The sound outside had found a key and held it, every throat in whatever ocean was out there pumping air into the same relentless note.
A thud hit the siding beside the window. Another thud. A heavy body bounced, left a smear, dropped. A round belly flashed white before disappearing below the sill. Then another. Then a dozen.
Zubair's fingers tightened on the rifle's fore-end. "We hold," he told the room, which meant he was telling himself.
The sound of croaking drove harder, the sound vibration turning to a physical thing that made Lachlan's molars tick.
He swallowed hard and caught the taste of pond on the air. It tasted like algae and old mud where there was no pond to be had.
The sound rushed closer through that field like a crowd breaking into a run.
The roof gave a small, rubbery groan. Whatever clung up there had weight now. A seam in the ceiling whispered dust.
