WHERE THE TIGERS CAME FROM nobody knew. My sleepy quiet English village had never known anything fiercer than the eyes of a raven. The tigers roamed in slow unfiltered strides, their eyes flashing with the power of thunder. Their shadows attached themselves to whatever they came into contact with. Dead bodies were scattered throughout the village. Blood flowed like a river towards the sea, down into the drains and the great sense of pity had manifested into a mist that darkened every corner. Even the flowers and the trees had been taken over by the wild shapes of the tigers, unable to breathe in the light of their roots.

The tigers sometimes slept next to their prey, only waking to gorge once again. Other times they would fight one another, the sound of which sending shivers all around. The shiver vibrated low and caged the heart to its own mortal flesh.

One of my neighbours had ran out of food, lost so much weight for fear of going out and became so desperate to eat she considered eating the flesh of those killed by the tigers. I saw her poking her head out the front door, hoping it was safe to venture out into the street, cautiously opening the door wider and wider. I understood the strange emotions that...