Free The Healer by Sharon Sala Page A

could be was a storm approaching. Frowning, he laid down his book and looked out, expecting to see gathering clouds. But it wasn’t clouds. The sky was full of birds.
    Suddenly he remembered what Hicks had said about the birds attacking the chopper. His heart skipped a beat. What in hell was going on?
    He stepped outside, and the moment he did, he was assailed by a cacophony of sound. It sounded as if thousands upon thousands of birds were calling to each other from the trees and shrubs surrounding his estate, from the forest beyond, along with those circling in the sky above. The hair rose on the back of his neck as he bolted back inside the house and slammed the door.
    But safety was a long way away. He’d loved this room for its massive wall of windows, but now the windows had become its flaw, with their view of the winged horror outside. At that moment the housekeeper came running into the library with a look of terror on her face.
    “Mr. Bourdain! There are birds everywhere! It’s a sign—an omen from God! Something bad is going to happen, I just know it!”
    “Get back to the kitchen and don’t come out until I say so!” he shouted.
    She didn’t have to be told twice. She ran from the room with her hands over her head.
    Moments later Bourdain heard the familiar sound of an approaching chopper and ran to the French doors. He had a brief glimpse of the chopper before it was swallowed up by another cloud of birds.
    At the same time, his phone began to ring. It was bound to be Hicks. He already knew he didn’t want to hear what the man had to say.
    “Hicks?”
    The man’s voice was shaking and hoarse, as if he’d been screaming for hours. “Goddamn…. Goddamn…we’re coming in the back way. Unlock the fuckin’ doors!”
    Bourdain dropped the phone and ran toward the back of the house. By the time he got there, there were three men coming toward the house at a dead run, dragging another between them, while birds dived at them from all directions, pecking at their faces, ripping their clothes with their claws, tearing out chunks of their hair. He could hear them screaming from where he stood.
    When they were fifty feet from the door, a massive California condor came out of nowhere in a full dive, hit the man next to Hicks with its massive talons and took off his head. A geyser of blood sprayed up into the air a second before the man dropped to the ground. His body was still kicking, but he was undeniably dead.
    “Sweet Mother of God,” Bourdain whispered, and began backing up.
    “Open the door! Open the door!” Hicks screamed.
    Bourdain stood there long enough to see a huge bird diving toward the windows, then bolted. The sound of shattering glass followed his retreat. Seconds later, he heard the door bang against the wall, then screams and curses followed him as they all ran toward the inner rooms of the mansion.
    Windows shattered as they ran past, showering them with broken glass and filling their ears with the infernal shrieks and calls of nature in a rampage.
    Bourdain hit the floor just before his face was peppered with glass, then covered his head with his hands.
    The other men were in the room with him now, screaming at him, telling him that he had to let the Indian go or they were all going to die.
    Birds were diving at him now in wild abandon, flogging him with their wings, nailing him with their talons and beaks. Like the others, he began screaming and cursing. He rolled over, then grabbed a cushion from the sofa and put it over his head.
    “Turn him loose! Turn him loose!” he screamed.
    “He’s already loose. Make him leave!” Hicks screamed back.
    Bourdain turned, and then everything seemed to happen in slow motion as he found himself staring into the eyes of the man who’d saved his life.
    The birds were everywhere, flying so close together that it seemed as if all the air had gone from the room.
    “Get out! Get out!” Bourdain shouted, then dropped the cushion and covered his face