Songbirds

Songbird

It’s 5 am and she’s already awake. She never really sleeps. Another Dunkin Donut morning, she says. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she considers climbing into the bathtub. Why did I pick a house that didn’t have a shower? She stands, stretches and, walks over to the window and remembers what it was about this house that made her have to have it…the view.

Through the government-issued gas mask, she strains to stare at the rows of trees standing in perfect formation; rows of trees with emerald leaves that dance to the rhythm of an abusive and abused wind. She would be content to spend each morning watching the trees dance if it wasn’t for that bird. She hated him. He was always criticizing her; calling her an empty waste of space. This morning’s familiar expression of his disgust was no different. “You, ugly bitch.” she thought she heard him tweet as he pecked at the window. She really hated him. But there isn’t time to worry about that disgusting little pecker today.

Today is market day.

Having no time to gaze at the wind-blown trees or the orange haze that saturates the sky; she begins her daily routine of making her way into the kitchen. In the dark, orange-tinted bedroom she counts her steps; careful not to trip over any of the mummified bodies on the floor. “…seven, eight, nine …she takes a leaping step over what felt like a person cradling some sort of tiny creature…a baby perhaps? The gas mask she wears is old and held together with tape making some things hard to see. “…three, four, five… she turns to the right and walks three more steps into the kitchen. No other bodies are in the kitchen or the rest of the house. The bodies in the bedroom and hallway will be safe to remove and incinerate very soon.

It’s been over thirty years since the first of the 3 deaths laid waste to parts of Ground 7 also known as Garden 7 or G7 for short. The first death came from an infestation of flea beetles that decimated three-fourths of all vegetation. Without the necessary crops, most livestock perished. Farmers, having very little to sell, created a system of trade. Nursing mothers or women still able to lactate would find a fair trade for their milk on the open market. Those who were considered upper crust paid triple in wool or latex to drink directly from the supplier.

With vegetation and livestock on the verge of extinction, world leaders formed elite groups of Flea bombers. Tactical men and women committed to the destruction of the beetles that were ravishing everything in its path. To combat the spreading of the beetles it became illegal to grow any plant or vegetables and if caught the penalty was an automatic 10-year prison sentence without trial. The Flea militia or as they were so appropriately known, F-Bombers carried with them a repellent so deadly that every beloved pet on G7 died within weeks of its first spray, newborns and toddlers became ill; completely dependent on respirators. World leaders decided to kill all forestry in hopes that the beetle, no longer having anything to eat, would die off and vegetation would once again grow. The beetles died off however for the next 30 years nothing grew.

This is why she couldn’t believe her good fortune when she came across this house with its beautiful emerald trees. This is the reason she puts up with the bird.

On the kitchen table is a 5-gallon jug of fresh stream water, a tin can of coffee and, a copper cup. Next to the stove is the pile of authorized burning material rationed by the F-Bombers. She retrieves the matches from the drawer and lights a fire for her cup of coffee; also engineered and rationed by those F’ers. The smell from the bodies in the hallway is faint enough to be able to remove the mask for a quick something to eat. This is also an indication of the amount of time a body has been dead. By the third week bodies no longer smell.

This was the second death.

No one knew that the vegetables grown through government engineering were being stored beside (sometimes on top of) the repellent. Death didn’t come quickly; it took years for the chemicals to build up in the body’s system. When the chemicals reached maximum capacity in the body, it would prevent a perfectly healthy heart from beating. Maximum capacity could be reached anywhere at any time and it was not surprising to see someone drop dead in midsentence while talking with a neighbor on the street. The chemicals inside a corpse were unstable; moving them could make them implode. The chemicals also prevented the bodies from decaying instead they would mummify. The only way to dispose of a body is incineration. There is a resting period of two to three weeks before the body could be moved safely to the disposal unit. Along with the putrefying mummification process, the dead would also release massive amounts of feces and urine. The smell became so unbearable that gas masks were issued. One and one only. As with any cause and effect, the burning of the repellent-infused bodies created the orange haze-filled sky. The sun, moon and, stars were no longer visible through the haze; just their light shining through; creating an eerie orange glow.

From years of experience, she was able to correlate the strength of the smell of the bodies to the length of time she would be able to go without wearing the mask. The smell of these bodies would give her at least five minutes to eat and drink. While sitting at the kitchen table sipping her coffee, she looks up at the necklace that hangs on the wall by her gear next to the door. Of all the shiny objects in the house, this was her favorite. A purple heart-shaped locket mounted on a silver chain; given to her by her mother. On one side of the heart is a musical note and on the other side a picture of an Eagle long extinct. Her mother said it represents courage and hope. In the coming years, she would need it. As she stares at the necklace out the corner of her eye, she glimpsed the silhouette of a bird flying past the window. The glow of the orange haze through the smudged window poses no threat to her unlike the bird circling the house.

The third death.

Songbirds appeared not long after the second death. They are unfortunate people who believe birds speak to them with extreme contempt. For them, the chirping stopped shortly after the birds began feeding on the corpses left in the street. Doctors called this third death “Avian psychosis;” a condition caused by eating the birds that were eating the corpses. The psychosis did not seem to have any real cause for alarm in the beginning. The only noticeable symptom exhibited was the constant turning around to see whose talking or asking the person next to them if they said something; nothing really out of the ordinary. Doctors also identified the first stage of this psychosis as the inability to hear bird songs. It is also hereditary.

Songbirds weren’t violent at first. Most considered them as a nuisance while others thought even less of them. The name Songbird was given to them due to the way they shuffled through the streets holding their hands up to their ears while screaming, LA LA LA LA LA LA LA; trying to drown out the insidious taunting of the birds. The recommended prescription for this illness would be to refrain from any interaction with birds and remain inside; venturing out only on market day.

The violence began late in the winter months; eight months after the first case was identified. The birds turned their attention on those not affected by the Avian psychosis. Songbirds were being instructed to kill non-Songbirds in order to gain the favor of the birds. F-bombers were dispersed to seek out the more violent Songbirds for containment but over time it became less complicated to just apprehend them all and kill those they deemed violent. Songbirds became adept at concealing their psychosis; only coming out of hiding to replenish supplies. When you no longer could hear the chirping, you knew you had developed the psychosis and it was only a matter of time before the berating would start. Most tried to hide in fear of being hauled away by F’ers to the Avian Containment and Learning Unit; the A.C.L.U. for short.

Today is Market Day.

The one day of the month she would venture outside. On this day the market would be filled with entertainment; music, magicians and, a puppet show for the children. It was also filled with those who had reached maximum capacity. F’ers were also there; scouring the crowds for signs of any psychopathic Songbirds.

With the fire out and the cup in the sink, she made her way to the gear hanging by the door. Inside the Gasmask she would wear dark sunglasses and earphones connected to a Walkman concealed in her flower-covered raincoat. The static of the Walkman helps to drown out the noise. As she began to open the door, she grabbed the cane that was leaning against the wall. Her mother was clever. She said that F’ers rarely looked at the blind. She opened the door and paused raising her hand to her lips behind the glass of the mask, she gestured a kiss to her fingers and touched the locket for luck.

As she stands in the frame of the door, she inhales and exhales. She does this a few times then closes the door behind her…