The Blood Mile

Two: What's In A Name?

Scotty jumped forward, tripping, smacking, coughing his way back to the opening.

Charlie was long gone now, heading to the Great Iron City for another dumpster raid. Scotty looked down at the never-ending slaughter. Tweets fired out like bullets from The Grinder, machines humming and clamping all together creating one mind-splitting song he couldn't understand.

He knew not to stare too long; he knew not to let this massacre get to him. This was yet another reminder of the darkness that dwelled in places unknown, vicious places adorned with bright lights, shiny glass and clean brick; a most clever disguise. He shook all this away, shook his head and his entire body until every creepy-crawling thought evaporated, and he fell back with the wind.

Through the slaughter room and a warehouse, over a cobblestone path and into a high-rise building, Luke followed his father down a stark white hallway clearly designed for the insane. Portraits of animated chickens with goofy eyes and feathers hung behind clear glass on the walls that seemed to go on forever. The tiles glittered in the light as if they were walking on broken glass, and a medicinal stench lingered in the air. He was curious to know what really went on behind each door.

Frank stopped in front of the cafeteria entrance and turned to his son. "I'll be three minutes and then I'll take you home. Eat whatever you like. Just don't touch the blue box in the fridge. Stay far away from that." Then, he disappeared around the corner.

Luke settled at a round table. He looked back to make sure no one was around and pulled the zipper of his backpack open to find Number Eighty-Four beaming up at him, sandwiched between a bundle of pencils and an awful anchovy and ham sandwich.

Luke smiled and placed the chick on the table. "You look funny," he said, running his fingers along the chick's natural mohawk.

Just like Scotty, Number Eighty-Four was no ordinary bird. He'd been born with a rare feather disorder that would conceal his comb with wisps of vertical feathers. But of course, he didn't know that just yet.

"I've got a dog named Bridget, you know."

Bridget was Luke's German Shepherd, and she was known to get-along with every cat, dog and bird (with the exception of a few devious mice) in town.

"I didn't name her. Mom did— after her sister — said they look alike." he shrugged. "But Bridget's awesome! My dog, not my aunt. You'll love her."

The chick backed away slowly, his body trembling.

"Hey, it's ok. I'm one of the good guys. But I get it. I'm afraid of new places too." And then he realized something. "You need a name. How can we be friends if we don't know each other's names? I'm Luke, and you are?" Luke looked around the cafeteria and spotted a shiny logo on the fridge - WHIRLPOOL.

"Whirly! Whirly-Whirl?!" He exclaimed. Sawyer shook his head with a hard NO.

Luke looked over to the bulletin board and and spotted The Employee of The Month with a picture of a sad middle-aged man with glasses named GEORGE.

"How about George? Nah, you're not a George..."

And then he spotted his schoolbook, and Luke's eyes lit up. Mark Twain's The Adventures of Tom Sawyer had become his favorite book. Not because he had to read it for school, but because it was his inspiration on becoming a pirate — gold teeth and all. When Tom and Huck ran off to the island in the Mississippi River, he realized that would be his escape plan too. He'd make sure to thank Mrs. Picklebottom for giving him the book, and send a letter to Twain himself for coming up with the idea. Becoming a pirate in the Mississippi River was perfect because being the son of Frank Farelli wasn't easy. In fact, Frank had a set of very specific rules and curfews (mostly for academic purposes) for his son, which included getting honors in Business and Math. Luke, naturally, hated both subjects, and did horribly on his tests. Who needs business training when someone has dreams of becoming a pirate?

"I'll call you Sawyer." The name clicked, it felt right, and Luke smiled again. "I'll take you with me, and we'd have all kinds of adventures. I'll teach you how to build a boat. I've only built paper boats, but I like a challenge."

When he heard shuffling outside the cafeteria, he shoved Sawyer inside the backpack again —closer to the terrifying anchovy sandwich.

Frank walked in with the same hard frown Luke had grown to expect. "It's best you forget whatever you saw here today." He glared down at his son, picking the dirt from under his fingernail with the tip of his car key. "It's dangerous and not suitable for children. You understand?"

"Why are you killing all those chickens like that? And some chickens looked weird...like freak show weird. What are you doing to them?"

Frank raised his eyebrows and placed his pudgy hand on Luke's head. "God gave us chickens to eat, boy. I just make them...more delicious."

"But...how?"

"Forget about it! You hear me? If you know what's good for ya, you'll keep your mouth shut." The blood vessels brightened against his cheeks, jaw clenched.

Luke bowed his head. "Or what?" he whispered under his breath.

"Don't test me, boy. Let's go home."

But home didn't feel like home yet. He missed the farmhouse, but they had to demolish it to expand the business. Now he lived in the city and went to an awful school infested with snobby rich kids who all praised his father for his humane ways and delicious chicken wings. Frank was definitely a celebrity in the city, and while Luke was somewhat proud of his dad, he now wondered if that sick slaughter room would change everyone's thoughts about this place.

Luke got up from the chair, slung the backpack around his shoulder and followed his father out the door and into the backseat of a Mercedes.

Huck would hide Sawyer in the tree house, he thought staring out the window, clouds creeping over the sun and wiping the field of its gold.

Meanwhile, Sawyer waited inside the pocket, barely alive, the red world quivering, darkening and potent. A fishy odor and pieces of lettuce, ham and mayonnaise brushed against his feathers. He tucked his face into his breast and held his breath for as long as he could.

As the Mercedes thundered down the long, desolate road, the anchovy tickled Sawyer's throat. And like a string of Morse code, uncontrollable tweeting burst out of his mouth. He flailed in all directions trying to stop his beak from opening, face swelling, throat scratching until a light tore through and Frank's burning pupils blazed above him.

"Luke! What's this?" growled Frank.

"I'm taking him with us! He's mine!" Luke reached for his backpack but Frank wrapped his fingers around Sawyer's body, almost squeezing his insides out through his eyes, and launched him out the window.

"No!" Luke slammed his fist against his father's headrest and turned to the back window. The chick soared through the air and crash-landed on the gravel.

Sawyer rose to his feet, while Luke's face disappeared over the road. This would be the last time he'd see Luke for many many years. Then, the silence came, and the world grew heavier and heavier around him.

What will happen to Sawyer? Check out Chapter Three and please don't forget to vote! Thanks for reading!