Newark was like Jackson Heights; same stony immobility of inhabitants, same sense of life stopped at full tide in the streets. He prowled around till he found a hardware store and possessed himself of a fine .50-.50 express rifle with an adequate supply of cartridges as well as a revolver, added to it a collection of small tools, and stopped in at a library to get a supply of reading matter more to his taste than the drug store could provide.
As he took off again two specks in the sky far to the north represented, he decided, additional specimens of the peculiar bird life that had spread abroad since the change. How long it could have been, he had no idea.
He decided on a flight northwest, following the line of the mail route. There was a chance that the whole country might not be engulfed by this metal plague, though the absence of life in New York was not encouraging.
Port Jervis was his first control point, but Sherman was fond enough of the green wooded slopes of the Catskills to run a little north of his course, bumpy though the air was over the mountains. He set the automatic pilot and leaned back in his seat to enjoy the view.
Just north of Central Valley something seemed different about the hillside; a new scar had appeared along its edge. He turned to examine it, swooping as he did so and in a quick glance from the fast-moving airplane saw that the great forest trees, maples and oaks, were all down, twisted, barren and leafless, along a line that ran right up the valley and across the hill, as though they had been harrowed by some gigantic storm. The line was singularly definite; there were no half-broken trees.
He swooped for another look, and at that moment was conscious of the beat of swift wings and above the roar of the motor heard the scream of one of those strange four-winged birds. Half-unconsciously, he put the Roamer into a steep climb and kicked the rudder to one side, just as the bird flew past him on whistling pinions, like an eagle that has missed its plunge, and recovered to rise again in pursuit. Sherman flattened out, and without paying any attention to direction, snapped in the automatic pilot and reached for his gun.
As he bent there came a sharp crack from above and behind him and another scream right overhead. He looked over his shoulder to see a second bird clutching at the edge of the cockpit with one giant claw, its forewings fluttering rapidly in the effort to keep its balance in the propeller's slipstream. With the other claw it grabbed and grabbed for him.
Sherman flattened himself against the bottom of the cockpit and fired up and back, once—twice—three times. The plane rocked; the bird let go with a shrill scream, a spurt of blood showing on its chest feathers, and as Sherman straightened up he saw it whirling down, the wings beating wildly, uselessly, the red spot spreading. But he had no time for more than a glance. The other bird was whirling up to the attack beneath him, yelling in quick jerks of sound as though it were shouting a battle-cry.
The pistol, half-empty, might too easily miss. Sherman sought the rifle, and at that moment felt the impact of a swift blow on the floor of the plane. The bird understood that he had weapons and was attacking him from beneath to avoid them! The thought that it was intelligent flashed through his mind with a shock of surprise as he leaned over the side, trying to get a shot at his enemy. Beneath the plane he caught a momentary glimpse of the ground again, torn and tortured, and in the center of the devastation the ruins of a farmhouse, its roof canting crazily over a pulled-out wall.