The Birdman Project: Book One

by E. L. Giles

  Josh frowns and looks around. “I told the truth,” he says. Bursts of heat overwhelm me. “She’s been dead a long time.”

  I breathe a sigh of relief. At least we shared the same story, and above all, President Nightingale hasn’t told Josh the truth. For the few moments we have left together, I don’t want the truth to wreck it all.

  “Josh,” I start, “whatever is said, whatever happens, remember one thing: this is not who you are. You hear me? This is not who you are.” Someone snorts disdainfully behind us, probably the tall, bulky guard. “Focus on me, Josh, not on the people or President Nightingale or everyone else. Only me. You are my Josh, for now and forever, and that’s all that matters. All right?”

  He seems puzzled but nods and squeezes my hand.

  President Nightingale moves slowly onto the stage, his back straight and his chin raised high. His gaze reveals the disdain he has toward us, the people, as the camera zooms in on him. It is a disdain only someone who knows him would notice though. He’s good at acting, that’s for sure.

  The camera zooms in to show President Nightingale stopping at the microphone stand. He adjusts its height to match his, and taps two times on the microphone that pops annoyingly in the speakers. He clears his voice. “Dear citizens, officials, Sons of Kamcala.” He stretches his arms to both sides, as if he wants to hug everyone at once. “I address you in these grave times, times of growing darkness that threaten the peace and the quietness of our nation. Threaten the safety of our dear and invaluable citizens. My friends, what I’m going to reveal to you today marks a change in our history.”

  He pauses, picks up a clear bottle filled with a blue liquid on the stage and sips from it a few times before he wipes his mouth dry with the back of his sleeve and drops the bottle back on the podium. He stares back at the crowd, his eyelids lowered over his dark eyes.

  “I was elected nearly fifty years ago, elected for my capacity to fight against anarchy and chaos. Some among you might remember those dark days when the rebels rose up, wreaking havoc through the city, putting your safety in danger. I thought—I truly thought—I had successfully fought them back, crushed them entirely, twenty-five years ago.” He pulls the microphone out of its stand and addresses the people, the microphone in one hand while his other hand clenches into a fist as he says, “But I was wrong.”

  The camera zooms back and we can hear movement and talking across the crowd. Voices elevate, and two guards move onto the front of the stage, rifles drawn at the crowd. President Nightingale gestures for the guards to lower their rifles.

  “Calm down. Calm down, my friends,” he says to soothe the gathering. “It appears that since this lull, the rebels have been busy working secretly on a weapon of unprecedented effectiveness and power—a beast created with the singular goal of sending this world back into the ashes of the Dark Ages.”

  We see the first row of people becoming agitated. The voices elevate even more through the speakers. The guards on the front of the stage look edgier, standing on one leg and then the other, like they don’t know where to look or what to do, unsure if they must take action or not.

  I turn my head toward Josh. He looks puzzled, abashed, as I am. I’m not sure where President Nightingale is going with this. It seems as if this weapon he is talking about is Josh.

  “On me, Josh. Focus on me,” I remind him. My voice cracks because my throat is tight. I start having difficulty breathing.

  Josh lowers his eyes to me. They are soaked with tears and his hands are shaking. It occurs to me how fragile Josh could be. I lace my fingers more tightly around his, close my eyes, and consciously breathe in and out. It’s the only way I can control myself. We need to stay strong. I open my eyes and see that Josh has his own closed, and he’s breathing like me. When he opens them, he looks calmer. He slides his arms across my shoulders, and I rest my head against his chest. There it is, the vital warmth I missed.

  President Nightingale speaks again, but I don’t listen to him. I don’t care about what he may have to say. I don’t care anymore. Everything that comes out of his mouth is only poison anyway. And the more he talks, the more time Josh and I have together. But our time comes to an end when the tall guard steps up to us.

  “C’mon, Flying Rat. It’s time.”

  “Don’t call me—” Josh starts, but I stop him, pulling his face into my hand and turning it back toward me.

  I sink my eyes into his. He must focus on me, not elsewhere.

  The tall, bulky guard pulls me off of Josh and throws me aside as he grabs Josh by the arm and pushes him toward the door. I stumble and slump to the floor. As I raise my head, I see Josh shove the guard’s hand away. He rushes to me, stretches out a hand, and helps me back to my feet. He then puts an arm around my back, right below my shoulder blades, and we walk to the door.

  “Not her,” spits the tall, bulky guard.

  “She comes with me, or I swear I will kill you right off,” threatens Josh.

  Everyone around us looks abashed. Josh must have been quite rough with them for them to fear him as they visibly do. None dare get too close to us, moving toward us in little, discreet steps until the braver of them, the lead guard, grips Josh by the arm and drives us toward the door. The tall, bulky guard doesn’t stop us this time.

  The door moves slowly as the hydraulic arm on its top pushes it open. Instantly, sunrays fill the hallway in a blinding halo that surrounds us entirely. A chilly, season-changing breeze blows inside as I get used to the brightness, and we step into the source of this light and onto the stage.

  A guard locks our chains with a thick, braided metal wire that is hooked onto the cement wall behind us. Through his calm demeanor, President Nightingale sends a look toward us that betrays his rage. I guess this wasn’t what he had planned. That wasn’t how his “show” was supposed to play out. Good. He won’t separate us that easily.

  The moment we appear on stage, everything goes quiet. I don’t dare look at the audience. I fear their faces, I fear their reaction to Josh, and above all, I fear Josh seeing them.

  “Look at me, Josh. Always at me,” I say again.

  Despite my pleading, he still looks at them—briefly but long enough that when he looks away, back at me, terror and pain fill his eyes. It is the very gaze that haunted most of my nightmares back when he was gone.

  “Josh,” I say under my breath, my voice barely a murmur, “come back to me. I need you.”

  President Nightingale moves toward us, microphone in hand.

  “There it is, my dear friends. This weapon the rebels have created. A—an abomination that goes against nature, meant to kill, meant to draw chaos in its wake.”

  President Nightingale comes closer to us, stretching out an arm toward a wing Josh has folded tightly on his back.

  “You’re the only abomination here,” I say to President Nightingale. I don’t know if my voice reaches the microphone. I don’t know if people heard me, but it seems noisier among the gathering, like my words have awakened them.

  President Nightingale smirks at me and then steps back to the center of the stage. The whole convoy of guards that have escorted us here stand behind us, rifles drawn at us, their fingers brushing the triggers.

  “Now see for yourselves what the rebels are capable of. It is their mission to start anarchy among us,” President Nightingale says as he stretches a finger outward, pointing at a row of giant screens and speakers that are elevated about thirty feet above the crowd.

  I stare at the screens as they turn on, their white background illuminating the gathering below, and I wonder what new sucker punch President Nightingale has prepared. In fact, after telling everyone—lying to everyone—that Josh is a rebel weapon, I don’t know where he’s going. It must have to do with yesterday and this game Nightingale forced Josh and me to play. It must have to do with the room that was decorated like an apartment. It must have to do with Josh aiming the gun at O’Hare. It must have to do with Josh actually killing O’Hare. So, this is wha
t he is capable of. This is how far he is going to venture to lie and bend the truth for the sake of winning those stupid elections and the battle against the rebels?

  A deafening hiss comes out the speakers beside the screens, and the white background turns black. I can feel my heart pounding in my ears. In a moment I will see O’Hare. In a moment I will see Josh. In a moment, Josh will kill O’Hare. I search for Josh’s hand, and when I find it, I squeeze it and then lace my fingers with his.

  A breathing noise comes from the speakers, and then I hear footsteps hurrying across the wood, branches crackling, and leaves rustling through the wind. It’s all black, but soon we see a dim light in the distance. Slowly, it gets bigger and bigger until it turns into several bright yellow lights and a halo that illuminates a tall chimney that spits a thick column of white smoke.

  “My name is O’Hare,” says a voice, and then the face of O’Hare appears on the screen. “And I’m free.” He raises his forearm, showing a strip of bloody flesh right where the PIN tattoo used to be. “It’s highly possible I’m dead by now, either captured and executed or killed straight off. My name is O’Hare, and I’m a rebel.”

  I twist my head toward President Nightingale. He stands statue-still, with a stony face that slowly contorts into a grimace that betrays his puzzlement and his growing apprehension.

  “Get that down!” cries President Nightingale over the microphone.

  “The Party is lying to you. I stand before the Retirement Center, where they don’t take care of the disabled and the sick and the wounded as they claim. They are gassing them, and then burning the bodies. They do unthinkable things to those people before they kill them without mercy, and tonight, I’m going to burn it down once and for all,” says O’Hare.

  The camera switches to the entry of the building where some guards are unloading people from a bus. The guards line them all in rows and then lead them into the building. A moment later, the camera shows a room filled with bodies, all lying on the floor, visibly dead, bathed in blood as a vaporous smog floats over them.

  “I said to turn it off! Take it down!” yells the now red-faced President Nightingale. His eyes are nearly popping from his head.

  A guard raises his rifle and shoots at the screens. They explode in thousands of shattered pieces of glass, electrical sparks flying over the crowd, but the speakers keep on playing. I hear a male voice now and then a female one. It’s me and President Nightingale. It’s our encounter yesterday that is being played in segmented parts. A white curtain suddenly opens over one of the smoking screens, wide and tall enough to cover it entirely. A beam of light hits the white screen, and the images come back. I see the faces of the women, the surrogate mothers sacrificed by the Party as President Nightingale recalls “Project Birdman.”

  I squeeze Josh’s hand harder, but he doesn’t seem to notice. He stares daggers at the screen, eyebrows creased so low I wonder if he can see anything. Shudders invade his body, starting with the hand I’m holding, and then spread to his arm. Then, Dolores’s face appears on the scream with the title: “Dead.” Josh loses it, the trembling conquering his whole body now.

  “Josh!” I cry. “Remember what I said. This is not who you are. Dolores is all right. You know that,” I say, reaching for his stony face and pulling him toward me.

  I search his eyes, but they’re as empty as he is, dark, hollow. Two black pits.

  “Josh, listen to me. This is not who you are. Dolores is all right. Trust me.”

  “You knew?” he questions sternly.

  “And it didn’t matter to me because this is not who you are to me. You are my Josh, born outside the walls and free.”

  Josh snorts but says nothing. Cold slips over my skin. I’m losing him.

  When I look back at the screen, two simple sentences appear: “People, stand up and rebel. Claim your freedom; avenge your fallen brothers and sisters.”

  The screen goes blank, and silence invades the crowd. Only the sounds of the city can be heard. All the guards stand like statues, their eyes switching between President Nightingale, the screen, and the crowd. President Nightingale still holds the microphone in his hand and is staring at the first row of people near the stage. A faint wave-like movement is seen across the sea of people, and like with water, the little wave grows bigger as it eats every new wave, until it becomes one single and destructive force that is unstoppable.

  Josh releases his hold on my hand and falls to his knees. I crouch beside him and pull his chin up so he sees me instead of the cement deck beneath us.

  “Josh. JOSH!” I cry.

  He still doesn’t look at me. I shake him by the shoulders, cry, and plead with him. Still, he remains lifeless, staring blankly into space.

  The situation around us quickly grows unstable. Guards rush onto the stage as President Nightingale pleads with the citizens to calm down and to not trust this “rebel trickery.” I feel we must escape before it turns into a bloodbath.

  I raise my hand, palm up, and slap Josh on a cheek. The snapping sound it produces hurts my ears and makes my palm tingle. Josh comes back. He raises his eyes to me and reaches a hand to his reddening cheek.

  “Now listen to me,” I say. “Our time is surely counted, and I refuse to let President Nightingale destroy what’s between us. I don’t care what he says about you.” I reach a hand to his red cheek and caress it. “You’re the handsome boy who saved me twice. You’re the boy who cared about me. You’re the boy who never feared risking his life to save mine. You’re the boy who carried me when I was weak. You’re the only one I’ve ever shared intimacy with. You are my Josh. And I love you as you are, no matter what President Nightingale says. Do you hear me?”

  His blank expression clears, and suddenly there’s fury, and fire in his eyes. His fierceness reminds me of his actions at the building where he killed the two soldiers. This stare that makes him look wild, the stare that first scared me.

  “Josh, please. Come back to me,” I say as sobs grow in my chest.

  Josh turns around, looking at the crowd, the stage, and President Nightingale. He stops there. Murder fills his eyes, and I must intervene before he attacks President Nightingale.

  “Josh, if there’s only one chance to get out of here, we must take it. We must get ourselves to safety. Do it for Dolores. Do it for Alastair if you don’t want to do it for yourself. Or for me. Do it for me.” These last words stick painfully in my throat.

  Several bangs resonate in the open-space auditorium. Cries elevate among the crowd. I turn my head and see what chaos looks like. Fists are raised up in the air. People are shoving, making themselves a path through the gathering of panicking people. Objects are flying, and then I see it—the black flag—floating over the sea of people.

  “Take them out. Every single one of them!” cries President Nightingale as he steps back off the edge of the stage.

  Guards fire randomly in every direction. At one end of the square, I see a small squadron of ten soldiers circling a group of people and shooting them all dead. At the other end, another group of soldiers sink into the crowd, knocking people out with the stocks of their rifles. Windows shatter to pieces under the spray of bullets, and several voices elevate through the madness, all crying at once, “Freedom!”

  Josh turns to me, terror filling his eyes. It doesn’t seem like he is afraid for his life, it is more like he is terrified I will get hurt or killed.

  “Josh? Are you all right?”

  Josh slides an arm around my waist and pulls me with him until we reach a part of the stage with tall monitors that protect us from the madding mob.

  “Are you all right?” Josh asks me, feeling for any blood or wounds on my body.

  “I’m fine,” I say. “You’re all right?”

  Josh nods. “I think,” he says dully. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Both of us seem untouched by the random projectiles that surround us. Gunshots rage, both from the stage and the crowd, and in the blink of an eye, the guard on the
stage—the lead guard I think—slumps over, his head slamming against the cement, a thick puddle of blood spreading under him. Bullets bounce against the deck and the walls, and in an instant, another guard is taken down, a bullet to the side of his head, over his ear.

  A loud bang fills my ears as a flash blinds me. Something has exploded on the stage, and fires are burning fiercely here and there. A guard flails on the ground, set ablaze and burning alive.

  “We must go!” yells Josh.

  “But it’s too dangerous. We’ll be shot down in less than a second!” I cry back.

  The fighting is getting worse. The more soldiers that get involved, the more bullets fly every which way, and that is without considering the firebombs that are exploding everywhere. I stare across a gap between two monitors.

  “But we must try to get out!” Josh yells again.

  “And what about our chains?”

  We are still hooked to the cable, and despite every effort we make to pull the hook off the wall, nothing happens. We’re trapped.

  “We need one of these!” Josh cries, pointing at the lead guard’s pistol.

  “It’s too risky,” I say. “I can’t make it as fast as you, and I’ll risk our lives.”

  “We risk our lives staying here anyway!” he cries. “We make it to the count of three and get back here after.”

  “What?”

  “One—two—three.”

  Josh pulls me toward him and starts crawling on the ground. I have no other choice but to follow him, as we are linked together by the cable. I could pull on it and bring Josh back, but he’s right. We must at least try something.

  For a moment, as we go, it’s like we’re non-existent. We make one step, two steps, three steps, without anyone noticing us. There are still fires burning on the stage and smoke that surrounds us. Then shards of cement slap my bare arms as bullets hit the ground around us. I let a scream escape, and Josh turns around sharply.

  “What?” he asks, panicked. “You all right?”

  I nod, and Josh pulls me closer to him, folding his hand around mine. We keep on crawling toward the lead guard. Another loud bang resonates and sends a wave of warmth that burns my calf like it’s set ablaze. I contort under the pain. I roll onto my back and feel for the source—a red and bloodied spot the size of my hand. The flesh bordering the wound is melted and burnt.