by Geoff Gouveia

“You ever been here before, Dave?”

The two walked through an overgrown parking lot by a bush with a single rose in full bloom.

“Na. Driven passed it many times but never been inside.” Dave kicked the petals clean off. Natural faux-geometric magenta blood – poof. He smiled at the flower’s destruction.

“Quinn – what the heck is that for?”

“This?” Quinn held up the air soft pistol, brandishing it in front of the real weapon, his upturned jalapeño pepper thin grin. “Protection. The place is crawlin’ with bums. I figured I could get some target practice in.”

The warehouse blocked the late afternoon sun as it set for the night. A breeze ruffled the corrugated metal shingles on the sides, banging them against each other. A hawk circled above. Quinn held the sight of the pistol up to the sky and trailed the hawk, circling with it just in front of the wind.

“You couldn’t hit that if you tried.”

Quinn put the pistol in his back pocket and held up the loose metal sheet makeshift door for the adventure-inclined to walk in. Dave poked his head like a soft dive into a cool pool. The room held sound from him and blurred his vision, the darkness adjusted and Quinn pushed him from behind.

“Let’s go already.”

The two walked along in the shade, the late afternoon creating jagged shadows off the corroded metal. The ceiling littered in natural holes and man made ones, shot out with a shotgun or some other pellet spewing device. The little holes let light spill inside the rusted building. Wind picked up the shingles and shifted them, the groaning metal giving the building wheezing lungs.

“Looks like it used to build something.”

“My Pops said it was an old RV plant. Look at the doors and how high the ceilings are.”

“I guess so. But what’s with all of this wood?”

Quinn stepped onto the pile and let his shoelaces dangle onto the wood. He climbed it with the anticipation of a child. Treasure is always buried beneath piles of wood. That is, every pile save for that one.

“Dude we could skate here.”

“Looks like people already have. Besides- we don’t skate no more.”

Dave kicked a piece of wood across the floor. The wood became a rat and scurried until it stopped near a corroded rollup gate that wouldn’t shut. They walked to view the outside courtyard.

Quinn scavenged for a few unbroken beer bottles and lined them along the wall. His pellets pinged off the wall and into the dust, the bottles erect and untouched. Dave laughed and Quinn cussed under his breath at each shot of pride tossed into the dirt instead of crushed through glass. Dave left Quinn and his pistol to walk alone under the cool blue gray roof into the darkest part of the building. 

Near the corroded roll up door, against the rusted lined walls, looked like an old feather duster; the feathers dangled downwards and slumped against the wall. Dave lifted a plank of wood that held it upright against the wall. The feather duster was a decaying hawk.

The talon pinched through two rusted metal pipes that forked at the bottom and had slipped down over its shin and up its thigh. The skinny portion of his leg, once turned, locked him into the trap. There were signs on the talons of the hawk struggling against the rust, deep jagged cuts crusted over with dust. The wings had folded downward, no doubt as soon as the last breath left the hawk and absorbed into the building. They dried in that position and the folded dead hawk lost its majesty and grandeur that the air normally gave it. Up close, it didn’t look like a hawk. It just looked like dead bird.

“Squawked like hell.”

Dave turned at the voice but could only hear his heart beat as his calves tensed in anticipation of a race. Two eyes appeared from behind a large pile of wood. The voice came from a dusty beard.

“Never seen anythin’ sadder in my life. Flappin’ and flappin’, so so sad. Them beasts dominate the air and a simple chain did him in.”

“Wild. S-Sorry to bother you, man.” Dave spotted an oblong triangle, a piece of broken wood, near his foot.

“It’s no trouble. You can call me Darkie. That’s what all the skater boys called me when they built those ramps. Guess I only wear dark clothing.” Dave nodded at Darkie and bent to tie his shoe. He cradled the shard of wood into the sleeve of his jacket. Outside through a small window Quinn walked back from his glass targets.

“You see many of these birds a-a-around?”

“It ain’t no bird. It’s a genuine red-tail hawk. No I don’t see them, I train em.” He rolled up his sleeves. Great lacerations, healed again and again X’d their way across his flesh. Dave's heart thumped twice for every breath he took and his left hand clenched tight.

“I tried to help this guy. He was Rollie and he was a stubborn bastard right from birth.  When he caught in the metal he was beatin as hard as he could. He’da clawed my eyes straight out, almost like last time.” Darkie stepped into the light. Under the left of his dark brown eyes was a purple gouge two inches thick. Dave thumbed the edge of the shard.

“Bled like nothin’ you ever saw. Rollie here was a fool.” Darkie pointed his finger at the hawk. “All’s he had to do-” he ran his newspaper-bandaged hand up the metal, “was stop the fussin’ and move up. Temporary pain and then he’da been free. If I learned one thing from training these damn hawks its that they hate pain and when they experience it, they’ll do anything to never get it again. Even if it means dyin’.” Darkie sighed in the direction of dead Rollie and then clicked his tongue.

From the corner of the building fluttered great red-brown feathers, the clay armor that protected the silky smooth flight of the hawk. It landed on the forearm of Darkie and he stroked the hawk with a hooked forefinger, cooing with a soft voice.

“I found these two hawks, Rollie and Raymond. They was squawken with tiny chirps the first day I found this place. I always liked raising pups so I thought thes’a be the same. They was, right on down to how they play with your fingers, the little bites and nibbles. Not so cute after they grow up.” He stepped closer to Dave with his little finger outstretched, the tip sharpened with soft peach scar tissue covering the mistake. Outside the bottle targets sat alone.

“Why - Why’d you keep training them then?” Dave heel-kicked a piece of wood backing away and Raymond twitched his head in the same direction. Dave held out his hand instinctively to stroke the soft feathers but pulled back when Raymond flapped his wings.

“Whoa, boy, whoa! I thought I’da left this place by now. As long as I’ve got Raymond, I’ve got family. Besides, they’re two types of people in this world: those that clip wings and those that mend them. I may not have much but Raymond keeps us both fed.” He raised his arm and the hawk beat against the ground. Dave stepped back and watched it fly towards a perch on the other side of the building.

The first shot hit metal but the second pellet pierced flesh in a muffled thump. The pellet entered Raymond’s breast and sent him from the perch towards the ground. He landed like a crumpled clay pot with both wings sprawled out. Quinn stepped into view of both Dave and Darkie.

“I hit it!” Quinn called out before Darkie tackled him from behind.

Darkie clawed at Quinn and punched him over and over, the blows landing on soft flesh. Darkie paused in his rage to grab a nearby stick. He raised it over his head and fell crashing over when Dave swung with a balled fist. Darkie felt the shard Dave left in his side as Quinn connected the butt of his fake pistol to Darkie’s temple and found his own balance for the two to run off. The man sobbed with one hand on his head and the other holding his armpit.

“What the hell’s his problem? Trying to kill me over a damn bird.” Quinn said as he ran back towards the sheet metal entrance and waited for Dave to hold it open. Dave looked back as Quinn went under. The man wailed again and again, “Poor Rollie, Poor Raymond.”

Quinn glanced at Dave’s hand when he shot crawled through the gate. Fear overtook his adrenaline at the sight of Darkie's reddish brown blood on Dave's fist.

“We could've killed that man.”

Dave wiped his hand in the dirt under the empty rose bush.

“So what? He’s just a crazy bum.”

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