Ben Bedard - The World Without Flags

But it doesn’t last. Soon the beauty flakes away, and I begin to helplessly recall the faces of the people who won’t see this beauty ever again. Artemis and Peter and Matt and all the boys of the goon squad that are mostly dead now, except for Pest. And I see Pest himself, his round, white face, like a baby’s, his dark, curly hair, and his shining blue eyes, shimmering with intelligence and cunning. I wonder if, like all the rest, I will ever see him again. The thought makes my heart drop in my chest.

Then, as if my dropping heart has raised another memory, like my emotions are some kind of watery deep inside me, I remember again the days following the Worm, not recently, but a decade in the past when I was just a little girl. I remember a night like this. I’m walking under trees. Leaves crunch at my feet. Eric is walking next to me. He stops suddenly and looks down at me. He’s smiling. He puts his hand on my shoulder. I’m so tired, but his hand gives me energy because I don’t want to let him down. I want to keep going. Then he takes my hand.

It’s the memory of the hands that brings me racing to another memory, one older and more confused. Of my actual father. The feel of his large hand in mine, warm and soft, comes with images of fire and smoke. I’m frightened. I hear him talking to me, but I can’t understand all he’s saying. Only these words focus clearly: “You can do it, Birdie.”

That’s when I hear the crash, and I realize I’ve been sleeping. I look back. The sled has fallen apart.

I swing off Bandit and go back to check on Eric. He’s fine, lying flat on his back on a ruined sled. It’s all the same to him if he’s moving or not. I take the opportunity to wipe the black bile from his chin and face. He’s getting even thinner. I have to figure out a way to feed him or he’ll just waste away. I can’t keep giving him sugar water. I don’t have enough sugar for that. I look at him, concerned. I can’t help but brush his hair out of his eyes with my fingers. I feel my heart twinge in me so painfully, I have to get up and get away from him. I’m not going to be any use to him if I start crying my guts out.

It doesn’t take too long before I realize the whole sled is completely unfixable. The rope we used to lash it together has been frayed by the dragging. I try to use the remaining pieces to fix it, but it’s hopeless. When I think I have it fixed and get back on Bandit, he steps forward and rips it all apart again. Eric just lies there on a pile of logs in the middle of the road.

“Unh,” he says, but I don’t bother to answer him. I jump down from Bandit to survey the remnants of the sled and think. I stand there for a while under the moon.

Bandit is grazing on the side of the road, not a care in the world. At first I get very frustrated, but then I shrug. What can I do? I feel grateful that the sled lasted this long, just far enough to be ahead of Norman and Pest. It will take them all night to walk back to the Homestead. It gives Eric and I the start we need to vanish.

“Well,” I say to Eric, beginning to untangle him from the ruined sled. “I guess we walk from here.”

“Unh,” he says as I tug him to his feet.

“I’m not happy about it either,” I tell him. I pat him on the back.

There’s enough rope left to lash Eric’s backpack to Bandit. Then I climb on Bandit, who is annoyed at this and tries to step away, but I swing into place before he can get far. It’s the first trouble he’s given me, so I feel more lucky than annoyed. “Hush now,” I tell Bandit as he walks sideways for a second with the new weight. Then I prick him forward with my heels.

Looking back, I watch Eric get tugged forward by the rope and then walk. He walks faster without the backpack, I’m happy to see, but he doesn’t walk fast enough to keep from getting pulled by the rope every couple of minutes. Every time the rope goes tight, he staggers a little forward before finding his stride. Everything is great then for a minute or two before Bandit’s pace takes up the slack in the rope and the cycle starts again. If Eric would speed up just a little, it wouldn’t happen, but Eric is a one-gear machine, so every minute or so, I have to pull the reins on Bandit and get him to stop. Then I wait for Eric to walk closer before getting Bandit to move again. It’s a real pain, to say the least. I can’t think of any way to change the pattern.

At least the rhythm of stopping and going keeps me awake. I’m not too excited about the thought of falling asleep and dreaming. Things are tough enough, I don’t know why my stupid brain has decided that now is the best time to dredge up all those old memories of my father. It seems needlessly cruel.

Rounding the lake, we turn south and follow the road until I see another, in worse state, headed off to the west. I take that one and keep following it, putting as much space between me and the Homestead as I can. At some point, just as the sky starts to turn that deep violet color right before dawn, I see a road to the north and I take it.

This road is considerably worse. Sometimes it’s hard to see it’s even a road. There’s crumbled asphalt everywhere and it’s hard to walk. I have to keep an eye on Eric to make sure he doesn’t trip and fall. If he falls, he won’t even try to protect himself like a normal human. He’ll just fall. Hard. If he breaks a leg, I don’t know what I’ll do. Finally I have to get off Bandit and lead Eric more carefully. Now I’m the one tugging at Bandit, who stops whenever he can to munch on grass or just stand there, looking at nothing, not moving in the slightest. I really don’t know what’s going through his head when he acts like that. Maybe the dumb horse has the Worm too. I laugh a little at that, but I guess it’s not really that funny.

“Come on,” I say to Bandit, giving his rope a tug. “Stupid zombie horse.”

“Unh,” says Eric.

“That’s right,” I say. “You tell him, Eric.”

We’re walking mostly uphill now, sometimes steeply. With the dawn light coming, it’s easier to see and maneuver around the pits in the asphalt road, but it’s still not easy going. I’m really tired, and guiding Eric is hard. He’d walk right over a cliff if I pushed him in that direction. A couple of times, he stumbles and almost falls, but I get to him just in time, putting my shoulder to his chest to keep him upright. Whenever I do this, I almost gag just from Eric’s smell. It’s getting worse, it seems. Plus, when I put my shoulder into his chest, I can feel his bones. Sharp. Distinct. Eric was always tough and broad around the shoulders. Now he isn’t much more than a skeleton. I feel like every mile we walk is dragging him that much closer to death. If Eric doesn’t eat, I don’t see how he’ll live much longer.

If this worry isn’t enough, there’s also Bandit. Now that there’s no one riding him, he’s got the idea that he’s his own boss. He must be tired too because he just wants to stand in that obstinate way of his, motionless, head straight forward, not budging at all. It seems like every fifteen minutes, I have to yank at his reins to get him to move. Between Bandit and Eric, it’s hard as hell to move at all, let alone the miles and miles I want to get away from the Homestead.

Just then we crest a hill. There’s no trees at the top of the hill and the morning sunlight is brilliant. I shade my eyes and blink.

“Unh,” Eric says. I give his rope a tug and he stops.

“Yeah, it’s bright,” I agree.

Below us are rolling hills, fields sparkling with dew, acres of jewels, bordered by evergreen. About a mile off, I see a herd of deer lazily rising from their night’s rest. There must be a hundred of them. After the humans all died off, the deer inherited these fields and have been multiplying like crazy ever since. That might change in the future. Randy used to tell us stories of wolves, pushing down from the north. I look down at the deer and think their easy days are numbered. For now though, they look peaceful and content.