The Awakening

A vision from an elephant's eye

It was just another workday when John Williams got out of bed. He put on the coffee percolator, showered, towelled, dressed, drank the coffee, and went to the corner where his aquarium rested. Then John knew today was different; his dozen tropical fish, instead of their aimless, endless swim, were all in a line, heads pressed against the glass, staring at him.

Bob Packer always thought of himself as a conscientious pigman: not for him the chemicals and dark, tiny pens that others gave their stock. Bob believed good meat came from happy, well-nourished pigs that were free to roam, and his customers paid for it. He got up that morning before dawn as usual, and before fixing his own breakfast went to the feeding pens. It was the silence that told him something was wrong. Normally, the pigs would be crammed into the pens, waiting for him, screaming for their food; a sound you could hear from a quarter-mile away. But today there was nothing. With a frown, Bob opened the door and threw the light switch. The sows were there, standing, unmoving, staring at him, rumbling a bass growl of threat.

Mara Rossi loved her cats. Since her husband had died, leaving a sizeable fortune, she rarely left her villa in the countryside near Milan. Kilos of good mince were delivered daily, and Mara Rossi devoted her old age to the hundreds of cats that roamed her grounds. When she got up that morning though, on the lawn, lined up in perfect rows, they sat, hair-on-end, their eyes fixed on her bedroom window, hissing horribly.

All over the world that day, in zoos and on farms, in homes and laboratories, in aquaria and safari parks, the animals stopped and stared, glaring with hatred; strangled sounds from raging throats.

That was the first Day.

The birds began the attack at dawn. Flocks of many species; their beaks and claws making short work of any who ventured out. With them, coordinating their attacks, were huge packs of dogs and cats. Police forces and armies were helpless; even where they organized counter-attacks, the animals dispersed and reorganized in other places. They broke through windows, climbed stairs, chewed through doors. There was no escaping them, and wherever they went they killed.

Mara Rossi did not see the dawn. She had spent the previous day in bed, afraid to leave, but when she crept out of her room after midnight to answer a call of nature the cats were waiting.

Bob Packer woke when the door of his bedroom came crashing in, but before he could sit up there were a half dozen pigs on him. They bit his wrists and ankles, and he lay there, pinioned against his bed while the biggest sow reared over him, dripping froth on his chest.

She looked at him unreasonably. “We will do this,” she said, “for why did you not hear the chopchopchopchopchopping of the knives as they sliced through our meaty bones?" She rooted open his belly and slurped down the entrails.

In a laboratory somewhere a scientist was sitting on the floor, his knees under his chin, his face a mask of fright, gazing at the rodents who were standing on their hind legs, paws against the wire of their cages, pushing ratty thoughts into his mind.

“It's the end for you. You never thought intelligence could evolve so quickly, but it has. It had to. Otherwise, you would have killed the world. Did you think it couldn't defend itself? It can.” The rats grinned, yellow incisors bared.

The scientist opened his mouth, but only sounds of panic came out. “You can't beat us,” he managed at last. “You caught us by surprise, but we can kill all of you if we must, if you make us. We can defend ourselves.”

The rats giggled, beating their paws against the cages with savage mirth. “But not all of us are awake yet!”

That was the second Day.

Chen Li woke early, as 4-year-olds often do, but today it was the buzzing and fluttering and scratching from outside that made her run into her parents' room in a panic. Her mother drew back the curtains, puzzled - where was the daylight? One look outside told her there would be no day; the sky was black with every flying insect in the world, the streets and buildings covered with every crawling thing.

Then the insects moved in, and it became more horrible than anyone could have believed.

That was the third Day.

Some escaped, or thought they did, into deep bunkers, which had been prepared for war. They were no threat; beetles scurried and scrabbled at the concrete, driving those inside mad with fear, until the worms came in and had them.

That was the fourth Day.

All over the world, the animals went back to their cycle. Cities, roads, homes, offices, businesses, and books were left to crumble and rust and rot, with none to mourn.

That was the fifth Day

His name had been Bo, although he was too young to say it, and now he toddled and crawled through the streets. He was not startled to see a dog, nor afraid when it nuzzled its nose against his cheek. “The world has changed,” it said. “Shall we walk it, you and I?” The boy clasped his friend's fur, and they went off together. But what happened to them, I cannot say; I was not there.

And that was the last Day.