A Flock of Ill Omens

A Flock of Ill Omens

A Shot in the Light: Part I

by Hart Johnson

For my writing family, The Burrow

1.
1. Sidney Knight:

Lincoln City, Oregon

Sea of Birds

Some people were freaked out by seagulls. Sidney had had a college boyfriend she mocked for it. Sure, they were noisy and moved as a mob, chasing anyone who seemed open to sharing a snack. But she didn't mind them. Except these. These were silent, spread across the beach in an unnatural formation, sprawled past a hotel and two cabins before they clogged a small delta that released a stream or storm drain into the Pacific Ocean. These didn't chase anyone. Or move or blink. They were dead. She didn't need to get any closer to know that.

She'd come to Lincoln City for the weekend because she was facing deadlines for three freelance articles she'd pitched and her recently engaged housemates, Sarah and David, had been celebrating loudly for the last week. She couldn't begrudge them their joy; she loved them both. But she needed quiet to get her work done.

Finishing the second article had sent her out of the gale-force-free comfort of her motel room to wander up the beach for some fresh air. She'd always loved the Oregon Coast. It was rock-lined and tragic and the November wind and rains exaggerated the stories in her head, making her yearn for a day she could just sit by a fireplace writing fiction and listening to the wild coastal sounds. Sadly, the freelance articles would be a necessary supplement for decades, but still, a wind-blown walk usually cleared her head. But not with those seagulls.

She turned and ran back to the motel, the wind working against her this time. The endless flight of wooden steps seemed even longer than normal as she made her way to the motel office. She had to ring the bell. In fact, she rang it three times before the harassed-
looking woman came out, drying her hands.

“Sorry about that,” the woman said, giving off an air that was more annoyed than sorry.

The wait had allowed Sid to catch her breath, or so she thought, until she tried to speak.

“Seagulls. Hundreds of them...”

“Well, this
is
the sea,” the woman said.

“Dead. All of them.”

“Oh.”

“I think it might be that avian flu they've been talking about—the new strain. We're supposed to call the authorities.”

The woman's irritation evaporated, replaced by alarm. She dialed the phone.
Yes. Dialed,
Sid thought. It was one of the quaint things about the coast. Not much got updated.

“Joyce? This is Milly up at the Sandpiper. We've got a dead bird problem.”

She listened for a while. Sid could hear the higher-pitched voice over the line. She couldn't make out many of the words, but she was unnerved at the long list of instructions Milly seemed to be getting. Finally, Milly said she'd try and hung up, looking a little desperate.

“I hate to ask it, but I need to put some barriers down there on the beach and Jim won't be back for hours. Could you help me drag the barrels down?”

“Um... the authorities aren't coming?”

“Joyce said we're about her tenth call like this, so not for a while. We need to make sure people don't go traipsing through them—the dead birds.”

“I don't think anybody would—it's awful!”

“You'd be amazed what people will do to avoid climbing up those stairs any more often than they have to.”

Sidney agreed. All but a couple of the high-end hotels had that steep climb; the shore was slowly eroding away and leaving the buildings up on what nearly amounted to cliffs. She nodded and followed Milly to a maintenance room around the side of the motel.

“They brought these drums two weeks ago, but I never thought we'd need them.”

There were a dozen large orange and white barrels, the kind usually seen at road construction sites. There were also signs to tell people the beach was closed. Starting with those seemed smartest, but she kept her mouth shut when Milly started to move one of the barrels. Sid helped her get it out of the little room. They weren't that heavy, but they were really awkward, as there was nowhere to grab on.

“Maybe we should roll them. Or... are there others who can help?” Sid said.

“Both, I think. I'll ask the neighbors, not motel guests.”

Sid shrugged and watched Milly run to the cabin next door. The door opened and she talked to someone, then she went on to the next house without anyone coming out. Finally, she returned with a man and a teenaged boy.

“The Simms will be along—we caught them in their pajamas,” she said, leading them back to the storeroom. She got everyone to work moving the barrels to the stairway.

“I'm worried if we roll these down the stairs, they'll take out the rail,” Milly said.

“Find a spot on the hill that looks like a clean shot,” the man said.

One side of the embankment dropped off after a smooth roll, but ended in some rocks at the bottom that might split the barrels, so they went on the other side. They'd only rolled the first when the couple joined them and the work got faster. Twice, the boy, who was called Ben, had to scoot out onto the hill and give a barrel a shove with his lanky leg when the barrel had gotten caught on a rock or bush before it really got rolling, but it wasn't long before they had
all but one at the bottom. That one was to block the stairwell at the top, paired with a sign, so people wouldn't go onto the beach at all. Not much of a beach vacation with no beach, but Sid supposed that was less traumatic than a dead-bird vacation or unnecessary exposure to this avian flu that must have finally arrived from China.

At the bottom, they each took a barrel, rolled it onto its side, and pushed. Going through the deep sand was difficult because their feet kept sinking, but as they got closer to the water, the sand got firmer. Sid could tell she'd have a sore back from pushing at that angle, but it was nothing to how sore she'd be if they tried to carry them.

“How far up the beach, miss?” Milly asked.

“I'm Sidney,” she said. “It was...” she used her hand as a visor, as the sun was nearly straight overhead, and looked up at the houses on the ridge above them, “that next little
motel.”

Milly's face showed her annoyance. “I should have called them to help us.”

“Sorry. I didn't know how this worked.”

“No, you're alright, honey. You had no way to know. I'm going to go call them now, though. If we have to go that far, we could use some more muscle.”

She headed up the stairs, breathing heavily. Milly was at least her mom's age and probably not used to an afternoon of the barrel derby. Sid wasn't either, actually, so she sat on the end of her barrel—the only part quite sturdy enough to hold her—figuring she might as well wait. The Simms woman did the same on her own barrel, though the boy and his dad kept rolling theirs. Mr. Simms eyed the working men and the resting women, and then pulled his barrel over and sat next to his wife, rubbing her knee. If Sid were a betting woman, she would wager this couple had been engaged in more than just hanging out in their pajamas when Milly knocked.

It was ten minutes before Milly appeared back on the stairs. At the same time two men began down a distant staircase. They were probably their help, so she stood. The Simms gave each other a kiss and copied her.

“Let's claim our own barrels and point the others back there so we don't get stuck through that deep sand again,” Mrs. Simms said quietly. They shared a laugh and began rolling. Milly stopped when they met the men to point them at the five remaining barrels and then they got moving again.

Sid's arms and lower back burned by the time they reached the staircase nearest the dead birds—the spot they would place the row of barrels to close off the beach. They lined them up about twenty feet apart, debating how close to the tideline they should go.

“Let Vector Control handle that,” Milly said, waving her hand toward the water line.

“Who?” Ben asked. Sid was glad. She'd heard the term, but didn't know who or what it was either.

“When I called Joyce, she said toxins were handled by Vector Control—branch of county health, I think. I don't know what it means, but they're helping. Lincoln County only has two of them, and they usually inspect restaurants. Folks are coming down from Portland. They have a whole big group up there and a couple are a lot more trained for things like this.”

It was counter-intuitive that Portland people would be better at dealing with dead seagulls than coastal people, but Multnomah County did have a lot more government employees. It had a lot more of all kinds of people, being Portland's primary county. Sid was willing to bet it had ten times the population of Lincoln County, so if it was manpower they needed, it made sense.

A deputy arrived then, stood at the top of the nearest stairs, and assessed them before making his way down.

“Nice work, people,” he said.

Calling them 'people' reminded Sid of her third grade teacher and she raised an eyebrow at him. It was probably good he wasn't looking her way. In her experience, law enforcement often lacked a sense of humor.

“What about the
other
side?” Sid asked.

Out of the corner of her eye, Sid saw Milly's head jerk toward her—a gesture she took to mean, 'don't call attention to any more work.' She was glad the deputy answered.

“There's a hotel down there. Bigger. I called them and they said they'd get that side, but we need to put the rest of these barrels at the bottom of these stairways along the way. Can you three help me?” He singled out the men and they all nodded.

Part of Sid was annoyed the women were being dismissed, but she was willing to take the chivalry because she was exhausted. She and Milly had been at this the longest.

“Is there anything else we should do?” she asked the deputy.

“Getting a flu shot probably wouldn't kill you,” he said, tipping his hat.

She made her way up the stairs, waving to Milly and Mrs. Simms who continued on. She took a quick shower when she got to her room. Who knew what germs she'd been exposed to, spending the afternoon on a beach with a bunch of dead birds? Germy, disgusting, dead birds. Scavengers—they certainly got into all sorts of grossness. Maybe the whole place was crawling with those dead bird germs. She shivered, feeling dirty again. She needed some reassurance from someone who knew something about disease, so she decided to call her brother.

'Calling' Jeff meant Skype. He had forgotten how to use any sort of phone in graduate
school, though their mother claimed since the invention of the iPhone, he had at least learned how to text. But he and Sid had always been 'more is more' siblings about communicating. He was three years older, but they had been close since they were kids and bounced things off of each other regularly. Sid liked talking to him, so they'd begun using Skype for face-to-face chats years ago and it had stuck. The only real obstacle was the time difference. There were three hours’ time-difference between Atlanta and Portland.

Sid turned on her laptop and tried to connect with no luck. That was often the case when he was at work, but she texted him and knew he'd get back to her. She turned on the television to wait; her scattered attention wouldn't let her get to work on her last article until she'd talked to Jeff. There were some things big brothers were really good at and talking down a sister who was freaked out about dead-bird germs was right up there. The television news only reinforced her fears. And after the news, some lunatic preacher kept talking about the end of the world.

She wished Jeff would hurry up and get back to her. He worked for the CDC—a bigwig scientist job. Centers for Disease Control sounded so huge to her—better than lameass freelance reporter. Self-employed, on top of it. That was normally a euphemism for “unemployed”. Besides, what was the fear of dead birds about, other than disease? Damn him, for making her worry and wait!

The ping of Skype connecting more than an hour later nearly made Sid jump out of her skin. She'd worked herself up enough that she was writing poetry, a sure sign of distress. And she’d sketched birds in the margins, crows mostly, but only because her seagulls were cartoony and friendly. Crows were easier to make menacing, so they better fit her mood.

She rushed to her computer and sat in front of it.

“Hey, what's up?” he said.

“Freaky stuff,” she answered.

“Looks like it. You're pale.”

“I live in Oregon. I'm always pale.”

“Oh, that's right,” he laughed. “So what's freaky?”

Sid could hear the faintest trace of a southern accent creeping into his voice. They'd grown up in the Midwest, but he'd been in various parts of the south for almost twelve years—since he started college.

Sidney, on the other hand, had come west. The University of Oregon had a brilliant journalism school and she'd always loved the idea of heading west. Even if it
was
sun-deprived. At least this far north.

She told him her dead bird story and waited for his reassurances, but he looked troubled. “We thought it might start somewhere on the west coast, but we expected ports with a lot more traffic. Lincoln City isn't exactly a mecca. Asia has had it for a little while, but there are only so many ways birds can get across the ocean.” He continued on with the various routes of travel. Rambling. Jeff didn't ramble except when he was nervous.