Portrait of a Bird
(Speculative Flash Fiction) "Then came the noise, a ringing in his ears so loud he thought they’d bleed, and the blinding white light."
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The automatic double doors parted for Leonard as he entered the hardware store. The breeze followed and carried the remaining smoke from his morning cigarette, still smoldering in the ash tray. There was pressure in his chest. Heat in his cheeks. It was cool outside but sweat clung to the lids of his eyes as they darted wildly around the warehouse, searching for the right aisle.
The store was full of hurried figures with large shopping carts, combing pillaged shelves for necessities. Leonard had only one item on his list: a drip emitter to repair a client’s garden irrigation system.
“They’ll pay me as soon as I finish the job,” he covered his earpiece as he coughed and cleared his throat. “Tell Birdie Daddy loves her,” he said, then ended the call.
Leonard found the irrigation aisle turned inside out. Connectors of all shapes and sizes spilled down the shelves and onto the floor, a waterfall of plastic and metal. He stood there, stunned. Then—
The whirr of the security drone.
A hum in his ear.
Loud static.
“HOLD YOUR POSITION. PREPARE FOR TEMPERATURE CHECK,” it blared. “YOU MAY PRESENT A DOCTOR’S NOTE AT THIS TIME. UNPERMITTED PUBLIC ILLNESS IS PUNISHABLE BY LAW. THIS MESSAGE WILL REPEAT.”
“Shit,” Leonard fumbled for his wallet.
“HOLD YOUR POSITION. PREPARE FOR TEMPERATURE CHECK…”
He pretended to look for a doctor's note he knew wasn’t there, rifled through receipts, maxed out credit cards, and bits of folded tape, then pulled a picture of Birdie out of his wallet. Her deep chocolate brown eyes met his.
Then he ran.
“HOLD YOUR POSITION,” the drone commanded.
A siren wailed.
“INITIATING SECURITY LOCKDOWN,” the drone zipped up toward the ceiling and stalked him from above.
“He’s right here!” a woman cried as Leonard spun and sidled past her overflowing cart before plunging into the river of irrigation parts.
Plastic and metal adaptors splashed down the aisle. Beneath PVC, wheels of quarter inch drip line, and splattered jars of blue goo was a tiny zip lock containing the emitter. He grabbed the bag, pushed past the nark, and sprinted toward the exit.
Leonard jammed his fingers into the seam of the double doors and pried until they at last parted. The breeze kissed his face.
Then came the noise, a ringing in his ears so loud he thought they’d bleed, and the blinding white light.
Leonard awoke in the hands of two human officers. They propped him up on the edge of a black van, wrists zip-tied, fingers curled tightly around the emitter. One man ripped the zip lock from his hands and inspected the bag.
“Weird thing to get arrested for,” the officer laughed as the portrait of Birdie separated from the mess of crumpled plastic, caught a gust of cool breeze, and took flight.