Birds of Paradise by Oliver Langmead (read any book .TXT) 📗

the world beyond the valley, which was full of marvels that Adam mistrusted and Eve delighted in. Eve slept well, but Adam stayed awake, troubled by the weapon the stranger had brought with him: a long spear with a tip made of polished metal, which gleamed deadly in the firelight.

As the days progressed, and the stranger took advantage of Eve’s kindness, eating readily of their stores of food, Adam began to notice that Pike was absent. This was unusual; the great fish was often to be seen agleam in the lake at the heart of their valley. Adam went down to the waters, and there he waded, and swam, and searched the underside of every pebble for Pike, but he was nowhere to be seen. It was true that the river at the edge of the lake eventually made its way to the sea, and that in all likelihood Pike had simply gone swimming, but it was unlike the kindly fish to leave without bidding anyone farewell. Emerging from the lake, a heaviness set upon Adam the likes of which he had not felt since Eden. He went to go find the stranger.

The stranger had set up camp on the far side of the lake, near the waterfall, and there he was now, surrounded by bones and the ashes of burnt-out fires, working at something with a length of twine. There were flecks of cooked fish-flesh still clinging to his equipment, and there, smeared across his spear, the webbed fibres of a silvery fin. For the longest time Adam simply stood, observing the stranger, consumed by an emotion he did not recognise. The stranger said things to him that he did not hear, and then, so full of pride, showed Adam the results of his labours. It was to be a gift, the stranger said – a wonderful gift to reward Adam and Eve’s hospitality – as he raised the necklace he had been lacing, composed of Pike’s brilliant scales.

Adam had taken the scale necklace from the stranger. Then, with it bunched in his fist, he had murdered the man with it.

The movement of his arm. The crunch of the stranger’s bones.

The recollection is sharp, and painful: a single thorn belonging to the tangle in Adam’s skull.

Adam gasps for breath as he breaks the surface of the river.

There’s the bank, nearby. He swims across and hauls himself free of the river, collapsing to his knees upon the pebbles, coughing up water and feeling his lungs burn. Tom, the FBI man, might be alive, might be dead. He wipes the river from his eyes and looks around.

The broken bridge. The dead everywhere, torn to ribbons. The bright white sky. The quiet scrublands. They must be miles away from LA.

Nearby, a naked, powerfully built man is watching the river wash the blood from his bare feet. His hair is long, wild and unkempt about him, and there is something regal about the way he holds himself – as if he is superior to everything he beholds with his wide wild eyes. His feet are marred with gore, and ribbons of flesh wriggle in the shallows, caught between his toes.

“Owl.” Adam’s throat is raw, so he tries again. “Owl.”

The ragged man’s head snaps around, unblinking eyes fixed on the sound.

Adam stands cautiously, keeping his movements slow, and Owl’s eyes follow him, every twitch. “Where’s Rook?” None are living around them. It looks as if Adam is the only survivor of the attack, apart from Tom, who stirs still – somewhere between life and death.

“Yonder,” replies Owl, gutturally. Walking unsteadily across the pebbles, he makes his way over to Tom, and then places one of his bloody feet upon the dying man’s neck. There is a crunch as he pushes down. Beyond, the blue lights of the armoured van still flash beneath the waves, distant glimmering sparks of blue; but everyone is dead.

Owl makes his way towards the scrubby brush at the edge of the embankment, trailing blood across the earth. He walks as if he is unused to using his legs. There, he raises an arm prophetically, as if answers await Adam beyond the ridge.

Adam leaves the river, but at Tom’s corpse, he pauses.

“Sorry,” he says, and he’s surprised to find that he means it.

II

Leaning against a bright white muscle car is a girl in a summer dress who only has one leg, and even though she is wearing a pair of huge sunglasses the same black as her long hair, she shades her eyes against the sky. Behind her, the Pacific sparkles, and before her, the California road is empty and being swept by a veil of desert dust. Adam twists the silver bracelets around his wrists until they break, and drops them as he approaches – leaning over to do the same with those around his ankles.

“Orange doesn’t suit you,” says the girl, when he’s close enough.

Adam shrugs. “They only had orange.” He looks left, and then right – no cars on the road. They are alone.

“I got you some clothes. Extra-extra-extra-extra large. The guy in the shop gave me a funny look.” There is indeed a duffel bag at her feet. Adam takes it and pulls out a white T-shirt, a pair of black sweatpants and some running shoes. He pauses with them, glancing at the girl, but she laughs. “You don’t need to be coy, Adam. I’ve seen it all before.”

The clothes fit, miraculously. He wanders across to the river nearby and throws his jumpsuit in, before returning to the car. The girl is inside and waiting for him, and when he slips into the passenger side, she starts the engine. “Rook wasn’t kidding,” she says. “You look different.”

“What about Owl?”

Back near the edge of the river, a monstrous silhouette is moving. Owl has changed – is now something between man and bird. He spreads his wings and they glint in colours of bronze and gold, and then he moves out of sight suddenly –