Samuel’s television replayed the shaky mobile phone footage that had, by now, been seen across the world. It showed a sunny part of the English countryside, earlier that day. A young man, later identified by his weeping parents as Donny Jones, aged 19, tiptoed towards a group of swans, egged on by an unidentified friend. The recording, filmed by a passer-by who’d survived the attack, showed Donny sneaking towards a mother swan at rest in the rushes. Her cygnets to-d and fro-d around their mama. Donny approached from behind, squatted on the riverbank, and reached out slowly to grab one of the infant birds, presumably with the aim of stuffing it in the hefty green sports bag his friend was carrying and running off with it.

But Mama Swan was alert to any threat to her kids. She whipped her long neck around – the footage perfectly caught an aggressive scarlet gleam in her right eye — reared up and threw herself at Donny. The force of the blow knocked him to his back and before he knew it, Mama Swan was straddling him, going for his throat, his ears, his mouth, his eyes. Her cygnets swarmed round her, nipping at the boy’s exposed skin, a flapping cloud of winged malevolence whose hissing was deafening, yet still not loud enough to drown out Donny’s terrified screams. The footage stopped and cut abruptly to a news reporter, but no matter. Samuel had seen the full, uncensored version of this scene online countless times. It was seared on his retinas. Donny, dead on the grass, blood oozing from countless beak and claw wounds all over his body, his throat slashed, his eyeballs torn out and hurled a foot away from his corpse like a pair of discarded marbles. The camera then changed focus and captured the friend who’d encouraged Donny running away as fast as his feet could carry him.

But Donny had just been the first. There had been many other swans on the river that day. Something in the attack — the smell of blood, perhaps, or the intermingling screams of Donny and the various onlookers, or maybe just a sense that this could be the moment to shift the balance of power in the human-swan relationship — awoke something in them. Just seconds after the assault on Donny was over, they rocketed from the water to attack the joggers, the picnickers, the frisbee throwers, the old people feeding the ducks — anyone in sight. Everyone ran for their lives, but the swans were fast, determined and vicious and dozens fell, shrieking, beneath explosions of wings, feathers, beaks and claws. Their cadavers were left littering this previously quiet corner of the countryside.

The carnage spread rapidly. The reporter told how now, all over Britain, swans had left their homes on the rivers and were patrolling down the streets in gangs, attacking anyone foolish enough to be out in the open. But they weren’t just sticking to the streets. There was footage of the snarling river birds hunting people down in supermarkets, churches and pubs, and hurling themselves in packs at people’s front doors until the hinges gave way, sparking screams of horror from those inside. Swans had even arrived at the gates of Downing Street. The army had been summoned, but as soon as they had opened fire, flocks of seagulls – who had evidently decided whose side they should take in this battle – had swooped down from the skies, forming a feathered shield for their fellow avians while also clawing at the faces of the panicked soldiers. Phone footage showed the UK’s Prime Minister atop his desk, knees knocking in terror as a horde of swans marched towards him, beaks aloft and wings flapping aggressively. The reporter urged people to stay inside and barricade their doors.

Samuel turned the television off, put his head in his hands and looked despairingly at the hefty green sports bag in the corner of the room. It was only meant to be a stupid joke. They’d have let the cygnet go again later, maybe after filming some TikToks with it. He wrapped his arms around himself and muttered, ‘I’m sorry, Donny.’

His door wasn’t barricaded, nor even locked, but he made no move to rectify this. Instead, he simply waited. In the end, darkness had fallen before there was a loud thumping and cackling outside. He swivelled on his chair to watch as the door slammed open and a regiment of baying, hissing swans barged into his flat, flanked by an array of scampering psychotic cygnets, all illuminated by the harsh yellow glow of the overhead light. As the leader flew at  his throat, Samuel just had time to notice the scarlet gleam in her right eye.

Bio: David Cook’s stories have been published in Ellipsis Zine, Janus Literary, Barren and many more. He’s a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominee. He lives in Bridgend, Wales, with his wife and daughter.

Say hi on Twitter/X @davidcook100 and BlueSky @davidcook.bsky.social.