Blackbirds by Chuck Wendig Page B

"I'm from Pennsylvania. I'm an, uh, a traveling salesman."
      "Yeah, right," she calls back. "And I'm a circus monkey."
      "I've never had sex with a circus monkey before."
      He flips a few more pages. His eyes drift over the words. His mouth starts to go dry. His heart races. It makes sense, but… He turns another ten pages and reads more. He mouths the words he reads without speaking them aloud –
       Like trying to derail a train with a penny or kicking a wave back into the ocean, I can't stop shit, I can't change shit.
      Flip.
       What fate wants, fate gets.
      Flip.
       I am a spectator at the end of people's lives.
      Flip.
       Bren Edwards shattered his pelvis and died in a culvert. He had two hundred bucks in his wallet – I'm going to eat well tonight.
      Flip.
      It is what it is.
      Flip.
      Almost done with you, Dear Diary, then you know what happens.
      Flip.
      Just need a rich guy to bite it. That'll be the day.
      Flip.
      Dear Diary, I did it again.
      His eyes catch something else in the messenger bag flopped on its side. He reaches in, pulls out a small year-long planner.
      "I'm from Pennsylvania, too," Miriam calls out from the bathroom.
      "That's great," he mumbles. He flips through the datebook. Most days are empty, but others? Others have names. Times. Little icons, too – stars, Xs, dollar signs.
      And causes of death.
       June 6, Rick Thrilby / 4:30PM / heart attack
       August 19, Irving Brigham / 2:16 AM / succumbs to lung cancer
       October 31, Jack Byrd / 8:22 PM / eats a bullet, suicide
      And on, and on.
      "Find anything interesting?" Miriam asks.
      Ashley, startled, drops the book and looks up. She narrows her eyes, and darts her gaze between him, the diary sitting next to him, the grenade on the pillow, and her fallen bag.
      "Listen," he starts, but she interrupts him.
       With a fist. A straight clip to the mouth splits his lower lip. Pop . His teeth rattle. He's surprised, though he probably shouldn't be. She's been on the road for years now. Somewhere along the way, she learned how to throw a punch; and by the looks of that black eye, she knows how to take one, too.
      "You're a cop," she says. "No. Not a cop."
      "Not a cop," he mumbles around the palm pressed to his bleeding lip. He pulls his hand away, sees a streak of red.
      A stalker. A psycho."
      "I've been following you since Virginia."
      "Like I said. Stalker. Psycho . You know what? Eff this." She pushes past him, fetching her books, her armory, her other debris and detritus, and cradles it all before upending it into the open mouth of her messenger bag. Ashley grabs her wrist, but she'll have none of it. She wrenches free. He reaches again, but she backhands him off the bed.
      By the time he realizes what's happened, the front door is already open, and she's gone.

 
 
TEN
    The Sun Can Go Fuck Itself
     
    Birds tweet. Bees buzz. The sun shines, and the air is heady with honeysuckle perfume. Miriam squints against the bright light, wishes she had a pair of sunglasses. A sour feeling sucks at her gut; her bowels feel like ice water. She hates the sun. Hates the blue sky. The birds and the bees can go blow each other in a dirty bathroom. Her pale skin feels like it's about to split open like the skin of a microwaved hot dog. She's a night owl. The day is not her domain, which makes her reconsider – maybe I should've gone Vampire Red, after all.
      Her boots stomp down the deserted back road. She's been walking for fifteen minutes now, maybe more. It feels like a lifetime.
      She feels vulnerable. Like she got played. Miriam hasn't felt this way in a long time. She's the one with all the secrets. With the edge. Her nerves are electric. Anxiety nibbles. She doesn't know why. What's to worry about? What's he going to do?
      She keeps walking.
      The road twists and turns. Up a hill. Under a copse of trees. Around the bend sits a