Dennis and I followed the slippery eel of I-5 and listened to the trees: the moan of a madrone, the counsel of a Douglas fir, the shimmer of a cherry tree, the whine of a whitebark pine, paper birches, dogwoods, and oaks and maples and sweet gums and cedars and elms. Some shared memories of things that had occurred many, many years before on the land around their trunks, slow stories of fights between lovers, the massacre during the lumber industry boom, the Great Seattle Fire, and the Klondike gold rush. Trees are super nostalgic. Others recited soothing poems in sotto voce—oral balms learned as seedlings. Some spoke of when the bison and the wolf roamed this land; they talked of change and whispered about a predestined event, repeating the word “renaissance” in harmony. I had no clue what all this had to do with Michelangelo, but you don’t argue with a tree.
One thing was certain, they were full of beans, on fire with chitter-chatter. But—and I will swear on a Cheeto® here—the Douglas firs were talking to me directly. This is as much a surprise to me as it is to you. This had never, ever happened before, least of all to me, a weirdo hybrid crow. Trees are normally very general and all-inclusive with their wisdom pearls. When a tree decides to talk to you, it’s a very, very big deal, as if the world stops, as if you are scooped up and held in a snow globe, weightless and womb-like. I felt their vibrations in my feathers, in the flutter of my little black heart. The Douglas firs were all pointing. Each had one solitary branch outstretched, urging me toward my destination, down I-5 and to whatever lay ahead. To Onida. As is polite and customary when spoken to by a tree, I answered back, calling out my thanks from above their towering tops. I followed humbly, pilot light rekindled, floppy skin-bag bloodhound in tow.
Intermittent MoFo clusters, lone cobra-necked MoFos, and Dennis not being a greyhound all added time to our journey south. To avoid MoFos, we hid behind medians, construction sand bags, an ice cream truck with rancid lactose sludge smearing its insides, and an empty Lamborghini with the Seahawks logo blazoned all over it, but most MoFos seemed to be exhibiting the same sort of repetitive behavior that Big Jim had. I couldn’t figure them out. They were at once distracted and dangerous. Disturbed. Stuck and broken and yet somehow waiting for something. They smelled like hot garbage (not the delicious kind).
When we finally neared our destination, I shot above to take in Seattle’s Pike Place Market, a touristic mecca that includes the original Starbucks, a wall encrusted with chewed gum, and men who lob fish at one another. Pike Place Market, its iconic red sign unlit, was teeming with MoFos and my heart beat its wings in delight. Hallelujah! Praise IHOP! They’d all come here! They’d all travelled down I-5 South and taken refuge in the market, among the beautiful flower displays, waterfront views, and specialty teas that cost the same as a kidney! I lowered, preparing to let out a caw of jubilation, and then my stomach fizzed into boiling acid. The MoFos were shoulder to shoulder, loping in a writhing mass, spewing from the underground of the market and through its souvenir-lined corridors, bumping into one another, trailing their fingers, and bobbing their snapping-turtle necks. Every single one of them had what Big Jim had. I can only technically count to nine, but it seemed like millions. No growling cars, just the remnants of long-rotten fruit, rotten fish, rotten MoFos, and onesies with the Space Needle painted on them. I gagged. How could this have happened? How could so many MoFos be sick?
I was getting woozy from hunger pangs and wing-wrenching dismay. A stand that called itself the Daily Dozen Doughnut Company caught my eye. I perched on top of one of the stand’s last remaining shelves. The stand had taken a beating, its CASH ONLY sign dangling like a severed limb. Stools lay on their sides, legless and splintered. Glass sparkled from the market floor. A body lay near a silver stand mixer that was fossilized by its own icing. It hadn’t been dead long; the perpetrator would still be close. The eyes were frozen in terror, glazed with torture. Someone had ripped its white body into two parts, a bisection. Teeth marked its entrails. Ruby-red blood stained paper-white feathers. Wonderful—some of them were eating glaucous-winged gulls.
I watched the pulsing mass of MoFos as they swayed and lumbered. Some were stationary and dragging their fingers like Big Jim; some stared into the middle distance as if reading something on the horizon. Others crept around face-first, bloodred eyes bobbing like a pigeon’s neck, in search of something. One MoFo stood next to a pile of doughnuts that had been knocked off a three-tiered silver platter and lay next to a jar that said “God Knows When You Don’t Tip.” The MoFo directly between me and a pile of delectable doughnuts was wallpapered with nautical tattoos. A slouchy beanie sat on his head, his beard mimicking a comatose beaver. The suspenders and bowtie weren’t fooling me though; I knew this MoFo’s game. His left hand was pressed to his ear and you bet your ass I’d taken stock of that shock of bright red that dribbled down his plaid shirt.
The glaucous-winged gull eater.
On TV, I’ve learned that crows, by nature, can be pretty persistent. If you’ve ever pissed one off, you’ll know this. I think it’s coded, cocooned deep in the fluff of our down feathers to hold on to things—ideas, grudges, your engagement ring. There was no exception here. By the fumes of NASCAR, I was going to get a damned doughnut! A stealth swoop fueled by a growling stomach shot me past the glaucous-winged gull eater. He let out a high-pitched scream, a spleen-quivering skirl that caused the surrounding MoFos to snap their necks toward him.
Glaucous-Winged Gull Eater bit at me as I careened past him, just missing sinking his gull-stained choppers into my back. The mass of MoFos let out a series of low-pitched moans, some sort of horrible summoning, then rushed the glaucous-winged gull eater. They ran forward, toward us, crushing the Daily Dozen Doughnut Company sign, the counter, the silver fryer, industrial cooking machinery, the trash can, everything in the herd’s way. They charged forth, blood and saliva flying; tubs of sugar hissed through the air, a blizzard of flour blew down hard. They brayed with jaws wide, emitting a sick song. A woman with black braids and a large dripping hole in her midsection raced forward. A man with a broken guitar hanging from his back and plucked-out eyes roared as he ran, pushed forward by a sea of MoFos led by an old lady with a knitted cat sweater and a face that looked like it had been sculpted from mashed potatoes. Two small, identical MoFos crawled on all fours, backs arched like quick cats, rippling with twitches and convulsions as they sprung forward, scampering up the other MoFos, a breakneck clamber to get ahead. I dove from above, inches from their outstretched claws, snatching a doughnut in my beak and a bag of coffee beans with my feet. I shot myself airborne as the crowd smashed into Glaucous-Winged Gull Eater, trampling him, a mass of sickness and moans and devastation.
Time to go. I flapped hard, soaring over Pike Place until the MoFos were a formicary of moshing ants. A teeming swarm, soldiers trampling soldiers. I lifted high, high, high above the implosion and dropped a sizable bomb of my own, as I emptied my bowels upon the wild beasts below.
I had left Dennis at Waterfront Park near Pier 59, tucked behind Waterfront Fountain, a cubical structure that looks like interlocking bronze keys. The area was familiar to me, as Big Jim and I had come here once to install an underground electrical conduit. The fountain water no longer flowed; instead, the still water was cloaked by a green algae veil. The fountain looked deeply sad without a purpose. Seattle now felt like this, as if it was choking under a thickening green skin. The partially demolished Alaskan Way Viaduct had none of its usual elevated roar and rumble. Now it was suffocating under an emerald-green curtain of English ivy and Parney cotoneaster.
A ferocious growl ran up my spine. I pivoted to find Dennis hovering over a mass on Alaskan Way. I leapt into the air and to his side. Dennis rumbled with anger, saliva dripped from his jowls, eye-whites shining. The object of his aggression was a large, shiny lump. A ballooning buildup of tissue and blood. Slimy bubbles popped from its surface. The blob rose up and down methodically. As if it had a pulse. It jiggled like the filling of an uncooked pie, each wobble sending Dennis i
nto madness. He puffed his cheeks, pursed his rubbery lips, and released growls that swelled into bold, trumpeting bellows.
“Rooowwwwwoooooooooooh! Rooowwwwwoooooooooooh!”
“I don’t know, buddy. I don’t like it either,” I told him.
Dennis’s loose skin flinched. His barrel chest heaved with the exertion of every howl.
Starting to worry about his blood pressure, I lured Dennis with the doughnut, away from the unknown thing that smelled like death and decay and molten iron.
Weird lump out of sight, I had a little sample of the doughnut, which had aged nicely to the consistency of a truck tire. Delicious, a thousand times better than the fried blobs Big Jim liked to get from 7-Eleven. He’d really been holding out on me. Probably because the Pike Place ones were too expensive. Big Jim hated that, like that time he ordered a latte from Caffe Ladro (“FIVE DOLLARS?!”) and asked the barista when he should expect his accompanying testicle massage. A MoFo wearing a “manager” badge and a monkfish face disinvited us from their establishment for eternity. Some MoFos can be very obtuse.
After I’d plucked off the mold and had a good sample of doughnut, I dropped it for Dennis, who chowed down happily. I’d say it was a testament to the quality and endurance of Daily Dozen Doughnuts, but here I must remind you that Dennis’s favorite snack is a dehydrated bull penis. The bag of Vashon Dark Side of the Moon coffee beans burst open easily, cloaking me in comfort with an ambrosial cloud of roasted nose-joy. Oh, those delightfully nutty little rabbit turds were a welcome sight. Finally, something familiar, something that made sense. I nibbled on the beans while Dennis cocked a leg and relieved himself in the fountain. We would soon lose light and it was time to find who we’d come looking for.
I rattled—a sound like I’d swallowed maracas—for Dennis to follow me to the doors, or what was left of them. The belly of the building was dark, a briny, ominous smell leaking from its bowels. A quick breeze ruffled my feathers, crow-bumps forming on my skin. Dennis stopped once we reached the white framing that used to hold glass entrance doors. He started to pace, swinging his pendulous head wrinkles from side to side. His paw touched some of the green water that bled from inside the building and he whined. It was clear that I’d be flying solo here.
“Don’t be a nervous Nellie, Dennis. I’ll be alright,” I told him; obviously he actually had been listening to my lectures back home on not being a hero. I probably should have toned those down a little, as I can be very persuasive. Dennis let out a yodel of protest, sniffing vigorously at the air. He paced, prodded, and whimpered next to a plant making a tenacious evacuation from its pot under a broken metallic sign that now read, “Seat e Aquar m.”
I told him to wait by the fountain again and flapped my wings erratically. He lifted his panicked, sad-sap eyes to me and barked, a stentorian alarm. The message, low and laced with desperation, needed no translation. Don’t go in there. The nerves were making my legs quiver—probably should have had about forty fewer coffee beans than what I’d just enjoyed.
Swooping through the building’s entrance frame, I was plunged into a damp darkness. The little light there streamed from gaping windows, the broken teeth of the building. A fetid stench, briny and billowing like an old wet animal, punched me in the dick (technically crows don’t have dicks, but that doesn’t make me less of a dude). I perched on top of the entrance counter below three burnt flat screens. Water, dark and murky as ink, submerged the aquarium’s floor.
A scan of the lobby revealed a cinema screen–sized aquarium with its glass completely smashed out, water all around. Water dripped rhythmically from wood beams above. I lifted up and glided over the gift shop, a flooded mess of soggy, moldy stuffed dolphins and orcas and penguins—honestly, who the fuck wants an effigy of those fat assholes in their home?—floating postcards, shell pillows, otter and Puget Sound–themed T-shirts. Display stands lay submerged on their sides. I found Nemo, waterlogged, with his face ripped off and stuffing erupting from his stomach. He had been lodged between the soggy paperbacks of a book display this whole time.
As I dove farther into the building, Dennis’s barks became strangled, disembodied, the warnings of a fading ghost. I passed over some sort of stony structure, a highly accurate re-creation of a rock pool. I hopped down to inspect closer, and found several starfish, tangerine and cherry colored, alive and living a quiet, thoughtful existence in the dark. Dead stingrays floated in the pools, a couple with chunks missing from their slate bodies. Anemones also lay dead in the water, tentacles stiff and unfeeling.
A giant, glass half-moon arch, now smashed through its middle, had spilled its watery contents, adding to the murky flooding below. A clear body, impaled on the edge of the arch’s broken middle, told me it used to contain jellyfish. What had happened here?
I swooped into a walkway hidden in a cave tunnel that used to house a row of aquariums. The caves were flooded, every single aquarium face smashed out. Emerging from the tunnel, I flew over a decimated stand-alone Hawaiian fish aquarium and straight into the teeth of a great white shark. I squawked and shot back, startled by the MoFo-made shark model suspended up high from the wood beams; his ghoulish grimace suggested he was laughing at the aquarium’s destruction. I circled back near the rock pools and hopped on top of another glass structure. This one was two tanks connected by a glass tube tunnel. The water inside was green and viscous, greedy algae slime licking all surfaces. This aquarium was remarkably intact, though closer inspection revealed several nuts and bolts at the bottom of the tank. The top of the aquarium had been removed. Something had found its way out.
The flood below me rippled, frenzied splashes flicking up spray. Fish. A school of fish were fleeing. A glance at the rock pool revealed hysteria among the remaining sea stars (sea star panic is very subtle, but I was onto that shit). My feathers ruffled.
“Hello?” You idiot. Stop calling out to predators. How much of a douche canoe can you be?
A sound. The sound of a MoFo hand wiping squeakily across glass. I hopped on one foot atop the tank, readying to take flight.
A voice, strange and modulated, cut through the silence like a hot knife. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
Chapter 9
S.T.
Seattle Aquarium, Seattle, Washington, USA
I said I’d tell you everything, so I have to be totally honest here and tell you that I shit myself. I was full of beans—literally—and I crapped myself right there on the weird-ass tank. It was the first time since the eyeball incident that I was relieved Big Jim wasn’t around. That would have been mortifying.
But I had more pressing things to worry about. I couldn’t find the body that went with the eerie voice. I hopped nervously, trying not to jump in my own excrement.
“Who are you?” I asked, and then followed up with the more pressing, “Where are you?”
Dark water near the rock pool started to stir—the sea stars were screaming at this point—and an arm, long and rust-red, lifted from its depths and into the air. The elongated arm suctioned itself to a rock and was followed by several more lissome limbs, which danced together to lift an enormous bulbous head from the depths.
The octopus’s skin suddenly changed color and texture, muting the autumnal red to a blur of shimmering silver shadows that looked like scudding clouds. My chest thumped hard, wings of my heart aflutter, as I watched the giant cephalopod emphatically maneuver itself onto the rock pool structure, reaching out one arm to suck up a terrorized sea star into the folds of its underside. I caught a flash of massive paper-white suckers at the thick base of its arms. The sea star gave a gallant cry. “It is my time! Our freedom is finally here, let us be gone from this terrible place!” The repressed sea star legions cried out in delight. “You are all next, Stars Of The Sea! The view up here is—” After some tense and awkward minutes while the sea star was ingested, the regularly red predator and I looked at one another. Dark, shiny crow eye to horizontal pupil shaped like a black smile.
“So, h
ere you are.” The rippling, puckered skin across its colossal melon was captivatingly bumpy, glistening. And as I watched it, the texture changed again—an effortless magic trick—suddenly it was smooth and glossy.
“I think you’re mistaken; you think I’m somebody else,” I said to the leviathan in front of me. Giant Pacific octopuses live up to their name. This one was the size of Big Jim’s meat freezer. I watched a suctioned arm stretch out a good fifteen feet into the air.
The black smiles studied me. “You’ve come for answers.”
“Well, yes, but, it’s not like that’s particularly specific to me; I’m pretty sure all of us have questions about—”
“You straddle two worlds and you have lost your reason for being, your way.”
“Yes, but again, that could be said of the sea star you just snarfed—”
“You are a crow who believes he is human, one who has befriended a taciturn bloodhound. You have lost your connection to the world of man and you have come all the way from the Ravenna neighborhood where you’ve been hiding in a small craftsman home to ask me what happened to mankind.”
“Right,” I said. “That seems more specific.”
The octopus thrust a limber arm into the pool and fished out a small rock, which he rubbed rhythmically against stone. The scraping sound was at once sharp, repellant, and oddly hypnotic.
Hollow Kingdom Page 6