Suburban Apartment, 99 Years Ago
The final bit of a lullaby was sung in a quiet apartment, it was a soft comforting sound. A young mother, still in work clothes, bent over a crib and tucked the blanket under her infant son's chin. The baby let out a tiny noise and closed his eyes, probably trusting the world to stay gentle for at least one more night.
In the living room, the television played at low volume. A news anchor tried to stay calm while strange videos played beside him. One clip showed a wide field at dusk: a herd of deer—more than fifty—moving together in a tight ring. Inside that ring, two gray wolves snapped and snarled, trapped. Every few seconds the deer stamped forward in unison, the circle tightening around the wolves until the predators were afraid. Then the deer closed in, hooves rising and falling repeatedly until the screen cut away.
The mother frowned. Deer were supposed to run from wolves, not hunt them.
Another clip loaded. City streets, phone-camera footage, shaky and blurred by fear. Dozens of dogs, collars still around their necks, moved down the middle of the road like soldiers. They ignored cars. They did not bark. At a signal no one could hear, the pack split left and right, checking alleyways as if they had practiced the move a hundred times.
The anchor's voice cracked. "Experts urge everyone to stay indoors until we know more." He looked off-screen, listening to hurried instructions. "Please keep your pets secured and report any unusual behavior."
The mother reached for the remote, then stopped. A cold prickle ran up her arms. Something felt wrong behind her. She turned toward the far wall.
In the birdcage, their green parrot, Tiko, sat perfectly still. His feathers were puffed, eyes wide and glassy. His head tilted farther and farther, past the point where a neck should bend.
"Tiko?" she whispered.
The parrot's beak opened.
"Rip out his guts," it said in a clear, flat voice.
The mother's breath hitched.
"Eat him," Tiko continued, tone unchanged.
A hush fell over the apartment. Even the television seemed to hold its breath.
"Rip his flesh," the bird finished. "Purge them all."
Before the words could fully register, Tiko jerked once, twice, and then shrieked. Feathers burst away in clumps. His beak split down the center like cracked wood. Thin bones lengthened, skin stretching too tight to hold them. With a final, tearing sound, the cage door flew open, and something no longer bird nor beast crashed to the floor.
The creature was all jagged and its skin ripped, wings now twisted arms ending in claws that scraped the hardwood. It lifted its eyeless head and sniffed the air.
The baby monitor on the end table spiked into sudden static.
The mother screamed.
Across the city—and soon, across the world—similar screams followed. Dogs on leashes turning on owners, dragging them into alleyways. House Cats slink under beds only to reemerge as jaw-split creatures with writhing tongues. Zoos erupt into chaos—lions tearing through cages, parrots mimicking cries of pain in children's voices. A child hiding under a table while a twisted monkey laughs, mimicking the father's last words: "Don't come out, baby." Deer crushed every living thing that moved. Birds dived in silent waves, beaks like knives. In the space of three short days, 6.5 billion voices would rise and then fall into silence.
But here, in one small apartment, the end of the world started with a lullaby, a frightened mother, and a single, broken word from the radio as it fizzed out:
"Ragnarok."