A Dove
My name used to be Noah, but that’s not really important. They now call me Arkbird, or just Bird. Well, they did, anyway. I guess the reason has something to do with the old Biblical story. You know it, right? Well, in the Bible, Noah sends out this bird, a dove or something, to find land. We assume that it does in fact find land, but it never comes back so we never really know. None of that is really important either.
What is important is this: survival. It’s been two years since the quarantine. Two. Years. I only know this because the calendar in the auto repair a couple blocks away knows this. Time is funny here, not because it moves in any different way but because it’s hard to quantify. What happens when you lose a day? Is it really lost or can you find it again? Today is Thursday because I call it Thursday. Seasons are easy enough, and I can tell that I’ve roughly aged. It snows in the winter and it thaws in spring.
A few others and I lived in an abandoned railway station, all the exits boarded up. I sometimes just sat and looked down the tracks to where the tracks disappeared into the cement and imagined the army bursting through, ready to kill zombies and drag us out of this forsaken place. Have I mentioned the zombies? Commonplace enough for me to forget about. There are zombies. Lots of them.
Sometime last year, I heard a bit of news from a stranger coming from the malls to the east, something about the techies who were stuck here managing to find a way to bring the dead back. Problem was they came back… changed. You could see it in their eyes, he said. They just weren’t right. This place will do a number on you, he told us. Just don’t die and you’ll be okay.
He brought a broken radio transmitter with him, picked it up from one of the ruined fire departments along the way, and left it here. I was fascinated with it, though, and spent the better part of the summer trying to fix it. That’s where my name came from. I went through every frequency I could, testing for any sign of life outside the perimeter. Nothing. All I got was some freged up chatter from somewhere near the middle. I was like a dove. Testing the waters for the rest of humanity. Trying to find the piece of land where we can all get off. I set it up in the terminal where all the departure boards were blank. I found it ironic and somehow fitting.
There were only two left there with me, Genie and Butler. That’s how you remember things. It’s all twisted and perverted and completely right. Short and sweet and incorrect, but right at the same time. I don’t remember what their full names were, I did once, but things just sort of blur. It’s not important, I guess, or at least not important enough. Healing the bite wound gushing blood all over your only set of clothes is important. Tossing the garbage that bit you out in to the street is even more important. Sometimes you run and sometimes you just get tired of it and start shooting. I’ve found more working guns than clean sets of clothes.
Genie was the type of girl that you avoided in high school. She’d just as soon kick you in the balls as kiss you. Her hair was the natural red that you only see in commercials about the Irish. That girl was freged up, but she’d always tell me that no matter how freged up she seemed, everything was calm on the inside. It was weird because she enjoyed cooking. She cooked things to a crisp just to make sure that nothing hazardous was still alive in it. She thought that one little drop of zombie flesh would turn you. I didn’t dare mention the copious amounts of blood she must have swallowed while she was screaming incoherently at them, her shotgun dispensing diplomacy. Not I. That’s what she called it, dispensing diplomacy. Excuse me, ambassador? If you have a moment, I have this treaty I need you to look at. Oh, what’s that? Why, yes, it is in fact buried deep in your skull and you are bleeding everywhere.
Butler was just… Butler. He watched the doors at night and tried to stay as clean as he possibly could. Remember the kid in school that used to wear suits just because he wanted to look nice? I don’t really know how to better describe him. I remember how he used to clip his nails every morning, carefully discarding the remnants out the second story window. He used the broken top half of a toothbrush to get the grime and decay from under them.
I can’t begin to explain my reasoning, but I can at least explain the events. I was slowly scrolling through the usual suspects when I heard it. Just a clip. A small piece of something with barely any signal, but I definitely heard it. Two hours, a small helo landing not far from the railway station. Military, obviously, and with the intent to find a subject from within the quarantine zone to take with them. Just the one. Something inside clicked. It made sense, at the time, and that’s all that’s important. At this point, nothing else matters. (Arkbird soon leaving Malton. Repeat, last chance to board.) Two more hours, and that’s it. The crowbar in my hands made resounding cracking sounds as I began making my way outside. I remember the smell of pine as I pried the nails from the wall and when the mixture of rot and twilight merged with it. I don’t remember Butler dying.
That’s a lie. I remember every vivid detail. I remember his grip on my shoulder, turning me around. The convenient crowbar in my hands to bash in his mouth to answer the accusing questions coming out. Constant and consistent, pounding even as he fell over. That sickly sweet smell of blood and urine when his head cracked open. I remember when I dropped the bar and ran out into the night. I know for a fact that Genie must be dead too. Not long into my sprint, I heard screaming. She’d been asleep, apparently. Then came four or five attempts at diplomacy, then silence. She’d lost the argument. But for the sake of my sanity, I don’t remember them dying.
Only enough room for one. Just enough room for a bird. I told myself this over and over. Just enough room for a bird.
I made it. There were signs of a forced entry on the cinema and some of the dust had been disturbed, but it had been long enough to where it had resettled. It reminded me of walking on the moon. Neil left nothing but imprints and a flag. I must have caught some machine outside the walls blasting information in that had long since been outdated. None of that is really important anymore.
What is important is this: I close my eyes and imagine the sound of the helo landing above me. Even as the pistol slides into my mouth, I can smell the dust flying around me as the doors are thrown open. They’ve come to rescue me. As I rest my finger on the trigger, in my mind I see myself slowly walking toward the door, disappearing into the blinding light. The door stays open, but only long enough to show my silhouette disappearing entirely. It slowly comes to a close behind me, and I squeeze. (Arkbird now leaving Malton, last chance to board. Repeat, last chance to board.)