[There's a scurry among the populace as they hurry into any nearby buildings and homes. Doors are shut and the sound of wood and metal echoes throughout the night. The lamps and the two of them are what remain in a world of snow and fading light. Monts grits her teeth and then purses her lips.]

I think this is a regular thing. The people here, they're scared. They're always scared and...

[Another foghorn roar. Monts rests her forehead in one of her hands as if she's suffering a splitting headache.]

It's like... A song? But it sounds awful. If I'm like this, I can't—

[She swears under her breath in Spanish and as the roar around them continues, dark and smoky tendrils appear across her face, akin to spider legs or diseased looking veins. With another shuddery breath, she collects herself, but looks at Vincent apologetically.]

—Never mind. I can deal with it.