... to get to the other side. #3
Chapter 3 - do chickens dream of chickens?
Seriously how good is this collage by
This is Chapter 3 - you might need Chapter 2 or Chapter 1, unless you just like reading things in random order, then go right ahead…
Chapter 3 (told you)
A dull thud followed by the electric twinkle of strip lights waking nudged Brorwck from her slumber. She’d dreamt about chickens, lots of chickens, pecking, scratching, bobbing and hatching. A chicken-topia filled with little painted houses on stilts as far as a chicken could see. It’s a dream. She’d never seen another chicken and had no idea if they lived in houses. A dream conjured from picture books Nina read to her when she was young. Like Olga once said, “Leaving your dreams is hard.”
She opened her tiny brown eyes.
Her home was a large circular perspex box in the middle of a wide, windowless laboratory deep underground. Opaque monitors flickered into life around her. The liquid nitrogen tanks hummed louder as they woke from sleep mode. Oxygen tanks reported in like soldiers on parade, sounding off their three-tone safety check. A row of centrifuges completed their warmup, spinning forwards and backwards like ballerinas before a show. Finally, the conveyor belt, draped in yellowing cotton, carried an egg, carefully laid overnight towards Nina, who sat at her desk drinking something she called coffee, but everyone knew hadn’t been coffee for over a year.
“Thank you!” she said without looking up. This was their routine, the same since Brorwck had laid her first egg over two years ago.
“Buk, Buk,” Brorwck replied. Everyone had their job, and she took great pride in her role. Sussex chickens had a lot of pride; another thing she had to take Olga’s word for as Brorwck’s experience of other chickens was solely based on what Olga told her—the cost of being the last of your species.
“Morning!” Olga’s Slavic tones surprised Brorwck, as she leaned over the Perspex wall, a broad smile across her face. Her short blond hair needed a wash, and her lab coat was larger by the day. She looked tired, working long hours attempting to fertilise the eggs. “Did you sleep well?”
“Buk, Buk, Bukark.” Said Brorwck, but she always slept better than her mums these days.
Olga laughed, “So chatty, unlike grumpy mummy.” She flicked her head toward Nina, candling an egg she’d lifted from the incubator. Nina raised a single finger in acknowledgement. “Grumpy mummy doesn’t do mornings,” she whispered.
At nearly 3 years old, a lesser chicken might get offended by the childish way Olga spoke to her, but that would be petty.
Olga was Olga.
She would never have children.
Brorwck was happy to play her role.
“Any joy?” asked Olga.
“No.”
Olga took a deep, tired breath. The morning routine was complete.
“Breakfast, anyone?” Said Olga, standing up and stretching her back to release the tension from too many hours of trying.
“Buuurck, buk, buk!” offered Brorwck.
Olga smiled, “No, we don’t eat the experiments Brorwck, but it’s very kind of you to offer.”
Nina carefully placed the egg back in the incubator and closed the lid. “Ask her what we’re doing wrong. She knows more about fertilising eggs than us.”
“Buk, burck, buk, buk!” explained Brorowck. She was good at the theory but lacked practical experience, just like everyone else.
“Don’t be like that; she’s doing her best. She’s never met another chicken, let alone a rooster. It’s like you trying to guess how to become pregnant without ever seeing a cock!”
“Ew… gross. No need to mention pee-ni before breakfast, ever!”
“Golden rule?”
“Golden rule”.
“Toast it is, then.”
The toaster popped, snapping Brorwck back to the reality of Charlie’s mums Victorian terrace kitchen. A dilapidated oasis in the middle of the rubbish dump, formally known as London.
Brorwck missed her routine; she missed Nina and Olga. Remembering was all she had; chickens don’t keep photo albums.
Charlie entered the kitchen, absent-mindedly whistling a broken tune. Charlie whistled when he was thinking. Since their escape, Charlie had whistled that tune a lot. It’s weird how it helped him think. All Brorwck could think about during the chap-lip symphony was how awful it sounded.
“Bukark!”
“Ah, you eyeballin’ me toast?” Charlie snatched the poorly cut charred wedge from the jaws of the toaster and bit into it, spraying crumbs over the flood-dusted floor. Brorwck followed her driver around the room as he searched for a mug with the least amount of grime. “I’d do some washing up if they switched the water back on”, he lied. At least Brorwck suspected it was a lie; she suspected Charlie lived precisely how he had always lived, dystopian world-ending crisis or not.
Charlie carefully chose a mug and wiped it with his hand. It reminded Brorwck of that scene from Indiana Jones with the holy grail, except neither would live forever no matter which mug he chose.
“Buk, bukark?” they needed to get moving soon.
“If you say so, “ said Charlie. “I wish I understood what you were saying, though. It wouldn’t ‘arf make this easier.”
“Buk!” agreed Browrck.
“The fifth rule says the customer is always right, ‘cept when they’re wrong obviously, so whatever you’re saying is right, right?”
“Buukark!”
“Exactly….” Charlie’s eyes wandered off again. Something was playing on his mind, and Brorwck wanted to know what was troubling him.
Maybe she could help.
“Burk, bukark, buk buk?” she asked.
Charlie smiled and nodded.
“Your right…I’ve been thinking…” Charlie’s eyes glance up in the way humans do when they are searching for answers. Brorwck glanced to where his eyes pointed and saw only a large damp stain and a single bulb dangled precariously beneath a plaster bubble. Charlie’s voice brought Brorwck back into the room.
“You need to eat.” Charlie said, “an’ I figure some burnt toast an’ a tin-o-peaches ain’t gonna cut.”
“Bukark,” agreed Brorwck. The crumbs and scraps she’d found on the table had only exacerbated the problem.
“It’s time I properly introduce you to Mum, and then we can…er…sort something out for you!” Charlie smiled and gently lifted Brorwck off the table before she could respond. In the last twelve hours, Charlie had touched her more than Nina and Olga had in three years. When he held her, he held her tight. Her sense of smell was minimal, but this close, she detected the dust and dirt of London mixed with something older, musky, and male.
It made her feel safe.
The stairs at the back of the damp kitchen were narrow, forcing Charlie to dip his shoulder under the row of family photos hung over the peeling floral wallpaper. As they climbed, a faded group shot caught Brorwck’s attention. It featured Charlie, an elderly lady and... Nina.
“Buk!” She wanted Charlie to stop, but he was whistling that tune again. “Bukark?” She tried again as the picture disappeared around the corner.
“S’Okay, nearly there,” said Charlie as he stepped onto the gloomy landing. Brorwck strained to see over his shoulder, but Charlie held her tight. “Easy girl, don’t want ‘Ol Charlie to drop yah!” Brorwck struggled some more; she wanted to know if her eyes had played a trick on her. Chicken’s eyes are notoriously tiny and useless, but Charlie’s grip was firm. He shifted her in front of him, pointing at a closed bedroom door. “You ready?” He asked, but didn’t wait for the reply. He breathed in deep, then pushed open the door with his shoulder.
It was dark inside.
The air was thick and greasy.
The heavy mustard curtains dammed out the light, casting heavy shadows in the darkness that hinted at a bed, wardrobe, and dresser. Brorwck’s modifications hadn’t included being able to see in the dark.
She was blind.
She stiffened, primal instincts telling her to fear everything. Her mind whirred in a new panic. She’d never been afraid before; Charlie’s scent reminded her she shouldn’t be afraid now.
The rooms, however, did not.
Crunch…Bzzz…crunch……. Bzzz. Every step Charlie made produced more sound. Crunch…Bzzz…Crunch…Bzzz. Something flew past Browrck. Another…buzzing thing hovered near her eye, followed by another, then another. Her head flicked left and right, but the unseen assailants dodged her sharp, snapping beak easily.
“Buckark, buk, buck?” she complained.
“Just a few flies, love, sorry, should have said. The windows been closed a while.”
Browrck had no idea what flies were, but she didn’t like them. The room appeared to be filled with them. Every crunching step Charlie took brought new assailants to life.
Charlie’s knee bumped into something solid. “Ow!” They stopped.
“Gonna put you on mum’s bed.
“Buk, buk?”
“Nah, she won’t mind.”
Maybe I do! Thought Brorwck, choosing not to say it out loud and embarrass Charlie in front of his mother. Charlie didn’t know she was an introvert. Meeting new people was quite stressful.
Nina forgot to write that in the instructions.
Nina. Her mind raced back to the picture. She had no way of asking Charlie to take her back, and even if she could, what then? She was so engrossed in the problem that the sudden rush of daylight surprised her. Her head snapped around to discover Charlie, backlit in the bay window, moth-eaten curtain in hand. He was smiling—a proud boy bringing a friend home to meet his mum.
“Mum, this is Brorwck… she’s a chicken!”
Brorwck found it strange that Charlie felt the need to explain her genus, but once her eyes adjusted to the morning glare, she understood why Charlie’s mum would need a considerable amount of explanation to grasp what was happening.
Her rotting head was lop-sided, greasy straggles of grey hair bound in worm-locks stuck limply to the heavily stained, embroidered pillow. The word ‘Home’ was the only one of three visible under the mahogany varnish of mouldering mother. The cracked reading glasses formed a hammock for her deflated eyeballs; it looked like she had dropped her book when they fell from her sockets mid-chapter. One clawed hand gripped the crusty duvet, protecting her vanity from death’s ogling glaze. The flies murmurated around her skull, a living funeral veil.
Charlie’s mum was very dead.
“Buk…buk?” was all Browrck could say.
Charlie shuffled back from the window, crunching on the dead flies that decorated the carpet.
“I know. She’s been gone a few months now… or maybe a year. I lose track, what with all the cabbie work an’ such. But she always said she wanted to die at home an’ I just never had the heart to move her an’ now… well, I’d ‘ave to scrape her into a bag or sumink an’ I just can’t bring myself to disturb her.” Charlie stood by Brorwck, his heavy scar-covered hand gently stroking her back.”She looks so peaceful. That’s hard to find these days, don’t yah think?”
Brorwck didn’t know what to say, so they sunk into a soft silence until Charlie was ready to move on. She heard him sniffle but afforded him the dignity of not looking, even though the alternative view was rotten.
“Anyway, I didn’t bring you ‘ere to get all mushy with me,” Charlie strode purposefully around the bed. He gripped the duvet and pulled it back even though Brorwck knew she didn’t want to see underneath.
The duvet was stuck to the sheets, which were stuck to the mattress with ‘Ol Ma Dawson glue. Charlie tried tugging to no avail. They were stuck fast. Frustrated, he put his knee on the sheet and yanked the duvet back with both hands. The crusting layers reluctantly separated with a sound like Velcro. Dried blood, dead flies and tired cotton gave way to reveal the purpose of their visit.
A writhing mass of maggots tumbled from the carcass into an all-you-can-eat chicken-friendly buffet. Brorwck’s survival instinct overcame her disgust, and she dived in, beak first to devour everything that moved.
“Mum would have loved to see this,” smiled Charlie, wiping a tear off his cheek. “A chicken having breakfast in bed.”