Black Feathers: Dark Avian Tales: An Anthology(88)

Additional notations are coming up on her photo. Before Death caught up with her, nothing was going the way she wanted despite her being so sure that all she needed was more time and she’d get everything right. That’s the story of every cheater’s stolen life. It never occurs to any of them, maybe things don’t go right because they’re cheating. She probably thought all she was doing was helping people live longer and even if she charged for it, that was a good deed and not a serious violation of the natural order.

Well, she didn’t know better, but ignorance of the law is no excuse—any law, any place, any time. But I linger for a few seconds and think good thoughts over her while the soul is still in the body.

Back in the hallway, I’m just closing the door behind me when I hear a noise and I freeze. I shouldn’t be hearing anything. The place is under wraps, complete insulation—nothing in, nothing out, other than me, not even sound waves. The movers don’t come for the bodies till after I leave.

I don’t know how long I stay there, listening to nothing. I mean, I really don’t; time is all messed up in a place under wraps. It still passes, but it runs very slowly and not at the same rate from one moment to the next. Maybe, I think (hope), it was just some noise I made that got caught in one of those temporal inconsistencies.

Then I hear it again. It’s a whispery whirring, the kind of sound that should actually be too soft to hear. I force myself to head down the hall toward an open door at the end. Maybe I’m imagining it, I think, but I know I’m not. I never imagine anything.

When I reach the doorway, I freeze again, unable to move. Whatever’s still alive in there, I’m no match for. What if I can’t even see it? I’m remembering that myth about the native people in North America unable to see Christopher Columbus’s ships because they’d never encountered anything liked them before. It’s bullshit—if it’s visible and you have sight, you’ll see it. I’m just scared to look.

I actually have to grab either side of the doorjamb and pull myself into the room. A weird little scratchy voice says, “What kept you?” and I jump right out of my skin.

Fortunately, safeguards pull me back in before my skin knows I’m gone. My eyes go every which way before they focus on a brightly coloured something moving around on top of the chest of drawers in the far corner.

A parrot. A freakin’ parrot. It’s a little smaller than a football, mostly blue and yellow with a small patch of green on top of its head; around its eyes are circles of white with thin black stripes. I gape at it while it picks a seed out of a silver bowl and cracks it with its big black beak. Jeez, who lets a parrot walk around on their furniture scratching it up with its claws?

Finally, I find my voice: “But even the freakin’ plants are dead.”

“I know, right? So excessive.” The parrot helps itself to another seed. “Death is such an asshole.”

No way I’m taking that bait. “What are you doing here? How are you here at all? Answer that first.”

“Isn’t it obvious?” says the parrot. “I’m a bird.”

I wait for more but that’s it. “And?” I prod.

The parrot turns its head to look at me sideways. “Don’t you know anything about birds?”

“Not much about parrots. Except you guys talk a lot.”

“Only when ‘a lot’ is appropriate, actually. Tsk, they really don’t teach the service underclass anything these days, do they?” The parrot stretches upward, flapping its wings. “Never mind. Give Death a message from us.”

“Who’s ‘us’?”

“Not your concern. Just tell that asshole mortality isn’t what it used to be.”

“Shouldn’t I be hearing this from a raven?” I say. “Like, the ‘never more’ thing?”

“One more time, with feeling: Mortality! Isn’t! What it used to be! Got that?” Before I can tell it I don’t ever come into contact with Death personally on the job or otherwise, the parrot turns and flies straight at the nearest window. It’s closed, but the bird passes through the glass like it isn’t there.

I run over to the window, open it, and lean out as far as I can. All I see are a few wood pigeons gliding in big, idle arcs above the street as if they’re too bored to flap their wings.

As I pull my head back inside, I get a very bad feeling. I mean, really bad, the worst thing I’ve ever felt. Maybe this time, I really am imagining it, I think. Then I realise I said it out loud. “Or maybe I’m sick,” I add, turning to look at the bureau.

The silver bowl is gone, seeds and all. Son of a bitch; now I have to go back to the living room to find out what I wish I didn’t already know.

The bodies have begun to go bad, like they’ve never been anything but dead, soul-less meat. Staring Guy isn’t staring any more; his eyes are clouded over and grey. The cheaters managed to cheat Death one more time. But . . . with a parrot?

Everybody has to be photographed again, and let me tell you, it’s far more unpleasant with the souls gone, especially her in the bathroom. I send the photos to my supervisor and then hide out in the kitchen to wait for the movers because I’m not sure it’s safe to leave. The concealment was formulated to include souls still present; now the only soul here is my own. If I leave, the encryption may not hold. I don’t want to stay—the bodies are decomposing at an accelerated rate, which happens with cheaters—but it’s the only thing I can think of that can’t possibly make things worse.