Written as my first writing for critique for my monthly short story group. Theme: “Barren”
“Sing a song of sixpence… A pocket full of rye… Four and twenty blackbirds baked in a pie…”
“All right Ed…” The bartender smacked his large thick hand on the back of the loud wailing man.
“When the pie was opened the birds began to sing…” he continued belting his song more than singing it. His face was wet with sweat, and his beard equally so, but with beer.
“Enough, Ed,” the bartender repeated, hooking his arm under Ed’s and hoisting him up out of his seat.
“Was that not a tasty dish to set before a king?” Ed continued as he was half carried, half dragged towards the door of the bar.
“The king was in his counting house counting out his money… The Queen was in the parlor eating bread and honey…”
It’s hard to imagine anyone being unsavory enough to get kicked out of a place like this—
“The maid was in the garden hanging out the clothes..”
—but I guess if you’re annoying enough.
“When down came a blackbird” just before they reached the door Ed’s song changed. He didn’t slur this last verse. It came out low and gruff and each word was separate instead of slurred together. He stood up straight, shaking the bartender off his arm. He almost seemed sober.
“And snapped off her nose! Aha ha ha,” He laughed and the bartender gripped him by the arm again and threw him out onto the street. His deep raspy laughs eventually grew quiet as he walked on into the night.
I jolt awake to the hotel radio blaring some folky-rock song with whining vocals and a thumping baseline. I quickly smack the alarm off but the thumping remains in my head, pounding now to a steady rhythm.
“I shouldn’t have drank last night” I groan, rubbing my hands up my face and through my hair.
I knew I had to get up early today, too. I don’t have time for a proper shower, just enough time to rub on an additional layer of deodorant, lace my boots, and pack the last of my clutter in a bag.
“Checking out early?” the hotel clerk asks, looking up at me over the tops of her glasses.
“Yeah, getting an early start to my day.” I’m half-awake and startled, expecting to just drop my hotel key off on the desk without seeing anyone.
“Well,” she continues, looking me up and down, “you’re not dressed for boating. So what has you rising before the sun?”
“I could ask you the same thing”
“Well, to be here for your check-out, of course,” she smiles.
We both laugh, neither of us answer the other’s question, and I leave. Climbing into my truck, I drive away from the coast into the darkness.
I flip on the car radio and hear a familiar song. Maybe not the exact song that left my head pounding but the desperate vocals and punchy rhythm felt similar.
“The only thing Beaufort exports more than fish is bands like these.”
Beside the road a light flashes on a yellow road sign:
‘URGENT
When flashing
Tune AM radio to
1680’
“Shit.” I switch the frequency and twist the dial but the station only blares a continuous siren over heaven static. Nothing else.
“No message?” The trees passing by out the window have been swaying and bending. Leaves ripping off and pelting the windshield.
“Of course a storm is rolling in,” I groan, hitting my head back against the headrest. “I waited this long for the lake to dry out only for it to rain.”
The road is empty, lined with nothing but blowing trees and the occasional road-sign.
‘Newasink 72’
The paved road eventually turns to gravel and I notice an old car parked. I similarly pull over against the wall of trees in front of a barbed-fence. I sling my camera bag over my shoulder, noticing the sun just now starting to peak over the horizon. The edges of the valley are fenced with steep mountains making me feel like I’m at the bottom of a giant bowl.
‘Newasink Reservoir ’ reads a rusted sign.
‘Former site of Newasink’
I photograph the sign before walking along the fence away from the road. I reach for a set of wire cutters but notice a hole in the fence already made. I glance back down the gravel road at the car before ducking through the fence.
What once was a town is now nothing but looming towers of crumbling rock. The ruins resemble a shipwreck covered in muck and seaweed. Moss blankets the roads, vines consume homes, and the only sign of recent human life is graffiti painted on slabs of rubble. I have to wade through thick weeds, and clamber over debris to take photos. The town is long dead but every surface is breeding with life. Insects hum on the ground where I step, and large black birds cry loudly from buildings above me. I look up at them perched on a cobblestone tower.
“I bet that’s a great view.”
I grip large tufts of soft moss and my boots slip and skid on stone as I climb towards the top of the spire. The sun has finally touched all corners of the valley. Looking at Newasink through my viewfinder, the once submerged town looks as if its sprouting from the ground. Like when a planted seed just starts to break through the soil’s crust. Like something brand new.
“What is that?” In the distance I notice a large swarm of birds and zoom in.
“They’re circling something,” I tilt down to the ground below the cluster of feathers.
“Shit!” I nearly lose my footing in shock, and hurry down the back-side of the structure to the ground.
I had seen a man at the center of town at the lowest point of the reservoir in all black. It’s my biggest fear, when I go to abandoned places, that it isn’t abandoned at all. I’m not scared of bears, I’m not scared of the dark, and I don’t believe in ghosts, but damn if I’m not scared of people.
“I wonder if he saw me,” my heart is pounding.
I still have shots I need to get and only a few hours left of light before the sun tucks behind the mountains.
“Maybe I can avoid him,” I try to quietly walk away in another direction, but the brush below and the sky above erupt in chirps from the bugs and birds that have adopted this place.
Newasink was abandoned after it flooded and turned into a freshwater reservoir for Beaufort. The levy that ran between here and Beaufort exploded and filled the valley. Newasink sat at the bottom like a fishbowl. Some believe the town-folk from Beaufort intentionally caused the levee to explode on Newasink’s side and flood their town. It’s not a crazy idea. Heavy rains would break levees and flood whole towns. The paranoia of wondering if your entire reality could just be washed away anytime a storm rolled in drove some to taking matters in their own hands. Even hundreds of years later the residents of Beaufort are still pretty defensive when you bring up the flooding and maybe that’s why they’ve leaned into more colorful stories. Legend around Beaufort is that the town was flooded to hide buried treasure.
The wind that blew briskly earlier now billows violently, whipping my cheeks, and stinging my eyes. The sound of everything around me except the whoosh of air is so muffled I almost miss it — screaming. I can hear someone yelling. In anger? In pain. I move towards the sound tentatively. Tip-toeing over broken slabs of concrete towards a teetering steeple. Faintly, low grumbles echo from inside the rotted church. Inside, the warped floor is broken with sharp wood splinters jutting out like stalagmites around a gaping hole.
“Unnnghh!” the groans continue.
The hairs on my neck and arms are prickling, my pulse is louder than the wind, and each step I take forward is trembling with uncertainty.
“Hello!?” the question hung in the air before it was swept away.
“H-Hello?” it asked back, sounding even more frightened than I felt.
Peering down into the dark cavity I see a man on the floor of the church basement, both hands gripping his leg. He’s looking up at me with eyes that are both pleading and scared. The floor beneath me creaks and I move away from the edge searching for another way down. Carefully I climb down decrepit, warped stairs. We stare at each other silently as I move closer. It’s quieter down here, the violent wind outside sounds distant and far away. He’s dressed in jeans, and boots like me, with a backpack too. Maybe he’s a photographer too?
“The floor collapsed on me,” he says, laughing at himself.
“You’re in good spirits considering,” I kneel down next to his leg, “You shouldn’t be taking photos inside these buildings, they aren’t safe.”
He looks confused for a moment, “No kidding” he says before wincing.
“What do you want me to do?” I pull my phone out but I already know before I look there’s no signal out here.
“Pull it out,” he says flatly.
“You couldn’t do that yourself?!” I ask, pleading. I can’t stand to look at the blood soaked splinter and instead look at him. His hair is brown and messy, his skin glossy with sweat, and his eyes dark and resolute, set on one thing. I look back down at his leg. The splinter isn’t huge and it doesn’t come out the other side. It could be worse. I grip his leg with one hand and delicately grasp the wooden shard with the other, slowly trying to pry it out.
“Quickly,” he winces, squeezing his eyes shut and hitting the floor with his fist “just one fast pu-“
I yank the splinter in one quick motion. Blood splutters up and we both rush our hands to plug the open wound.
“I’m David, if I haven’t mentioned,” his leg is wrapped in torn strips of my t-shirt, and his arm is slung around my shoulders and yet I don’t even know who he is. “Okay..” he continues. I realize I hadn’t said anything back. Maybe I’m the stranger.
“I’m Maddie”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you Maddie” his voice is deep but strained as we make our way out of the dilapidated church.
“I’m sure it is,” I laugh “You’re lucky”
“Some luck I have,” he snickers.
“So do you do this often?” I ask.
“Hurt myself?”
“No,” I smile. “Photograph abandoned buildings. I mean what were you doing in there?”
“Oh, uh ya.”
“Same, I’m doing a write up on the history of the area.” He looks down at me, curious. I look back up at him but our faces are too close and it feels too personal so I look back down at the ground before continuing, “it’s the first time in 300 years this reservoir has been dry enough to walk through due to the droughts.”
“Not for long,” he says, looking up at the sky. Above, thick dark clouds are rolling in, slowly blotting out the sun.
“We better hurry out of here,” but as soon as the words are out of my mouth he halts and takes his arm off of me, carefully steadying himself against a worn stone building. “What?” I ask.
“I’m not leaving,” he says. I look at him incredulously. His leg is bleeding, it’s almost dark, and it’s about to rain on a place that’s made for filling up with water. “I need to grab something.”
I sigh, defeated. I have to remind myself that I don’t know this person and this is not my problem. I start to walk off, determined to be back in my truck with the heater on before it’s completely dark but stop after a few steps. “What are you really doing out here?” I ask.
“What?”
“Why are you here?”
I can see on his face he’s searching for an answer but the truth doesn’t take that long. I don’t listen when he tries to explain, just walk away.
I make my way back to the barbed fence and turn to look back at the town once again. Taking a few final photos before I leave. Fat raindrops begin falling on my head and I look down at the gravel road and see that other car and I think of the valley submerging under the water again.
“Fuck.”
“David!,” I yell. I'm back where I last saw him but he’s not here and it’s getting too dark to see. Crows are circling overhead, screeching and flailing frantically in the heavy winds. Raindrops are pelting me in the face, but I can make out a figure ahead of me.
“David!?”
I stumble over rocks and branches to him, but once I get closer I hear David’s voice… behind me. “Maddie!?”
A tremble quakes through my body as I stare at the dark smokey figure in front of me. And then I run — backward, towards David, slinging his arm over my shoulders as I try to hurry us away.
“Who is that!?” I ask but David doesn’t answer and I don’t know if I’m asking the right question.
We run through the ruined town, splashing through a deepening layer of thick mud that makes each step heavier than the last. Glancing behind us I see the black figure slowly following behind us. Unfazed by the wind, rain, or mud.
“Why is it following us?” I ask but David again doesn’t answer and he doesn’t turn his face to meet my gaze.
I’m moving as quickly as I can but with David’s leg we are at a brisk walking pace at best, and supporting his weight isn’t made any easier by the heavy bag he’s lugging.
“Drop your bag, hurry!” I yell, stopping to help take it off him.
“What!? No!”
“You can’t run with that thing!” I respond while glancing back at the dark shadow following us and I worry it too will blot me out like the clouds did the sun.
I look back at the backpack David is now gripping protectively. It’s muddier, and bigger than it was when I first left him.
“What did you do?” I ask David but there isn’t time for an answer.
We reach the barbed-wire fence, and squeeze through. We make it to my truck and speed away, watching the looming figure eventually fade in the distance through my rear-view mirror. I let out a deep relieved sigh. Rain is coming down now like an endless bucket. The roads are sloshy and I can barely see past the front of the hood.
THUD!
I scream and swerve as a large bird hits the windshield.
THUD! THUD! THUD!
Birds are repeatedly flying at us and a crack starts to spread across the windshield. Around us a large swarm of birds slowly surrounds us in a shroud of black feathers.
“You steer.” I order, grabbing David’s hand and placing it on the steering wheel before letting go.
“Wait, what-“ He questions as I snatch his backpack and quickly toss it out onto the flooding road. “No!”
Everything ceased but the rain. It kept coming down harder than I’ve ever seen it, but the birds were gone, and the winds were calm. I turn on the radio and listen to a familiar song.