Ben Bedard - The World Without Flags

Without wanting to, I pick up Eric’s holster and the gun he’s had forever. It’s heavier than it looks. I don’t like the feel of it. Strange how personal a gun feels. I feel like I’m trespassing somehow. But I need the gun, just in case, in case Eric… I try not to finish the thought, but for the briefest instant, I picture Eric running for me, cracked, and my hand going up and my finger pulling the trigger. I can’t breathe for a second as I shake off the thought. To throw off the thoughts, I pack all the ammunition I can find. I realize I’m whistling loudly, and I stop. It feels unnatural.

I don’t like being in Eric’s half of the loft. I never realized how carefully we let each other have our privacy. Living in a small place like the Homestead can often feel suffocating, like everyone knows everything about you and there’s nowhere to go and nowhere to hide. Eric was always careful about making sure he never went into my part of the loft. It was always closed off with sheets. Strange how successful a little sheet of cloth can be to create a sense of your own space, your own world, a place that is just yours. I hadn’t really thought of it before now. Eric knew I needed that space. I feel my heart constrict for him. It’s more evidence of how much I need him, how much he means to me. I thought I realized it, but I didn’t. I didn’t have a clue.

I feel a choking sob come up in me, looking at Eric’s side of the loft. His stacks of magazines and books. His crystal dragon and little figurines of soldiers and old knights. The poster on his wall of sandy beaches that says “Florida: coast to coast to coast.” The little board that he would lay on his lap and use as a writing desk. The green plastic cup filled with pencils and pens. Right by his bed, the bracelet of copper and silver wire that Lucia made for him back on the island. I lean over and pick that up. It’s smooth and electric to the touch. I put it in the backpack too. I feel a wetness on my cheek, but I can’t cry. Not now.

I pick up my own backpack and put Eric’s backpack inside it. To hide it from prying eyes.

Then I step outside and do my best to check to see if anyone is watching without seeming like I am looking around. No one. I tighten my backpack, turn toward the woods, and take off at an inconspicuous stride.

When I hit the shade of the trees, I feel free enough to turn up the speed. Running through the woods, I can’t hold back the worry I feel for Eric any longer. He could be dead. He could have cracked. He could be drowned in the lake, drawn to the water like everyone in the late stages of the Worm. My heart speeds up and adrenalin pumps through me. I’m nearly in a panic by the time I get to the Land Rover.

When I come bursting out of the woods, I stutter to a full stop in horror.

Eric is standing next to the truck.

He turns toward me. “Unh,” he says.

His eyes stream dark blood, worms coiling in the darkness.

I am too shocked to pull out the gun. I’m not sure I would have shot him even if I had. I stand there, waiting to get torn apart. As I watch, Eric starts to sway back and forth, his mouth open and closing, drooling a black bile. His eyes are swarming with worms. I realize that if he had cracked, he would have killed me by now and at the same time, I know that I would rather die than harm Eric. I feel it certainly, that our lives are connected far, far deeper than I ever imagined. It would be easier for me to shoot myself than to shoot Eric. It’s a relief to feel the certainty.

Eric groans and then sways to one side, his jaw clicking shut. He raises one hand and then drops it. His body convulses suddenly and he violently coughs up a stream of bile. It seems to do him good as he breathes more deeply. The bile he coughed up is on the ground, writhing with little, noodle-thin worms, pale and nauseating. Eric opens and closes his mouth, making a wet sound. Then he leans back on the truck and doesn’t move any longer.

I sit down on the forest floor, watching him. He’s entered one of the last stages of the Worm. Most people die of the fever before this stage. Others crack under the pressure and go crazy, ripping at everything near them. Some, like Eric, they just become something else. Not quite living, not quite dead. Just some strange between-thing.

Suddenly, I feel good watching him. Relieved. He’s made it through. He won’t die of the fever. I’m so relieved, I’m crying a little. I thought he was going to die.

“Good job, Eric,” I tell him. He doesn’t even move his head toward me.

After ten or fifteen minutes of relief, I feel scared and uncertain. I wipe my eyes. What do I do with him now? Soon he will start thirsting for water and if I don’t watch him all the time, he’ll wade out into the lake and drink until he drowns. I can chain him to the Land Rover, I think. I can chain him there and come visit when I can. But how long before someone follows me? After a while, it will become conspicuous. People will start to wonder where the hell I am all the time. Where does Kestrel go every day? Homestead is way too small to hide a massive secret like this. Maybe if I’m careful, I could keep it secret for a week, but not forever. People aren’t stupid, and I don’t know if I trust Franky. I don’t know if he believes me entirely. I think he has suspicions, and if he finds Eric, they will kill him. They will say it’s for the good of everyone. They will say he’s already dead. He’s just suffering. They will say a lot of things, but what they won’t say is that we should wait, we should trust in him, we should give Eric a chance to survive, a chance to fight. Only I will say that, and it won’t matter.

But I trust Eric. I remember clearly what Eric told me. Good Prince Billy told him that not everyone dies. Some make it through. And if there’s even the smallest, even the tiniest chance that Eric will live, I will stand by him. I will defend him against anyone who threatens him. For the first time I reach down to Eric’s gun instead of my knife handle. My heart thrills dangerously at the touch of it. It’s not a good feeling exactly, it’s dark and overwhelming, but it’s what I need.

I feel more relief at the certainty of my decision. I was so afraid I would have to kill Eric. I was afraid that I wouldn’t have the strength to stand by him. But now that I see him, now that I know he’s still here with me, fighting, and I feel in me the absolute certainty that I will kill for him, I will die for him, it’s a big relief. It’s a relief to learn that I’m the person I want to be.

But I do have to think.

I have to leave.

It comes to me with a kind of peace.

Eric moves a step forward, dragging his foot through the pine needles. He moans as he does it like he can’t understand why he did it. He sways there for a moment and then opens and shuts his jaw. A long line of black drool reaches almost to his knees.

“Gross, Eric,” I tell him.

“Unh,” he answers. The black drool drops to the ground. “Unh,” Eric says again and then drags his other foot forward.

I might know what I have to do, but looking at Eric, I breathe in very deeply.

It isn’t going to be easy.

Think, Birdie.

All right.

One scratch, one accidental bite from Eric and I’m a goner. I have to take precautions. Tough gloves for his hands and something like a muzzle for his mouth. A hat to cover his head. Some sunglasses for his eyes, so I don’t have to look at the worms all day. Then a rope. A rope to tie him up at night, so he doesn’t wander away, so I can control where he is. I don’t know if he can still crack or not, but I’ll sleep better knowing I’m not going to wake up to my leg getting chewed off.