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LIAM: Just the one entrance.
ABBY: That you know of. We should check anyway. Geography is negotiable under these circumstances.
LIAM: You sound like you’re quoting someone.
ABBY: Ashford.
LIAM: Ah.
She clears her throat and looks away.
ABBY: That damn music. I—
LIAM: Something just moved down there.
He points. Abby squints in the direction he indicates, down the slope.
ABBY: I don’t see anything. Wait. What is that?
LIAM: It’s a bird. I think it’s hurt. Look at the way it’s moving.
He moves toward it.
ABBY: Hold on. Where do you think you’re going?
LIAM: They’re endangered. The LARC does rehab too. If it’s hurt, I’ll have to call the others to come collect it.
He strides off.
Grumbling, she follows him. Their footsteps fade as they move off-screen.*
ABBY: So? Is it [hurt]?
LIAM: [Indistinct]
ABBY: What are you doing? [Indistinct]
The microphone picks up a new sound, a strange, discordant humming.
The door swings open.
Beyond is darkness; the camera, adjusted for the bright daylight, shows only flat black. And yet something moves within. The image is too grainy to make out any detail. In one frame it seems as if it might be a person; in another, it seems to expand, as if many wings are unfurling around it.The shape recedes; the strange humming swells.
LIAM: We need [to go/to know].
ABBY: What’s that on your hands? Where’s the bird? Liam—
LIAM: It’s [near/here].
ABBY: Liam, look at me. Damn it.
Several seconds pass. Then Liam walks back into frame. He walks steadily, eyes fixed ahead, hands by his sides. Something black and viscous drips from his fingers, the substance coating his right hand all the way to the wrist.
Abby follows at a wary distance. When she sees the open door, she lets out a hiss between her teeth. Liam never breaks his stride as he heads in.
ABBY: All right, then. We’re doing this.
She picks up the camera and follows.
