluctantly.  He padded at Roger’s heels, tail still, into a field surrounded by woods, the only sound was the hoarse cries of pheasants calling to one another.
“Where are the bloody beaters?” wondered Roger, but at that moment, a pheasant broke cover and flew into the windy sky.  He raised his gun and fired, first kill of the day.  The bird fell into the trees.
“Go on!” Roger ordered and Buster loped off to retrieve the body.
Pheasant after pheasant followed.  Good old whatshername the cleaner, she’d given him an excellent tip.  “Buster!” he called into the rain, suddenly aware his dog hadn’t returned, “Buster, where are you, old chap?”
Suddenly he noticed something, the sky had blackened and appeared to be moving.  He realised what had caused it, hundreds of pheasants were overhead and flying towards him, wings whirring, to his horror he saw the corpse of a pheasant he’d just shot suddenly, awkwardly take flight and join its comrades.  He rubbed the rain out of his eyes; “Can’t be,” he muttered, raising his gun.  He fired again and again, but the enormous flock of birds kept on coming.  “What the ...?” the first one swooped at him, knocking off his hat and bumping his head hard; “Ow!” shouted Roger outraged, he couldn’t believe it, these stupid pheasants were attacking him.  “Help!” he yelled, but his cry was cut off, a pheasant dived straight into his face and pushed its head and neck into Roger’s open mouth, beak tearing at his throat.  Roger fell backwards, dropping his gun and they were upon him, his body a mess of pheasant feathers, blood pouring into his windpipe, he couldn’t breathe.  The last thing he saw was the beak of a pheasant coming down towards his eye, he tried to close it, but the beak tore on through the lid and the pheasant grasped its prize, Roger’s eyeball.

Once the pheasants had finished their meal, they dispersed, wandering around the field idlely, pecking at seeds, like game birds do when they’re being left alone.  Buster came back from the woods and dropped the corpse of a pheasant his master had shot next to what remained of Roger.