Mockingbird Read online

  Praise for CHUCK WENDIG

  "Trailer-park tension, horrified hilarity, and sheer terror mixed with deft characterization and razor plotting. I literally could not put it down."

  LILITH SAINTCROW, AUTHOR OF NIGHT SHIFT AND WORKING FOR THE DEVIL

  "Blackbirds is a horror story, a traveling story, a story of loss and what it takes to make things right. It's a story about fate and how sometimes, if we wrestle with it hard enough, maybe we can change it. Blackbirds is the kind of book that doesn't let go even after you've put it down and nobody else could have made it shine like Chuck Wendig."

  STEPHEN BLACKMOORE, AUTHOR OF CITY OF THE LOST AND DEAD THINGS

  "Mean, moody and mysterious, Blackbirds is a noir joyride peppered with black humour, wry observation, and visceral action. Fans of Chuck Wendig will not be disap-pointed."

  ADAM CHRISTOPHER, AUTHOR OF EMPIRE STATE

  "A gleefully dark, twisted road trip for everyone who thought Fight Club was too warm and fuzzy. If you enjoy this book, you're probably deeply wrong in the head. I loved it, and will be seeking professional help as soon as Chuck lets me out of his basement."

  JAMES MORAN, SEVERANCE, DOCTOR WHO AND TORCHWOOD SCREENWRITER

  Also by Chuck Wendig

  Blackbirds

  Double Dead

  Dinocalypse Now

  Irregular Creatures (short stories)

  Shotgun Gravy (novella)

  Non-Fiction

  250 Things You Should Know About Writing

  500 Ways to be a Better Writer

  500 More Ways to be a Better Writer

  Confessions of a Freelance Penmonkey

  Revenge of the Penmonkey

  CHUCK WENDIG

  Mockingbird

  Contents

  Part 1

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Interlude

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Interlude

  Part 2

  Chapter 10

  Interlude

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Part 3

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Interlude

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Interlude

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Part 4

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Interlude

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Part 5

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Interlude

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  PART ONE

  The Cage-Trained Girl

  She's only a bird in a gilded cage,

  A beautiful sight to see.

  You may think she's happy and free from care,

  She's not, though she seems to be.

  'Tis sad when you think of her wasted life

  For youth cannot mate with age;

  And her beauty was sold for an old man's gold,

  She's a bird in a gilded cage.

  Bird in a Gilded Cage,

  Arthur J. Lamb, Harry Von Tilzer

  ONE

  Ship Bottom

  Boop.

  Suntan lotion.

  Boop.

  Pecan sandies.

  Boop.

  Tampons, beach towel, postcards, and, mysteriously, a can of green beans.

  Miriam grabs each item with a black-gloved hand. Runs the item over the scanner. Sometimes she looks down and stares into the winking red laser. She's not supposed to do that. But she does it anyway, a meager act of rebellion in her brand new life. Maybe, she thinks, the ruby beam will burn away that part of her brain that makes her who she is. Turn her into a mulekicked window-licker, happy in oblivion, pressed up against the walls of her Plexiglas enclosure.

  "Miss?"

  The word drags her out of the mind's eye theater and back to checkout.

  "Jesus, what?" she asks.

  "Well, are you going to scan that?"

  Miriam looks down. Sees she's still holding the can of green beans. Del Monte. She idly considers braining the woman standing there in her beachy muumuu, the worn pattern of hibiscus flowers barely covering a sludgy bosom that's half lobster red and half woodgrub white. Two halves marked by the Rubicon of a terrible tan line.

  Instead, Miriam swipes the can across the scanner with a too-sweet smile.

  Boop.

  "Is something wrong with your hands?" the woman asks. She sounds concerned.

  Miriam waggles one finger – a jumping inchworm dance. The black leather creaks and squeaks.

  "Oh, these? I have to wear these. You know how women at restaurants have to wear hairnets? For public health safety? I gotta wear these gloves if I'm going to work here. Rules and regulations. Last thing I want to do is cause a hepatitis outbreak, am I right? I got Hep A, B, C, and the really bad one, X."

  Then, just to sell it, Miriam holds up her hand for a high-five.

  The woman does not seize the high-five opportunity.

  Rather, the blood drains from her face, her sunburned skin gone swiftly pale.

  Miriam wonders what would happen if she told the truth: Oh, it's no big deal, but when I touch people this little psychic movie plays in my head and I witness how and when they're going to die. So I've been wearing these gloves so I don't have to see that kind of crazy shit anymore.

  Or the deeper truth behind even that: I wear them because Louis wants me to wear them.

  Not that the gloves provide perfect protection against the visions. Nobody but Louis is touching her anywhere else, though. She keeps covered up. Even in the heat.

  Behind the woman is a line seven, eight-people deep. They all hear what Miriam says. She's not quiet. Two of the customers – a doughy gentleman in a parrot-laden shirt and a young girl with an ill-contained rack of softball-sized fake tits – shimmy out of the queue and leave their goods on the empty checkout two rows down.

  Still, the woman hangs tough. With a sour face, she pulls a credit card out of nowhere – Miriam imagines she withdraws it from her sand-encrusted vagina – and flips it onto the counter like it's a hot potato.

  Miriam's about to grab it and scan it when a hand falls on her shoulder.

  She already knows to whom the hand belongs.

  She wheels on Peggy, manager here at Ship Bottom Sundries in Long Beach Island, New Jersey. Peggy, whose nose must possess powerful gravity given the way it looks like the rest of her face is being dragged toward it. Peggy, whose
giant sunglasses call to mind the eyes of a praying mantis. Peggy with her gray hair dyed orange and left in a curly, clumsy tangle.

  Fucking Peggy.

  "You mind telling me what you're doing?" The way Peggy begins every conversation, it seems. All in that Joisey accent. Ya mind tellin' me what y'doin'? The lost Rs, the dropped Gs, wooter instead of water, caw-fee instead of coffee.

  "Helping this fine citizen check out of our fine establishment." Miriam thinks but does not say, Ship Bottom Sundries, where you can buy a pack of hotdogs, a pack of generic-brand tampons, or a handful of squirming hermit crabs for your screaming shit-bird children.

  "Sounds like you're giving her trouble."

  Miriam offers a strained smile. "Was I? Not my intention."

  Totally her intention.

  "You know, I hired you as a favor."

  "I do know that. Because you remind me frequently."

  "Well, it's true."

  "Yes. We just established that."

  Peggy's puckered eyes tighten to fleshy slits. "You got a smart mouth."

  "Some might argue my mouth is actually quite foolish."

  By now, the line is building up. The woman in the floral muumuu is holding the green beans to her chest, as though the can will protect her from the awkwardness that has been thrust upon her day. The other customers watch with wide eyes and uncomfortable scowls.

  "You think you're funny," Peggy says.

  Miriam doesn't hesitate. "I really do."

  "Well, I don't."

  "Agree to disagree?"

  Peggy's face twists up like a rag about to be wrung out. It takes a moment for Miriam to realize that this is Peggy's happy face.

  "You're fired," Peggy says. Mouth twisted up at the corners in some crass facsimile of a human smile.

  "Oh, fuck you," Miriam says. "You're not going to fire me." It occurs to her too late that saying fuck you is not the best way to retain one's job, but frankly, the horse is already out of the stable on that one.

  "Fuck me?" Peggy asks. "Fuck you. You bring me nothing but grief. Come in here day after day, moping about like someone pissed in your Wheaties–"

  "Do people even eat Wheaties anymore? I mean, seriously."

  "–and I don't need a grumpy little slut like you working in my store. Season's over after this weekend anyway, and you're done. Kaput. Pack up your crap and get out. I'll send you your last paycheck."

  This is real, Miriam thinks.

  She just got let go.

  Pink-slipped.

  Shit-canned.

  She should be happy.

  Her heart should be a cage of doves newly opened, the free birds flying high, fleeing far and away. This should be a real the hills are alive with the sound of music moment, all twirling skirts and wind in her hair. But all she feels is the battery acid burn of rage and bile and incredulity mingling at the back of her throat. A rising tide of snake venom.

  Louis always tells her to keep it together.

  She is tired of keeping it together.

  Miriam yanks her nametag off her chest – a nametag that says "Maryann" because they fucked it up and didn't want to reprint it – and chucks it over her shoulder. The muumuu lady dodges it.

  She goes with an old standby – her middle finger thrust up in Peggy's juiced lemon of a face – and then storms outside.

  She stops. Stands in the parking lot. Hands shaking.

  An ocean breeze kicks up. The air brings with it the smell of brine and fish and a lingering hint of coconut oil. Serpents of sand whisper across the cracked parking lot.

  A dozen gulls fight over bread scraps. Ducking and diving. Squawking and squalling. Drunk on breadcrust and victory.

  It's hot. The breeze does little for that.

  People everywhere. The fwip-fwip-fwip of flip-flop sandals. The miserable sob of somebody's child. The murmur and cackle of endless vacationers smelling a season drawing to a close. A thudding bass line booms from a car sliding down the slow traffic of Long Beach Boulevard, and she can't help but think how the beat sounds like douche-douche-douche-douche and how it echoes her hammer-fist heartbeat dully punching against the inside of her breastbone. And Walt the "cart boy," who's not really a boy but in fact a developmentally handicapped fifty-year-old man, gives her a wave and she waves back and thinks, He's the only one here who was ever nice to me. And probably the only one she was ever nice to, too.

  She thinks, Fuck it.

  She peels off one of her gloves.

  Then comes the other.

  Miriam pitches both over her shoulder – her hands are freakishly pale, paler than the rest of her body, the fingertips wrinkled as though she's been in a long bath.

  If Louis wanted her to keep it together, he'd be here. And he's not.

  Miriam goes back inside the store, cracking her knuckles.

  TWO

  The Liberation of Miriam Black

  Peggy has taken over from Miriam at the second checkout counter in from the end, and Miriam marches right up to her, taps her on the shoulder, and offers her a hand – ah, the fake handshake, that old trick to get people to touch her, to get one tiny moment of that skin-to-skin contact necessary to get the psychic death-visions a-flowing. She's itching to see how this woman bites it. Hungry for it. Desperate like a junkie.

  Miriam's hoping for some kind of ass cancer.

  "I just wanted to say thank you," Miriam lies through clenched teeth. Thank you with ass cancer. "Wanted to do this the honorable way and shake your hand."

  But Peggy, she's not buying it. She looks down at Miriam's hand as though it's not a hand but rather a big stinking tarantula.

  Take my hand, lady.

  I need this.

  I need to see.

  It's been so long. Her hands are practically tingling.

  Once she hated her curse.

  She still does. But that doesn't change the need.

  Shake my fucking hand.

  "Get lost," Peggy says, pulling away.

  The buzz, killed.

  Peggy turns her back. Continues checking people out. Boop, boop, boop.

  "Please," Miriam says. Urgent now. Tremble twitch. "C'mon. Let's leave this as professionals."

  Peggy ignores her. The customers stare.

  Boop. Boop. Boop.

  "Hey. Hello. I'm talking to you. Shake my damn hand."

  Peggy doesn't even bother turning around. "I said, get lost."

  Miriam's hands are practically aching. She feels like a dog watching a man eating a steak – the desire, the hunger, it lives in the hinge of her of jaw, a tightness before salivation. She wants nothing more than to pop this cork. "All right, you insufferable twat, I'm going to have to do this the hard way."

  Feet planted firmly on the point of no return, Miriam grabs Peggy, wheels her around, and smacks her with the–

  Peggy screams. She runs but staggers over a dead body lying face-down on the sand-swept tile of Ship Bottom Sundries. The dead body is Walt, the cart boy. Blood pools beneath Peggy's hands, blood that isn't her own, and out of her throat comes a cry that sounds like the bleating of an animal just before the knife drags across its neck. But Peggy's cry doesn't rise alone; the whole store is people screaming, ducking down aisles, running for the door. And then a thin man parts the crowd – he doesn't belong, what with the dark sunglasses and the black V-neck T-shirt and the khaki pants stained with food or motor oil or whoknows-what – and he raises a pistol, a boxy Glock, and the pistol barks and the bullet peels a piece of Peggy's orangehaired scalp off her skull, and then another bullet punches like a train through her lung and she draws one last guttering gasp.

  –back of her hand, and Peggy's head snaps back, but it's not her who's left reeling. Miriam can hear the blood rushing through her ears, and it makes her dizzy. The world swoons and she doesn't believe that this could possibly be real, that this could really be what she's seeing.

  Peggy has three minutes left to live.

  Three minutes.

  Here. Now. To
day.

  Oh, god.

  The doors open and Walt struggles to bring in an unruly herd of shopping carts, but he whistles a happy tune just the same.

  Peggy gapes. "I'm calling the police."

  Miriam hears her but the words are a distant echo, like they're being spoken by someone underwater. Instead her eyes rove to the back of the line just as a man steps into the queue. A man in dark Ray-Bans. And a V-neck T-shirt. And dirty khakis.

  The gunman.

  Two-and-a-half minutes.

  It's then that Miriam sees movement above. A crow in the rafters, shuffling from foot to foot. The crow has one eye. The other eye is a ruined, featherless crease.