Sparrow Man

by M. R. Pritchard

  Sparrow Man

  M. R. Pritchard

  SPARROW MAN is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2014 M. R. Pritchard

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means whatsoever without express written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. Please refer all pertinent questions to the publisher. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by an information storage and retrieval system–except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a magazine or newspaper–without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Paperback ISBN-13: 978-1494814229

  Paperback ISBN-10: 1494814226

  ASIN: B00MLUIIV0

  First Edition August 2014

  Pritchard Publishing

  Edited by Kristy Ellsworth

  Cover illustration by Nastasya Morozova

  Printed and bound in the U.S.A

  DEDICATION

  This is for all of my fellow townies who have ever had a dream and followed it.

  And for Michelle, who rekindled my love for 80’s music ;)

  Table of Contents

  Faults and Feathers

  Days Ago…

  Qualifiers and Quarantine

  Memories and the Dead

  Perspectives and Pain

  Shit just got real… Fucked Up

  Chains and Chains

  Woodsmoke and Pine and True Blood

  AUTHOR Note

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  “A feather in the hand is better than a bird in the air.” –Fortune Cookie

  Faults and feathers

  “Tell us what happened,” the man from the center of the desk-of-questioning says to me.

  “It’s in the report,” I reply. “I wrote it down already.”

  My eyes flick from left to right. There are three of them sitting across the room from me; wearing dark robes, their aged faces placid and expectant, waiting to hear my story.

  “We need to hear it from you,” the man to the left says.

  “Do you remember what happened?” the one on the right asks.

  Like it was yesterday. You don’t forget that shit.

  “You said I could go,” I remind them, pushing my sweaty palms across the legs of the maroon scrubs they gave me to wear, my Newcomer uniform. It seems I always wind up wearing these things, formless scrubs or jumpsuits.

  “We’ve put out a notice,” the one in the middle says, weaving his fingers together. “We can’t let you free into the general population until someone comes to collect you.”

  I look away from the three men towards the corner, the wall, the floor, anything but them. I’m tired of looking at them. And yet, they are my last hope to find the one thing I want. Jim.

  “When did it start?” the one on the left asks.

  I let out a breath of air that I didn’t realize I was holding. “When they came looking for guns.”

  “Who?” the one in the middle asks.

  “Whoever the Governor hired.” I look back at them. “All I know is it wasn’t the local law enforcement.”

  “You knew them?” the one on the right asks, his thick white eyebrows migrating to the top of his forehead. Furry icebergs, that’s what they look like.

  “Yeah.” I cross my arms over my stomach and sit up straighter. Everyone knew the local law enforcement, that’s what you get in hickville.

  “Go on,” the one in the middle offers, waving an aged hand with his index finger extended. “Tell us the rest,” he beckons.

  “I was alone. Waiting for my fiancé to get home-”

  “His name is Jim?” the one on the left asks. “Correct?”

  I narrow my gaze on him. “Yeah, Jim Sullivan. If you know this already then why are you asking me?”

  The one in the middle clears his throat and I swear I hear him kick the one on the left under the table. “Go on,” he urges.

  “I was waiting for my fiancé, Jim, to get home from work and the doorbell rang.”

  “Did you answer it?” the one on the right asks.

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I could see them through the window.” I shake my head a tiny bit. “They weren’t good men.”

  “You could tell this just by looking at them?” the one on the left asks.

  “Yes.” They keep asking questions from each end of the table, back and forth. The one in the middle is starting to look as annoyed as I feel.

  “So you didn’t let them in because they looked bad?” the one on the right asks.

  “Because I was alone and pregnant.” I look at the corner again. “There were seven of them. One of me.”

  “So you were outnumbered?”

  I glare at the one on the right. “Men like that; you can see it written all over their faces. They were all hyped up from confiscating guns all day. Their trucks were blocking the street. None of the neighbors were outside.” I shrug, tired of wondering why no one else came to help me. “Too afraid I guess. I told them to come back when Jim got home. I told them that I didn’t know where the guns were.”

  “But you had to know,” the one in the middle says.

  “It doesn’t matter. They weren’t good men to begin with,” I repeat. “I tried to stall them. Offered them sodas on the porch, but they wanted to search the house.”

  “But you knew where the guns were,” the one on the left says.

  “Of course I did!”

  “Please, Meg, don’t yell.” The one in the center raises his palms towards me, placating-like. “These walls aren’t soundproof. We don’t want to disrupt the others.”

  There is a moment of awkward silence as the three men wait for me to continue.

  “They broke down the door. I guess it was best that Jim wasn’t there after what happened, after what they did to me. It’s best he didn’t see that.” I shake my head, pick at my nails. The one in the middle squirms in his seat. Yeah, they read my report.

  “Why didn’t Jim stay when he found you?” The one on the right asks.

  “I told him to go. When he found me and what I did... I told him that I would find him later when it all blew over. We had a place set up to meet in case of an emergency. Jim was always prepared for an emergency.”

  “So he left you?”

  “He had to. After what I did I knew there’d be trouble. The guns were illegal. Hell, it wasn’t just the guns. Those were twenty-five round magazines. State law says you can only load a max of five rounds per magazine. And there were more of them. Those were felonies, each magazine, and there were a lot.”

  “So he left you there with all those injuries?” The man in the center asks with a frown.

  “I told him to,” I reply. “Argued that the state would show leniency to me after what those men did. They would have locked Jim up forever if he had taken the blame.”

  “How much time did you get?”

  I roll my eyes. “Here, let me tally up the charges for you. For seven men breaking into my house and raping me, tossing me down the stairs, killing my unborn child and threatening to kill my fiancé, I got seven months in the county jail, which includes the hysterectomy and three blood transfusions.”

  The man’s face pales to a stark white.

  “You think I got what I deserved?” I ask.

  “Well…” The one on the left clears his
throat. “You did kill them all.”

  I glare at him. “Wouldn’t you?”

  “What happened next?” the one on the left asks.

  “Went to the Hospital. Then county lockup.”

  “But you didn’t serve all of your time. You escaped?” the one on the left asks. “How?”

  “Have you ever seen Shawshank Redemption?”

  “That’s how you got out? With a spoon?” the one in the middle asks.

  I guess Canada does have a slight affiliation with great American movies. I nod yes to him.

  “What did you eat? You were there for months.”

  “Rats from the walls.” I control a shudder, remembering that. I could handle the walking dead, I could handle the shuffling and the moaning. It was the biting into the flesh of a warm rodent that made my skin crawl.

  The men look at each other.

  “We find it hard to believe you made it out alone,” the one in the center says.

  I shrug. “Call it an act of God then. There was no one left but me. The rest had all turned.”

  “So you believe in God?” the one on the left asks. His eyes rise in an almost hopeful expression.

  This is what they’re looking for here, believers. Well, they won’t find one in me. “No,” I tell them firmly.

  “But you just said-”

  “It’s a phrase.” I lean forward, pressing my elbows into my thighs. “That’s all.”

  “So when you got out, where did you go?” the one in the middle asks.

  “Where I knew I’d find guns to protect myself,” I reply. “The local drug dealers.”

  “So you used to do drugs?” the one on the right asks. His expression turns into one of concern.

  “No, Chuckles,” I say out of extreme annoyance. “I went to high school with them. We all grew up together. Tiny town. Remember?”

  They shuffle papers and murmur to each other.

  The man from the center of the desk-of-questioning looks at me. “You still haven’t cleared up our questions. Why did those men target you and Jim?”

  “I don’t know.” I shrug my shoulders.

  “Look, Meg, we want to let you in. We think you would make an excellent addition to the community. You could help us here. But if you want to see your fiancé, answer the questions.”

  “I have.” The reply comes out as a sigh. I’m tired of this.

  “Why did you come all the way here?” he continues. “Why didn’t you just give up and find one of the Safe Houses near where you were?”

  “Jim had a plan. We were to meet in Kingston. I just want my home, with him. I wanted to get home again. That’s why I’m here now. I just want Jim back.”

  “But you can’t truly go home. You came here,” the one on the left points out.

  “I’ll be home when I find Jim. Home is where he is.” And as the words leave my lips, for a split second I wonder where Sparrow is and what he’s doing.

  “Isn’t that what the army men used to say?”

  “I don’t know,” I reply.

  “Can’t you see,” the one on the right starts, “you’re just like them? We need someone like that here, especially a woman. That would be great for recruitment.”

  “No, I’m not army.” I shake my head and straighten in my uncomfortable chair.

  “I think so,” the man on the right argues.

  “I don’t care what you think.” Agitated and tense, I’m ready to launch from this stupid chair. “I’m not military. Just a country girl from a small town.”

  “You sure? You talk like them, like those men. You have that look in your eyes,” the one on the left says.

  “What look is that?” I ask.

  “Like you’ve almost lost all hope.”

  Never have six words ever hit me so hard. Not even all the crap daddy used to say to me. I sit up a little straighter. “Like I said. I’m not military.” I glare at them, all three of them. “I never went away to war. I never saw the travesties of third world countries. I only witnessed what happened here.” I point at the floor.

  “Shouldn’t…” the man in the middle rubs the stubble on his chin, “shouldn’t you be more… emotional?”

  “You want me to cry or something?” I shout. “Fuck off!”

  “Ms. Clark!” he stands, his robes swaying. “The others will hear you.”

  “I don’t care.” I stand, tipping over the lone chair that they gave me to sit in and head for the door. “I’m done with this.”

  “We did not dismiss you.”

  I bang on the door with my fist. “You don’t need to. My free will tells me that we’re done here. I can dismiss myself.”

  “You’re in a Safe House now, Meg,” he continues. “Your free will is something you’re going to have to get used to giving up.”

  “Bullshit,” I mutter as the door opens.

  “This will impact our final decision,” he warns.

  “I hope it does,” I reply, just out of earshot.

  …

  “Third day is always the hardest,” my Parole Officer, Deacon, says as he escorts me to my cell.

  Parole officers used to be the ones to watch over criminals, keep track of them and where they are. Now they’re used to help assimilate Newcomers to the Safe Houses. They are our guides; they help in the research and the admission process. If there is a family member or friend who might be in the community or another one nearby, the Parole Officer is responsible for finding them and helping them claim us. People like me who aren’t a walking corpse… yet.

  “Lots of emotion rolling around for the last overnight in the cell,” Deacon continues.

  “The last night in the cell?” I ask, my steps echoing on the metal platform we walk across.

  “Yeah.”

  “Doesn’t everyone spend the night in a cell here? The only difference is if they are with someone that they love, family or friends.”

  He doesn’t answer, just moves one thick hand to his collar and adjusts the white band there before stopping and opening the door.

  “Did you find Jim?” I ask as I step into my cell.

  “You know I can’t tell you that,” Deacon says as he reaches for the door and slides it closed, locking me inside. “If we find him, he’ll claim you. Until then you should use this time to reflect on what you’ve done with your life.” Deacon tips his head and gives me a stern nod before walking down the elevated platform, hopefully to find Jim.

  Needing to cool down from the questioning, I head for the shower. That’s the one nice thing about these Safe Houses; they may be jails and prisons used to lock the survivors inside, but there’s fresh water, food and safety and something that my last jail cell never had: a shower.

  Stripping off the maroon scrubs they gave me to wear, I turn the water on hot. I scrub my skin and wash my hair. Stepping out of the shower, I take the small towel off of the sink and dry myself. I reach for my clothes, the ones I wore here and cleaned in the sink, a pair of worn jeans and a light blue top with a wide neck. They don’t like this shirt here. It shows my tattoos. Deacon already told me to stop wearing it three times. He said the people here don’t like women with tattoos.

  Turning to the mirror, I comb my hair with my fingers, thankful it’s short; just above my shoulders and easy to take care of. It’s straight and black and a few days without a shower don’t show so easy. After almost a week with my hair like this, I don’t even miss my old hair. Long hair got me nothing but trouble. Men like long hair and it’s easy to grab onto. Sparrow Man helped me cut it. I don’t think I’ll ever have long hair again.

  The summer tan that once darkened my skin is already starting to fade, leaving behind a spattering of freckles over my nose and under my eyes. I’ll be back to pale as a ghost in no time being indoors like this, and all it took was a few days. I adjust my shirt across my shoulders. I like this shirt. Makes my eyes look a brighter blue, and yes, the tattoo shows, the image of a black quill across my right collarbone. Maybe that’s why Sparrow Man
helped me so much-he has a thing for feathers.

  I should tell them that there are more tattoos under the shirt, a spattering of tiny stars across my left shoulder, a heart on my right hip, and an anchor on my ribcage. They would probably kick me out if they knew all that.

  “Dinner!” a voice shouts from outside the cell door.

  I leave the bathroom.

  “Nothing funny,” the chick with my plate of food warns as she twists a key, opening my cell. She tosses the tray on my bed, tipping over the glass of milk and wetting the bedspread with it. She smirks as she locks the cell door before leaving.

  “You’re an ass,” I tell her.

  “And you’re not supposed to be wearing that shirt.” She smirks again. “Makes you look like the sinner you are.”

  “I hope you wake up with a third eye.” I mime an unkind gesture in her direction.

  “Third eye’d be nothing compared to what your third day’s gonna be like.” She laughs and walks away.

  That delivery chick is a bitch. If I have to stay here much longer, I might kill her. All she had to do was set the tray down. She didn’t even have to step in the cell. I pick up the tray, placing in on the table that’s next to the door, and pull the bedspread off of the bed. If the milk soaks through this place will reek all night. I don’t know what it is about unpasteurized milk, but it smells terrible after a few hours of being soaked into the linens.

  I was hoping Deacon would say something to her, if we all complained enough, but no one else on containment wants to risk being thrown out. I guess I shouldn’t risk it either, since this is my last hope of finding Jim.

  I eat the stew. At least, I think it’s a stew. I can see what looks like tiny chunks of potato and carrot, but the meat… yeah, the meat. I try not to think about it.

  When I’m done eating, I pull on my clean pair of socks and my shoes, tying them in double knots. Reaching for my bag, I pack my other things inside of it; the scrubs they gave me and a package of crackers that came with the stew. I set the bag next to my bed. Just in case. You always have to be ready to run these days.