Silenced (9 page)

“What’s with you?”

He shakes out his feathers. My eyes narrow. I lean over and flick him in the back of the head.

“Not a good time for your douchery.”

I wait a few seconds.

Nothing.

Some best friend. Little bastard birdie was the only nice thing the gods ever gave me. Now he feels like any other familiar I’ve ever met.

I wave him off, and then stomp pass him and flop on the bed. He raises his head and I glance away. I won’t lie. The shit hurts. I feel the way about my parrot that most rich white people feel about their dogs.

Hurts like a ball pinch.

He goes back to tapping the desk, and I try to ignore it. Try to be hard. The tapping just grows more consistent, making it more difficult to block out. Then, I realize it’s a pattern. I roll my eyes.

“Oh, just talk.”

More tapping. Okay, if we’re going to clear the air, I have to play his little avian games. Perking my ears, I listen to the patterns. When the message becomes clear I shake my head, confused.

“Leave you?” My voice comes out in a near growl. “I didn’t leave you. I was man napped in the middle of the night. Then locked in a cage for months!” Fury boils in my gut. I toss him the finger. “Pull your head out of your ass.”

His head lowers. Light chirping meets my ears.

“Really?” I sigh and sit up. “How am I the bad guy?”

He rolls his neck and looks back up. We sit there a while in quiet. He starts to whistle. This time, the tune sounds familiar. When I recognize it, I bite down a smile.

“Oh, no.” I cross my arms. “I’m not that easy.”

“And I’d, never thought I’d feel this way…”

My mouth twitches. He sounds just like Dione Warwick, real talk. One of Oscar’s talents is imitating all voices.

And I mean all voices.

“Don’t,” I say, clearing my throat.

“And as far as I’m concerned, I’m glad I got chance to say that I do believe I love you…”

That gets a real smile out of me, wide and cheesy as all hell.

“And if, I should ever go away, well then close your eyes and try to feel the way we do today…”

I pat my shoulder and he swoops over and perches there. My fingers ruffle his feathers.

“Missed you bro.”

He squawks.

I sigh. “Rough day, Oz.”

Light chirps buzz my ear.

“Got a girl…a Spirit killed today. A water Spirit, too. They’re the only ones that don’t act like their shit doesn’t stink.”

Another familiar melody fills the room. Some blues number. I lean back against the headboard and listen. Try to let it go. Try to find something that at least looks like peace of mind. My eyelids start to feel heavy. I yawn and start to close them.

A loud boom on the door jerks me from drowsiness.

“Who is it?” Oscar calls, sounding just like me. I give him a look and swipe my hands down my face. The banger doesn’t answer, just knocks louder.

With a sigh, I crawl off the bed. “Coming!” I shuffle across the room and pull the door open. It’s Shoestring. Well, Tripp. But that’s what I’ve decided to call him.

“What’s up, man?” I let the door open all the way and step back.

He points his finger at Oscar. “See you two have been reunited.”

Oscar chirps. “And it feels so good…”

My eyes roll up into my head. “Us, and all of Motown’s greatest.”

Tripp laughs, then his face twists into an expression of concern. “I came to check on you.” His hands plant on his hips. “I heard what happened to Sonya.”

I raise a brow.

“In the Pit?”

Sonya was her name. My mind replays Juliet decapitating her over and over. I shake my head like my brain is an Etch-a-Sketch, and moving it up and down can blank the slate.

I gaze past him and stare for a few awkward moments. A clicking noise draws my attention back to Tripp. My eyes dart to the doorknob he’s fiddling with.

He stops and asks, “Is there anything I can do?”

I turn and stroll back across the room. “Nah, thanks, Shoestring.”

He saunters in and leans back against the wall. “You sure? Blowjob? All you have to do is ask.”

I snigger. “Does that actually work on dudes?”

“Only all the time.” He grins.

Sitting at the desk chair, I tilt my head to the side. “That’s amazing.”

Tripp laughs again, then his expression shifts back to concerned. “No, but seriously. You need anything at all?”

I shrug. “Unless you’re a beer or a time machine, I don’t think you can help.”

We both get quiet, so Oscar fills the silence with chirping. After too long of a pause, my mind starts trying to think up a polite way to tell Tripp to get the hell out. I just want to be alone with my shitty thoughts. His fingers snap.

“Not a beer or a time machine, but do have something that can help.” He pushes himself off the wall. “Come on.”

I shake my head. “Nah, man. Really, I’m good.”

He snorts. “I think you’ve been alone long enough.” His hands wave me toward the door. “Oscar can come too. Come on now.”

I sigh. Clearly, I’m not going to be getting rid of my new bestie. So, I drag my ass off the chair, turn to sweep the rest of Oscar’s sunflower seeds off the desk and into my front pocket, then turn toward Tripp.

“Fine, where we going?”

“Surprise,” he says before ducking out the door.

I follow, swinging the door shut behind me.

“Not really a surprise person,” I say as we head down the hall.

“You’ll like this one,” he says over the clomping of our feet on the stairs.

I roll my eyes and follow him down the front walkway and toward the front door. Once we’re outside I squint to adjust my eyes to the lighting change. The artificial sky draped across C6 is dimming, so it must be nearing dinnertime.

Dinnertime. I remember that being a thing.

\We trudge down the front stairs, and Tripp leads me around to the back of the house. I take in my surroundings and reminisce about orange chicken. When dinnertime was still a thing, I would frequent this Chinese joint smack dab in the middle of the ghetto. Their orange chicken was worth the risk of getting mugged. Even as a memory, my mouth waters.

Once we make it to the back of the house, my gaze sweeps across a long field of brown grass. Some two hundred feet away, a yard littered with armored vehicles sit behind a low, bolted gate. My gaze darts ahead, to the alcove Shoestring is headed for. Another set of stairs leads toward a small space on the basement level of our house. Looks almost like a baseball dugout.

My feet pound down the stairs. Tripp sits on a short, concrete bench at the bottom. I stand in front of him, glancing around.

“Hell is this?” I ask, resting my vision on Tripp.

He grins and reaches into his pocket. “This,” he says, holding up a small, plastic bag with a greenish-purple herb bundled inside. “Is a bag of happy. Not as good as a time machine, but better than a beer.”

Oscar nips at my ear. I grab some sunflower seeds from my pocket and hold up my palm. He swoops toward it and eats from my hand.

After I get him right, I focus on Tripp and his little bag. Leaning over, I spot what looks like glitter sprinkled all over the herb. I squint.

“Is this…”

“Orc weed,” Tripp says, pulling a smooth, green pipe from his other pocket. “Some of the last in the world, too.”

Straightening up, I whistle. I’m impressed. I’ve heard things about Orc drugs. Claims of it helping solve formerly elusive mysteries of the universe. Claims of it being used in cancer research facilities to give scientists cutting edge ideas. Never been able to get near the shit, because only Orcs grow it.

And if an Orc doesn’t want to sell you something, you don’t argue. You shut the hell up. When he starts to pack the bowl, I turn and place the rest of Oscar’s seeds on the bottom step. Then, I wave him off. Once he’s eating, I turn back to him.

His arms are extended, holding out the bowl in one, a lighter in the other. “My people call this the answer.”

I raise an eyebrow. “The answer to what?”

“Name it,” he says, waving the bowl and lighter at me. I hesitate, remember where I am, then reach for the bowl. Holding the pipe to my lips, I pause with my thumb on the lighter.

“Come on Pike, man up.” He grins.

I narrow my eyes at him. “It’s not that, just haven’t done this shit since college. And even them, I’d burn regular shit.”

He chuckles.

I suck in a deep breath, then light the pipe and press it to my lips. It doesn’t even burn on the way in. I inhale the smoke to the bottom of my lungs, then hold my breath.

All it takes is one hit and I...

Am something else. At first I think I’m high—higher than shit—but I’ve
been
high. I’ve never been this. This is some other shit.

Colors brighten, snapping everything into focus. Green leaves on towering trees wave to me. The wind that rustles them sings. Even the air, so stagnant before, goes in like it’s been filtered through a machine.

Yeah, this is some other shit.

Sure, the world is over, and I got someone killed, and I’m off the no killing wagon—whatever fuck I had left to give was gone as soon as I inhaled.

If I were gay, I’d throw Shoestring a good dicking. He’s a genius. And so am I.

I wonder if I can cure the berzerkers. Screw the C6 plan. I can think of a cure for the flesh eaters outside our gates.

No, I’m thinking small.

I can cure… All the things.

And I will. Right after this walk.

I stumble, and jerk my head right and left. When the hell did I start walking? Where am I even going? My gaze drops to my feet for proof of movement because I can’t feel anything.

They damn sure are moving. Right, then left, then right.

Nice.

“Something wrong?”

I lift my gaze toward Shoestring’s voice. He’s a few feet in front of me. I shake my head. Gray is sweeping on the left side of my vision. A feather light touch on my ear.

Oscar.

I love my frickin’ bird.

“Hit us up with some walking music,” I say, the words slurring from somewhere else. Looking around, I try to locate who said it and how they knew what I was just about to say.

Oscar starts to chirp the melody to some old school rap song. Can’t think of the name. Nothing matters but the beat though—

That’s what I should have done. Created a rap label. Should have passed up on my scholarship to University of Georgia.

I could have been Jay-Z, boats and fine women, instead of—

Something soft and mushy oozes in between my toes. I jerk to a stop and look down. My toes wiggle and a few of them pop. When did I take off my shoes?

Man, Orcs smoke some good shit.

That reminds me of an epiphany I had about Tripp earlier. I glance up to find him regarding me with amusement in his eyes. I point at him.

“You. Are an Orc. That’s why you’re mad strong.” I smile at how clever I am, then start walking again. Tripp chuckles. The sound echoes and swirls around me like a distant bell.

“Yeah, I told you that five minutes ago.”

“You don’t look like any I saw on TV.” I glance sidelong at him, eyebrow raised.

“I’m liminal. Not all monsters can shift, and looking human makes it easier for everyone.”

I reach my arm toward him, and two more float out beside them. Shit, I have three arms now?

Now that’s a keep kids off drugs commercial.

Ignoring my extra limbs, I clap his shoulder. “You may be a monster, but you’re all right with me.”

He reaches up and squeezes my hand. Tingles jump all over my skin.

“Thanks.”

I take another step. My foot slips and Tripp reaches out to steady me. I blink the kaleidoscope of a world into focus. The front of the house edges into my swimmy vision.

“I think I need to sit.”

His grip on my arm tightens, then I’m guided down to the bottom step. It feels like a cloud is under my ass.

“It’s almost dinner time.” Tripp’s voice, amused.

I roll my gaze up and nod at him.

Without looking at me, he says, “That was a good thing you did. For the prisoners in the Pit.”

Orc grass still has my give-a-shit out of order, but it’s not that absolute not give-a-fuck from—

However long ago.

Curiosity buzzes my brain. “Why was it good? Sonya is dead, and these Enforcer fucks aren’t going to treat them equally. Probably push them to break the rules. In the end, I accomplished jack shit.”

A smile stretches his boney face. “Not true. Every action accomplishes something. And it’s good to know that I’m fighting with a good man.”

Orcs are known for their Zen like calm. And I just smoked the reason that stereotype is true.

I snigger.

“I’m not good. Not a man. And this isn’t a fight.” I lean against the side railing. “And, if it is, it’s not one I want to fight. Not on the team that drafted my ass anyway.”

“Then why did you give in?” Tripp lowers himself next to me. “Just to save Sadie?”

I shrug.

“You must really love her.”

Darkness rattles in my head. The drugs must be wearing thin, because something like guilt twists my gut.

“I owe her.” I turn my head and study him. “What about you? Why are you here?”

He smiles. “I volunteered.”

My eyes widen. “You... Why?”

Looking out at the compound, Tripp shrugs. He doesn’t answer right away. My thoughts float upward, with cartwheels and jazz hands, for what feels like a few hours. Tripp clears his throat. I dart my eyes over at him. He’s still staring ahead.

As I follow his gaze, he says, “Out there, the panic was… That kind of shit happens in history and movies. Being in that kind of reality… without government telling everyone what to do. With that sickness spreading. Turning people into a new species….”

He cracks his knuckles.

“The compounds went up, and I and the rest of my tribe were sent to Compound Four. They guarded the walls, and I signed up for search and rescue squads. When they announced a confirmed cure, and that it was being sent to Compound Six for organization and execution, I signed right up.”

His face darkens and he casts his gaze down.

“After gathering so many of them up… The ones that just stopped doing anything but waste away. The ones that would just roam around for days, feet bleeding and covered with bruises. Even the berserkers, ripping through everything they could, including their own families… I had to help stop it. I have no desire to live in this world.”