Lying on the bed, I stretch out, hands behind my head, feet crossed. Tomorrow, I tell myself. Tomorrow this will be done. Jim will come to collect me and then I can live out the rest of this life with him, just as we planned. And I will finally be home.
Days ago…
The first place I ran to when I spooned my way out of the county jail was my house. It was stupid really. Never go back to the scene of the crime. Everyone knows that. Too many memories. Paralyzing memories. But I couldn’t help myself. I had nothing; no supplies, no clothes, no weapons, and I needed all of that stuff. I couldn’t be running around in this bright orange jumpsuit. That just screams criminal. And it makes me more visible. I need dark clothes, layers of clothes for these northern nights. I need food, if I can find any. And I need weapons, because while I was in that jail cell something strange happened to the rest of the world. I thought what happened when the men came for the guns was a nightmare. I was wrong, this is much worse.
The great part about small towns is that everything is close by; the stores, the houses, and the county jail. So when I got out of that cell, when I broke through the crumbled cement with my worn out spoon and climbed my way through the space in between the walls, I made it to the basement. There was a way out in the basement of the county jail. I knew this because that’s what happens in tiny towns with no money and old buildings. The county jail has a basement with a sewer cap, and if you get to that sewer cap and open it, you can walk the sewers to anywhere in town.
I knew this because Jim had done it before, when he was a kid. His dad was the county Sheriff in Gouverneur, so Jim knew lots of tricks and facts. Like the fact that his Dad didn’t want him around me. I was nothing but trouble and trash. I knew what the people here thought of me, they thought the same thing when I was here growing up, when I left, and when I came back.
I would have never come back if it weren’t for Jim. If I hadn’t run into him at college downstate, things would be a lot different right now. But all it took was a few drinks, a few sweet words from a local boy on a lonely night, some willing sperm, and one of my stupid little eggs. And the deal was done. Jim dragged me back to this godforsaken town before I could get an abortion, brought me to meet his Dad and declared that we would be married. Just like a small town love story.
Barf.
I wanted Jim. That was all I wanted. I wanted Jim because he was the only one who had ever wanted me, and I wanted to run away from this place. I never wanted this town. There was too much here, too many memories of a past that I wanted to forget.
But Jim’s dad knew that stuff already. He told me so, right after he told me to get the hell away from his son and get the abortion like I wanted. He told me he knew all about my trashy family drama and he didn’t want none of that ruining his pristine bloodline.
By the time I got done reminiscing about my sad little life story, I had made it to the manhole in front of our house.
Now I know what you’re thinking-house?-they don’t have houses up there. They have trailers and dentures. Nope, I had a real house, bought with the money from my mother’s estate. Daddy held it until I was eighteen. Then it was enough for four years of college and a new start elsewhere. Instead I used it to buy this, a real brick and mortar colonial with the big front porch and oak tree in the back, picket fence and all.
I climbed out of that sewer and ran into the house. There wasn’t a door to close behind me. That was gone, kicked in and never replaced by those men.
I pause in the living room, smelling the stink of rotting food and empty house. There are cats in here now, probably feasting on the mice which were cleaning out the cupboards. I wait to hear noise in the house, the sound of another person or one of them, those things that used to be human. Now they are nothing more than walking rot.
I glance around the living room. All my furniture is still here, the pictures still on the wall, the coats still hanging by the door. I make my way towards the stairs, ascending slowly. I step over the dried blood on the carpet. There’s more blood upstairs, on the bed and in the bathroom. I know this because I was here. I have the scars to prove it.
I try not to remember what they did to me in my own home. How men could do something like that to a pregnant woman on American soil, I just don’t understand it. Our nation was changing-no-it had changed. Jim and I were prepared for this. He may have been full of pretty-boy hopes and dreams, but he was also a planner and a thinker, and Jim was making sure we were ready to get out of here when the shit hit the fan. Something bad was brewing in our country. You could taste it in the water, smell it in the air, see it on the faces of the locals around town. I just didn’t expect it to be this, the dead walking the streets, ready to eat your face off.
Stepping over another dried pool of blood, I remember my plan. Kingston. That’s where we were to meet. Kingston, Ontario. We had our passports, we had our stories, and Jim even had a small cabin in the woods up there that we bought with my leftover money. All I had to do was make it the eighty miles, then I’d be safe, then I’d find Jim, then I’d be home, then I could put this all behind me.
Reaching the top of the stairs I take a left, headed for the bedroom. Hearing the creaking of the floorboards behind me, I turn quickly, only to find one of the cats has followed me. I close the bedroom door and push a chair under the door handle. It won’t do much to keep them out, but at least it could give me a head start. I pull open my dresser drawers. Finding all of my clothes still here fills me with a tiny bit of glee. I strip off the orange uniform and throw it on the floor. No one will be searching for me, not now; everyone else is too busy trying to save their own ass.
I change, savoring the feel of my own underwear, a real bra, my worn jeans and old soft shirt. I use the bathroom and take a handful of ponytail holders, twisting my hair up with one and shoving the rest in my pocket.
Next, I crouch under the bed to find the black backpack Jim had stashed in case of an emergency. It’s all I have, since the guns are gone. How do I know they took all the guns? They read a long list of everything they confiscated at my bedside hearing. Brought the courtroom to my hospital room. I guess they felt bad wheeling me into court after all that had happened. And I’m sure the Governor didn’t want this in the news. It was all very hush-hush.
They may have taken the guns, but I was pretty damn happy to find that they thought nothing of a dusty backpack under the bed. I pull it out and unzip it. Yes! Everything is still there: a Swiss Army knife, one of those survival bracelets with a few feet worth of paracord, reflective blankets, empty water bottles with filters, dinner kits, and a few toiletry items. I stand and put a change of clothes and extra socks and underwear into the bag. The backpack has one diagonal strap that goes across the chest. Jim always said it was so it could be unclipped and left behind in an emergency. I adjust the strap and put the bag on.
Next I get my shoes; a pair of those boots that look like sneakers, already worn in from the few hikes Jim took me on in the mountains until I was too pregnant to walk more than a mile.
Standing by the door, I listen for any movement. Hearing none, I move the chair and open the bedroom door. The cat that followed me up the stairs meows at me. I pay no attention to it. Instead, I stare straight ahead at the closed door at the end of the hallway. There’s a nursery behind that door, painted all light yellows and greens. Something inside me wants to walk down that hallway, open that door and run my fingers over all the soft baby clothes and blankets.
Stop it! I had more than enough time to think about that loss as I laid in my hospital bed for all those weeks, and then in my cell.
It’s strange really, just when I got it in my head that I wanted that baby, that I really wanted it and got excited about it and started thinking about our future as a family, it was taken away from me. Funny how life works like that. Usually trash like me has five kids by the age of twenty-four. That’s what we get up here in the North Country; a rap sheet, five kids, a trailer in the country, and then our incisors
and ten-year molars rot out.
At least I tried to be different, and even though I knew they all called me trash, at least I was changing. I went to college, bought a real house, buried my rap sheet. Hell, I still have all of my teeth. Didn’t matter to Jim’s dad though. Didn’t matter to my dad either, not that I have spoken to him much since I packed my single suitcase and left that broken down trailer I grew up in.
I walk past the cat and make my way downstairs, headed for the kitchen. Cats scatter as I walk through the small dining room. I hold my breath. The stench of rotting food is enough to make me gag. Searching the cupboards, I find a few packages of crackers and some stale soda. I pack them in the bag and then circle the kitchen and dining room.
I need a plan. I know where I have to go and how to get there. God knows we discussed it about a million times. Kingston. I look out the back window at the garage. There’s nothing but heavy equipment in there, shovels and axes that would slow me down and make my arms tired. I look under the window and notice Jim’s baseball bat. This could work. I grip it in my hand and swing it around.
Satisfied with the meager weapon, I take a step, getting ready to leave, but hearing a deep moaning sound, I spin myself around and see one of those things schlepping-it across my backyard.
“What the fuck,” I mumble to myself.
The backyard is totally enclosed by white picket fencing. And I have no idea how that walking meat sack got back there. I take it as my cue to get the hell out of here.
“Bye bye, kitties,” I whisper to the cats that currently inhabit my house and run out the door.
Running down the street, I don’t stop until I’m three blocks away. I need to find weapons-a gun and bullets. But ever since the raids I’m sure it’s going to be hard to find anything.
Stupid government, I think to myself. They raided all the law abiding citizens, those of us with a few registered firearms and permits, but you know the places they never hit: the criminals.
That gives me an idea and I think I know where to start looking; the local drug dealer’s house. And I know the best one. Noah Cooper. My old flame and half the reason for all the trouble I got into. I run down the street, turning left on Main Street, then running for three more blocks until I reach Gleason. It’s just a bit further to Birchwood. I slow when I get to the elementary school. Small town drug dealers, they always live across the street from a school.
I pause at a tree, taking in my surroundings and wiping the sweat from my forehead. Noah’s house is right in front of me. A big brick Victorian he inherited from his grandmother. It has a huge basement, with no windows, and that’s exactly where he grew his weed.
Now the windows of Noah’s house are boarded up, but the front door looks the same, a metal knocker and red paint. I make my way to the front steps, hoping to hell that his cache of guns is still in that root cellar off of the main basement. Not that he needed guns here. He had no competition being this far north, but Noah had some gangster idea in his head that he needed those guns to protect his weed.
When I reach the front door, I hold my hand up, ready to knock. But before I can make a move the door whips open and someone grabs my wrist, hard, dragging me into the house. I drop the baseball bat as I’m twisted and shoved face-first up against a wall, an arm pressed to my back and a gun to my chin.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” a voice whispers harshly into my ear. “You don’t just wander up to the front door and knock like you’re selling fucking Girl Scout cookies.”
It’s this moment that I realize, yup, Noah’s got guns. I can feel one being pressed to my jaw as this douche spits in my ear. Someone clicks on a dim light. My eyes focus on the face in front of me; it’s some Asian kid I’ve never seen in this town before.
“Would you like to answer me, you dumb bit-”
“Whoa. Whoa. Whoa!” I hear a familiar voice. “If you ain’t a sight for sore eyes.”
I focus behind the Asian kid and find Noah standing across the room, arms crossed, blonde hair a bit too long and looking like the lady-killer that he thinks he is. “Let her go, Rick.” Noah must be speaking to the Asian kid because he pulls away from me and holsters his weapon in his belt.
“Rick?” I raise my eyebrows at the Asian kid. I’ve never heard an Asian be called such a redneck American name before.
“Shut up, dumbass.” He flicks a finger across his nose. “You could have gotten us killed pulling that crap.”
Noah walks towards us. “Keep it down. We don’t want them finding us here. Plus, my lady Meg here just got out of jail. I’m bettin’ she doesn’t even know what’s going on now.”
“Better give her a lesson then.” Rick peers out of a narrow crack between the window boards.
I feel Noah wrap an arm around my shoulders, and my entire body stiffens. “Sorry.” He releases his arm from around me. “Almost forgot that about you.”
Most people don’t expect it; it’s kind of unnatural, not wanting to be touched. I can’t remember when it started, all I know is it that it’s worse now than it ever was.
“Come on, Meg.” He leads me away from the door, down the hall, to the kitchen and through the door that I know leads to the basement.
I stop dead in my tracks. The last time I was led to a set of stairs, it turned out very badly for me. Noah must sense this because he stops and gives me a concerned look. I’m sure he heard what happened to me. News like that makes it across town before you’re out of the operating room.
“I’m not going to hurt you, Meg. We just need to go somewhere safe.”
I turn to look at him. This is my first interaction with real live people in weeks-no, months. “Noah?” I ask. His name sounds strange exiting my lips at this moment.
His brown eyes soften as he smiles. They’re like chocolate, light milk chocolate. God what I wouldn’t give for a piece of chocolate right now.
“It’s okay.” Noah steps in front of me. “I’ll go first.”
He walks down the stairs, flicking the stairwell light on along the way. I hear people talking when he reaches the bottom.
“What happened?” someone asks.
Noah turns and holds his hand out, waiting for me to descend. I grip the backpack strap and placing one foot in front of the other I step down into the basement.
There are people here and the shelves Noah once used to dry and package marijuana are now stocked with canned food and supplies. I look around at the six faces that are down here with him, four other guys and two girls. I notice one face is missing, Noah’s older brother, Jack.
“Where’s Jack?” I ask him.
“Not here. Come on.” In all the years I’ve known Noah, the tone of his voice tells me not to ask about Jack. Noah pulls on the sleeve of my shirt, leading me to a table in the corner of the basement. “We need to talk.”
I sit across from him at a rickety card table.
“Thought you were doing time?” Noah asks.
“Got my get out of jail free card today,” I reply.
“They just let you out?”
I shrug and unclip my backpack, letting it fall to the floor at my side.
“How did you get out, Meg? Last I knew you were in County, getting your three meals a day and free cable. Actually...” He taps his finger on his chin. “How did you get to go to County for killing seven men?”
“Must be Governor of the state grew a heart or something.” Noah’s eyebrows rise. “I’m guessing he didn’t want the Times publishing a story about how a poor trashy pregnant white girl got assaulted and almost killed by the goons he hired for his gun raids.”
“I thought you were supposed to go to the federal prison-”
“So were you, Noah. I’m not an idiot. I read the papers when I was in the hospital. You got caught with a lot of weed and locked up for possession, sent to state prison down in Auburn. They just let you out?”
He laughs. “Kicked us out, actually. Nobody wants a bunch of criminals hanging around with this stuff.”
“Must be nice.”
“They didn’t let you out.”
I shake my head.
“How did you get out?” he asks, tipping his head to the side.
“Shawshank Redemption style.”
He thinks for a minute. “A spoon?”
“Well, that got me through the wall. You know what a piece of shit County is. And you know those rumors about the sewer drains?” Noah nods his head. “They’re true.”
“You went through the sewer?” He snorts. “Thought you smelled kinda bad.”
“Screw you, pretty boy.” I look him up and down. He doesn’t have that fucked-up aura that the others who come out of prison do, the one that tells you they went through something terrible and are truly sorry for the sins that sent them there. “You never made it to the state pen, did you?”
He shakes his head no.
“How’d you get out?”
“They pulled the bus over on our way there.” He looks at his hands. “Unlocked the cuffs, kicked us off the bus, and sped away to save their own asses.”
I stare at him for a long moment, everything swirling in my head. “How is this happening?” I finally ask. “Do people get bitten or something?”
“This isn’t like them zombie movies everyone used to watch. Nobody get’s bitten, they just wake up that way.”
“What do you mean they wake up that way?”
“Just like I said, they go to bed all normal and fine, and wake up a walking bag of dead flesh. That’s why they kicked us out of the jails. The others, they lock themselves up at night. Guessing that’s what happened to you. Guards locked everyone up at bedtime, and the ones in charge woke up in that state. Strange, you were the only one to survive.”
“That’s so fucked up…”
“Sure is. But, it sure gets people saying their bedtime prayers.”
“Why would they say prayers?”
Noah leans forward, his knuckles shifting closer to my hand on the table as he speaks. “I know it’s been a while since you last visited a church, but that’s what people used to do at night; say their prayers, apologize for their sins, pray to God that they survive the night and don’t die in their sleep. You must be saying your prayers each night to have survived on your own this long.”
Sparrow Man Page 2