No matter how many times they cleaned the oil off the beach, there would always be more the next morning and the shoreline would be strewn with writhing, dying things. The air stank of petroleum and decay and there was nothing more they felt they could do other than clean the spill, care for whatever looked like it stood a chance of seeing the next sunrise and kindly kill the rest.
None of this sat well with them, most volunteers barely lasted a week while the veterans all began having the same dream of a triple-headed guillemot and a sky raining nothing but thick oil that silently smothered them until morning. It took them a while to realise that, despite the area being famous for them roosting all along the cliff-sides, there hadn't been a single one turn up with the other dying birds.
In fact, their nests were soon found so utterly barren it seemed downright impossible that they'd ever nested there at all in the last thirty years, let alone the last few months. Their absence and the constant tide of oil must have a connection, the volunteers reasoned, they must or what else is there?
Surely this can't all be for nothing?
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