Eric “Sparrow” Shields's Arc

Chapter 2 of 2

Sparrow landed on the tunnel floor and listened. The grate above sat back in place. He still had the handler box under his arm and two stolen lenses in his coat, and he was tired in a way that scared him. He had slept four hours in two days. The refuge needed him to be sharper than this. Tonight he had to drop the handler somewhere safe, mark a new way in for any stranger who needed it, and get back to the fort before the work crew finished their inventory count. He walked the line until he reached the yellow-and-black hard case he had wedged behind a collapsed maintenance shelf weeks ago. The hazard stripes were scuffed almost gray. He popped the latches, laid the handler box inside on a folded rag, and set the lenses beside it. One cache, one trip. That was the rule he kept now that he ran every errand alone. He shut the lid and pushed the case back until the shelf hid it. A wet clicking sound came from the next bend. He killed his lamp. Around the curve, a shape moved on bent legs. A mushroom cap drooped over a skull, and pale threads dripped from its jaw. He called them fun guys when he told the story to himself later, because giving them a stupid name was the only way he could stand thinking about them. One had nearly grabbed him last week. Sparrow flattened against the wall, breathed through his sleeve, and let it shuffle past toward the deeper dark. He climbed out through a side hatch six blocks from his fort and crossed to the painted mailbox on the corner. Someone had layered tags over tags until the original color was gone. A square of cardboard hung from a wire on the side, covered in scrawl that meant nothing to anyone but him. He pinned a fresh slip to the cardboard. It read only: hungry, no cameras, follow the rail paint south, knock twice on the yellow grate. No names. No promises. Anyone desperate enough would understand. Anyone curious would walk past. He was tucking the pen away when a van door slammed across the street. Derek Hutchins stepped out in his navy coveralls, clipboard under one arm, radio on his hip. The man from the surveillance company. The one who would be running the inventory count tonight. Sparrow dropped behind the mailbox and held still. Derek squinted at the corner, frowned, and keyed his radio. Sparrow heard the word missing before a bus rolled between them. He used the bus and ran. He made it back to the fort with his hands shaking. He sat at the twin benches he had bolted together for two people, where only one chair was ever warm. The little television between the toolboxes was running an emergency broadcast on mute. Sparrow stared at the empty seat across from him. He could not keep doing this alone. Tomorrow, he decided, he would start watching for whoever answered the note.