Sparrow Man

by M. R. Pritchard

  “I don’t pray. I don’t believe in God.”

  How could I believe in a God that would let my mother die in childbirth and let that man raise me? If he could even be considered a man. I haven’t even thought about him since I left for college. Actually, deep down I hoped he was one of the first ones to change.

  Noah raises an eyebrow at me. “Might want to start,” he suggests.

  “No,” I tell him. “You know me better than that, Noah.”

  He smiles, showing a row of perfectly white teeth, lady-killer teeth. “I do know you pretty well, inside and-”

  “Shut it,” I warn him.

  Noah looks away, at the group of people sitting on the other side of the basement. There are couches and cots. Two of the guys are playing cards, one’s sleeping and another stands against the wall.

  “Why did you come here, Meg?” he finally asks.

  “I need a gun and bullets. Just enough to make it to Kingston.”

  “What’s in Kingston?”

  “Jim.”

  He clicks his tongue and leans back in his chair. “Good ‘ole Jim boy, huh?”

  “What?” I ask, narrowing my eyes at him.

  “They got a Safe House up there in Kingston, good one I hear. They got hot water and everything. Pretty safe place if you can get through all their qualifiers.”

  “Qualifiers?”

  “Yeah, they test you, question you, quarantine you for a few days to make sure you’re not a walking sack ‘o death in disguise.”

  “Sounds awesome,” I tell him flatly.

  “Okay, I’ll help you. But to tell you the truth, Meg, I don’t care who Jim was to you. Any man who leaves his woman behind after all of that, he ought to be smacked in the head with a shovel.”

  I feel the toe of his boot rub against mine.

  “Stop it, Noah. You know you’re like a brother to me now.”

  He cringes, exaggeratedly. “I really hate it when you say that.”

  “It’s the truth.” I push my chair back a few inches, far enough away so that his wandering toes can’t reach my foot anymore. “When are you going to see that? You got me into way too much trouble a while back. I’m not going to relive all of that. Besides, it’s the end of the world, isn’t it? I’m sure all the townies are throwing themselves at your feet. I bet some of them even have teeth left.” The leggy brunette across the room scowls at me. “See,” I tell him. My eyes scan the room, stopping on the guy standing against the far wall. “Who’s that?” I ask Noah.

  “Oh, that there’s Sparrow Man. Don’t mind him. Harmless.”

  I try not to stare in the dim light, but it is hard not to. Sparrow Man is tall, almost the tallest person I have ever seen. And since my father is just over six feet, this probably puts Sparrow at almost six and a half feet. He has brown tousled hair and eyes as green as I would expect the fresh Ireland grass to be. He’s wearing a trench coat that should have hit at the shin on a normal person, but it hits at his thigh. The coat is buttoned so tightly, all the way to his neck, that only his shoes-a pair of black boots-and jeans are visible.

  “What’s his deal?” I ask.

  “A bit cracked in the head.” Noah taps the side of his skull and makes a face.

  I stare longer than I should at a stranger. Sparrow Man’s shoulders twitch, his eyes dart, his right hand shoves in his pocket. As he scans the room, his eyes suddenly flick to mine. Too shocked to look away, I hold his gaze as he pulls his hand out of his pocket and twirls a black feather in front of his face.

  “What’s up with the feather?” I ask Noah out of the corner of my mouth, unable to break my stare.

  “He’s got some obsession with feathers. Sings lots of Bon Jovi too.”

  “He’s not from around here,” I tell Noah. “He’s not a local. Where’d he come from?”

  “Just showed up one day. Stopped one of those meat sacks from chewing on my head down by the local pharmacy.”

  “Nice of him.”

  “Sure was.”

  “You trust him?” I ask.

  “He’s saved my ass ten times already. I trust him more than these other chuckleheads.” Noah waves a hand at the others in the room.

  I lift my backpack off the floor, holding it to my stomach.

  “Meg?” Noah tips his head at me. “You okay? You know, after everything?”

  “I’ll live,” I tell him, gripping my bag tighter to my chest.

  …

  Noah introduces me to the others. I don’t care what their names are but I do nod when he tells me. I’m only staying here for the night, and then I’m gone. I grip my bag as they wave when Noah introduces them. One of the guys tries to shake my hand. I just stare at his open palm.

  “Don’t take it wrong,” Noah tells him. “Meg doesn’t like to be touched.”

  Nope, Meg doesn’t like to be touched. Noah’s hand slaps down on my shoulder. I can handle Noah’s touch, only sometimes, because I know him. I know how he thinks. I know what his touch feels like. Under that pretty boy face, he’s harmless.

  After feeding me a small dinner of rice and canned pears, Noah gives up his bed for the night. And instead of finding another spot to sleep, he leans his back against the side of the bed and lets his head fall back.

  Across the room I hear a low voice start humming a tune.

  “Jesus Christ,” one of the guys on the couch mumbles.

  “Ah,” Noah chuckles. “Told you, Bon Jovi.”

  I listen as Sparrow hums quietly. It’s not long before I recognize the tune, Livin’ on a Prayer.

  “How appropriate,” I whisper to Noah.

  He laughs, louder this time. “Last night it was Dead or Alive.”

  I laugh for a second then stop short, unable to remember the last time I actually laughed. “Noah?”

  “What?”

  “Thanks for letting me stay the night.”

  “Least I could do for a local and the first girl I ever kissed.”

  I wrap my arms around myself and force my eyes to close. This will be the first time in a long time I get to sleep in a room without bars, without decaying arms reaching through the bars for me, and without the dead moaning at me.

  It’s not long at all before I manage to fall asleep.

  …

  Feeling the cot give, I jolt out of bed.

  “Noah?” I ask.

  The room is dark and after a second I remember that I’m in Noah’s basement.

  “Shhhh,” a voice whispers.

  I feel something cool and metallic press against my neck and a body molds itself to mine.

  “Noah?” I whisper.

  “Shut up,” I hear his voice in my ear.

  It’s Noah’s, but it’s different than it was earlier. He runs his hand across my ass. I let out a whimper.

  “You like that?” He squeezes one jean-clad cheek. “See, you still nothin’ but trash,” he whispers in my ear. “Just like they all said. Now that your mamma’s money is used up and you ain’t got that jackhole Jim around anymore.”

  I don’t understand how he smells this bad, like he’s rotting. He still has some of his sense, and strength. This is how it must work-they wake up rotting, turned already, and get progressively worse.

  “Noah?” I whisper. “Stop this!”

  His nails dig into my arms.

  “Help!” I call for the others.

  He jerks my shoulders a bit, silencing me. “When they wake up they’ll be the same as me. It’s their time.”

  I yank my shoulders hard enough for him to lose his grasp and reach for my bag. Just before I get there I feel a hard tug on my hair. I fall back. Noah, or what’s left of him, grasps my hair, twisting it around his arm like a rope and digging his fingers into the base of my ponytail.

  “Pretty hair,” he says. “Just like I remember.” He leans forward and sniffs it.

  Oh God!

  Just before trying to yank myself away from him again, I feel his grip slacken. Twisting around I find Sparrow sta
nding there, a machete in his hand and Noah, holding up a stump of an arm.

  “Holy shit,” I breathe out.

  “Get your bag,” Sparrow says, his green eyes flick to me in the dim light. “Hurry now, Meg, before the others wake up without their souls and then we’ll be in a load of trouble.”

  I scramble, running for my bag. Picking it up, I turn and pull a few jars and packs of food off of the shelf.

  “Meg!” I hear Sparrow's voice.

  “Guns,” I tell him. “I have to get the guns.”

  “Don’t need guns.”

  I hear a strange sound-I imagine it’s what a butcher sounds like when they’re hacking away at a cow. Noah’s corpse groans. I run for the root cellar. Pushing open the creaky door, I find his cache. I take two handguns and boxes of bullets, loading down my bag.

  “Meg!” Sparrow shouts.

  I run for the stairs. Passing Sparrow, I notice Noah’s body crumpled on the floor, his head missing. “What the fu-”

  “Go!” Sparrow shoves my shoulder and we run up the stairs.

  When we reach the kitchen, he slams the door closed and locks it. I stand against the kitchen table, trying to catch my breath. Sparrow walks towards me, his face set, reaching towards me. I lean back.

  “Get away from me!” I twist from him.

  I feel him in my hair, just like Noah’s corpse, his hand pulling. He stops as I reach the kitchen sink.

  “What the hell is wrong with you people?” I shout, turning to face Sparrow.

  When my eyes focus on him I notice he’s just standing there, his lips pressed together and Noah’s severed hand in his grasp.

  “Would you rather walk around all day with this in your hair?” he asks.

  “Holy shit,” I exhale. “That is disgusting!”

  Sparrow drops the hand on the floor. He tips his head, looking around the kitchen. “Let’s go,” he says, stepping towards the back door.

  “Wait, where are we going?”

  “North,” he shoves a hand in his pocket and pulls out a feather. “I need more feathers.”

  Oh yeah, he’s crazy. Just like Noah warned. But at least he was lucid enough for five minutes to save my life.

  “Why north?” I ask.

  He turns to me and blinks. “You need to go to Kingston and I need the feathers of a snowy owl.” He says it so plainly, so flat, like we’re speaking about pizza toppings.

  Sparrow is cracked in his head.

  I look out the window. “But it’s night.”

  “Best time to travel.” He walks towards the door and reaches for the handle. “While they’re sleeping, before they wake up a rotting bag of meat.” He twists the door handle and pulls the door open. “You coming?”

  “Shit,” I mumble to myself. “Yeah, I’m coming.”

  I step around Noah’s hand on the floor and walk out the door, following Sparrow.

  …

  I adjust the backpack across my shoulders. Now filled with the boxes of bullets and a few jars of food, it’s heavy and weighing me down. I skip a few steps to catch up with Sparrow.

  “What route are we taking?” I ask. “Eleven?”

  “No.” He shakes his head.

  “But you said you were taking me to Kingston.”

  “And I said I needed the feathers of a snowy owl.”

  “Okay…” I look around us. There is just the sliver of a moon lighting the street for us.

  “We head north. Take Oxbow to Route 37, to Route 12, then we’ll be at Wellesley Island crossing.”

  “Sounds like you have the route all mapped out.”

  “There’s an old barn on 37 with a snowy owl.”

  “I see.” I look around, noticing the cars parked on the street. “Do people still drive cars, Sparrow?”

  “Hmm?” he walks fast, obviously excited to get this snowy owl.

  “Hey!”

  “Shh!”

  I grab his sleeve and Sparrow stops dead in his tracks. He looks at my hand on his arm, his eyes turn a little darker. I pull my hand back.

  “Sorry, I was just asking if people still drive cars.”

  He shrugs his shoulders. “Of course they do.”

  “So then why don’t we get one?”

  “Noise. Cars make noise, noise brings the dead.”

  “Oh.” I adjust the backpack again.

  “You brought too much,” Sparrow points at my shoulder. “And…” His hand reaches forward as he focuses on something below my chin. “You’re bleeding.” He flicks my neck.

  I take two steps away from him.

  “Don’t touch me,” I warn.

  He holds his finger out with a smear of blood on it. Noah must have cut me when he held the knife to my neck.

  “You touched me first.” He wipes the blood on his coat and starts walking. “How about you don’t touch me.”

  I follow him, not even the least bit interested in starting a conversation about who touched whom first.

  After months in that county jail cell without exercise, my legs are already burning by the time we cross the Main Street bridge. We head out of town, taking Johnstown Street, which I know eventually turns into Oxbow once we get to the state parks.

  I notice Sparrow slowing his speed to wait for me. “You’re slow,” he says as we pass the old veterinary clinic.

  “You’re, like, so fucking observant.”

  He stops and turns, facing me. “That’s not very ladylike.”

  I try to catch my breath as I speak. “I never… I never said I was a lady.”

  Sparrow smirks, his eyes focus on my shoulder where the heavy backpack presses down, and then his eyes glide down my entire body.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” I ask.

  “What?”

  “I’m not blind. You were just checking me out.”

  “Like you did to me in the basement when Noah was telling you how crazy I am?” He reaches into his pocket, pulls out a feather, and holds it in front of his face.

  Maybe it’s the lack of real human interaction from the last few months, but my filter is gone. “What’s up with the feathers?”

  “I need them.”

  “What do you need them for?”

  “I just do.”

  “Why do they call you Sparrow?”

  “Because it’s my name.” He turns sharply and starts walking again. Slower this time, so I don’t have to try so hard to keep up with him.

  When the sun starts to rise, Sparrow stops and looks around.

  “What?” I ask him.

  “We need to find shelter. Last night was a bad one. Lots of them will be waking up dead.”

  “Great,” I grumble, recognizing that we are barely on the outskirts of town. Walking like this, it’s going to take me forever to get to Kingston, if I don’t wake up dead beforehand.

  Sparrow turns sharp, down an old gravel road I recognize as the Halstead’s farm.

  “Are we going to stay here?” I ask.

  “Yup.”

  “Good, I hear they have a really nice house.” I imagine myself sprawled on their king-size bed.

  “Have a nice barn too.” Sparrow pulls me from my thoughts.

  “What?”

  “B-a-r-n,” he enunciates each letter. “We can’t stay in the house, houses hold meat sacks.”

  “And barns don’t?”

  “Barns have lofts, with ladders. Meat sacks can’t climb.”

  I follow Sparrow to the large barn. We can hear the cows whining before we get to the doors.

  “Get up in the loft,” he tells me. “I’ll let the heifers loose.”

  “Why would you let them loose?”

  Sparrow takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. “And they say I’m the crazy one,” he mumbles.

  “Hey!” I yell at him. “I just spooned my way out of county lockup, so excuse me if I have no fucking idea what the hell is going on here.”

  Sparrow smiles-he freaking smiles at me-and dear Lord in heaven it’s the most beau
tiful smile I’ve ever seen. His teeth are straight and white, his green eyes crinkle in the corners, and a deep dimple appears on each of his cheeks underneath the beard stubble.

  I think I stop breathing when he does it.

  “Sorry,” he says. “I forgot about all of that.”

  Shocked, I take three steps away from him. “Why are you smiling?”

  “Because you were angry.” He turns his head to the side. “And now you’re not.”

  He turns away from me and heads for the barn. Pulling the door open with ease, he whistles at the cows and they stampede out. When the last cow trickles out of the barn, Sparrow turns to me. “Halstead’s will be waking up a little…”

  “Dead?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So you just saved their cows from a slow starvation in the barn?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That’s awfully nice of you.”

  Strangely, he scowls at me. “You shouldn’t patronize.”

  “Sparrow, I’m from the North Country and patronize is a big word.” I laugh at my own pathetic joke.

  Sparrow stops and turns towards me, his eyebrows drawn together. “You should know it. Let’s go.” He jogs down the center of the barn and I follow him, until we reach a tall ladder that stretches through a square cut into the ceiling. Sparrow grasps the ladder and steps to the side.

  “Ladies first.” He swipes his hand at me.

  “I’m not a lady,” I snap. As I begin climbing the ladder, I think I hear him laughing lightly behind me.

  When I make it through the ceiling cutaway, I move to the side so Sparrow can get through. And then I watch as he grasps the ladder with two hands, and twisting and jerking it, he lets it fall to the floor below.

  “You said they can’t climb.”

  “Better safe than sorry.”

  I move towards a window and sit, watching as Sparrow inspects the loft space. He stops, looking up into one of the rafters, and reaching up with one long arm he picks something up.

  “Ah,” he says. “Barn Swallow, I don’t have any of your feathers yet.” He holds a small bird in his hand, spreads its wing and pulls hard on its feathers.