Chris Pourteau - Tails of the Apocalypse

Surly swooped away, wary of the snapping jaws as the Infected began to feed. She heard Joe tumble from the table behind her and turned in a tight loop. For the slightest second, she could see him lying on the floor near the open back door. The sun highlighted his bruised, swollen face. A pool of blood spread under his cheek as it dripped steadily from his mouth.

Then someone’s hand shot out of the tangle of teeth and claws and skin. It grabbed her, hard. She was spun around now, feathers bending between Gray’s clumsy fingers. The fury on his face scared her more than his iron grip did.

“Fucking chicken…” he hissed, wrapping his other hand around her and squeezing harder. Surly Shirley shrieked. A parrot scream, her true voice, crying out in pain as she felt her left wing bones snap.

One of the Infected bit down on Gray’s leg and with a roar he let Surly go. She hurtled through the air, slamming hard to the floor and sliding into the back room. She lay there for a few long moments, the chaotic fight behind her fading beneath the pain electrifying her body. Short reports of gunfire followed by shouts brought her back to reality. She realized Gray’s men were shooting their Infected, trying to save themselves.

The melee died down as Gray regained control and the men left to restrain and herd the remaining Infected and fix their own wounds. Surly struggled to stand up, wobbling and dragging her broken wing. The whistle in her chest was louder now. She tottered up to Joe’s face. His eyes were closed.

“Pretty Joe,” she chirped, hopping sideways in front of him. “Pretty Joe, Surly Shirley. Nuh-night. Nuh-night Paws and Claws. Come again.”

Joe didn’t move.

“Pretty Joe. Nuh-night.” She tried to beat her wings, tried to make a light breeze over his face. Pain arced through her again as her left wing only thudded weakly. So Surly bit his finger gently and pulled at it. He opened one eye a crack. It was too swollen to open further. Joe reached out and stroked her feathers for a moment. “Ahh-ee—” he started and then groaned as he realized he could no longer speak. He coughed on more blood oozing from his severed tongue.

“Pretty Joe, Surly Shirley, nuh-night,” she said. He picked up his head an inch or two and saw that she was hurt. He reached out with one hand and gently scooped her toward him. She squawked but let him pull her into his chest. He tucked her gently into his shirt, careful not to touch her limp wing. He got up on all fours and began crawling. Walt appeared behind him.

Surly saw him over Joe’s shoulder. “Bad bird!” she screeched. “Bad bird!” Joe turned over to see who was there.

“Shut up, you damn chicken,” muttered Walt. Joe put a big hand around her protectively and Walt shook his head, then bent over Joe. “Why’d you do that? So stupid, Joe. Why couldn’t you just keep your head down and follow orders for another two days? Why bring the soldier into it? What does the herd matter anyway? They’re just Infected. Nobody wants them. You think anyone’s going to want them even if they’re cured? Nobody wants a monster in their neighborhood. You were always thick, though. C’mon, I’ll help you get to the wagon.”

Joe shook his head.

“I have to, you’ll die if I leave you here. Just be quiet and we’ll be back home by tomorrow night. Gray’s crazy. I’m not being paid enough to get eaten by some zombie. I’m going home. I’ll drop you at that doctor lady’s place. Just don’t let Gray hear you.”

He pulled Joe up onto his feet, and they stumbled out the back door to an old pickup truck, Joe’s hand cushioning Surly as they walked. The cab had been sawn off and there was a scrawny horse yoked to it. Walt dropped the tailgate and dumped Joe onto it. “Just stay quiet. I’ll be back after the trade in a few hours.”

Joe lay down in the truck bed. Surly Shirley stayed still, letting the deep strobe of his heartbeat soothe her. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and shook it out, then stuffed it into his mouth with a sob. Something had crinkled when he retrieved the handkerchief, and Joe managed a weak smile. Reaching back into his pocket, he pulled out a small package of oyster crackers and opened them. Joe placed a tiny cracker next to Surly’s beak before he realized she was already sleeping, her body in shock. So he put the crackers away. The pain in Joe’s own body kept him awake for a long time through the rocky ride in the wagon. After several hours, the wagon finally stopped sometime in the night.

“Get out, Joe,” said Walt over his shoulder. When Joe didn’t comply, Walt turned to find that he’d finally fallen unconscious, the parrot a trembling gray bundle of warmth on his chest. Walt sighed and got down. He lifted Joe off the wagon and put him onto the grass in front of a huge glass dome, then got back on the wagon, twitching the reins so the horse cantered on.

Joe awoke with a groan as a light rain began to fall, chilling him. A woman with a light came out of the glass building. She pointed it at Joe, carefully circling him. When she was sure he wasn’t going to attack her, she leaned over him and patted his face.

“Are you Infected?” she asked as he opened his eyes.

He shook his head.

“What’s your name? Where did you come from? Who did this to you?” she asked in quick succession.

“Oo oo,” was all he said and put a hand to his mouth.

“It’s okay,” said the woman. “We’ll help you, there’s a doctor inside.” She lifted him up slowly and helped him walk into the building. He kept a hand cupped around Surly’s still form. She hadn’t woken up.

“Ruth!” called the woman. “Ruth, I need help!”

She helped Joe sit down on a warm cement bench. He looked around him. The greenhouse was shaggy, unkempt. Half the plants were brown and shriveled. But something was blooming. He could see startling bursts of color amid the dull, dead vines and leaves. The woman brought another with her. Ruth, he presumed. She was carrying a small basket of lemons, which she set beside him. He thought Surly would like them. Would like this place.

“What happened to you?” she asked.

His eyes filled and he shook his head. He never wanted to talk about it. Never again wanted to be the man who’d run with the likes of Gray and the others.

She patted his hand gently. “It’s okay, you’re safe now.” She glanced over him. “I’m just not sure where to start. What hurts the worst?”

Joe cupped both hands around Surly. He held her out for Ruth to see. Ruth glanced at the other woman and then back at Joe. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “I’m not a vet. I don’t know what to do for a bird.”

Joe nodded and then burst into tears.

“Let’s get you back to the clinic so I can help you,” said Ruth, carefully taking Surly from him. She set the bird gently down by the basket. “Juliana, will you help me?” The other woman helped her lift Joe from the bench and they walked him carefully outside.

Surly woke to the sweet, thick scent of lemons warming in a bright pool of summer sun.

I’m not certain if there are pet shops in shopping malls these days. I haven’t seen one in years, but they used to be in both of the large malls in Maine when I was growing up. In both cases they were tucked away in a corner furthest from any natural light. When I was a kid, they were like some fantasy land of cheerful people and adorable furry things I was never allowed to take home. (My family adopted strictly shelter animals, and still does.) But my dad is a high school biology teacher, so we went to the mall pet shop fairly often for meal worms and mice to feed the snakes in his classroom.