Ben Bedard - The World Without Flags

Then I see it, up ahead. In the middle of the field, on the crest of another hill, is an old clapboard farmhouse with a lopsided barn next to it. It’s just the kind of place I’ve been looking for. Just seeing the place and the hope it represents makes me forget my exhaustion. We can rest there. I tug at Bandit’s rein and eventually he starts forward and then I give Eric a little shove in the back to get him going, and our slow train moves ahead, one plodding footstep at a time. The sun is rising to our right, cutting across the glimmering fields and shining bright in a cloudless sky. Already the fields have started to steam from the evaporation of the dew. The birds have come alive in the sun too and as we make our slow way to the farmhouse, I watch swallows dart and fly over the field, catching their breakfast of insects and chattering as they go.

The sun has climbed far over the trees before we reach the farmhouse. I tie down both Eric and Bandit to a fence before I eye the farmhouse apprehensively. Now that I’m here, I have to deal with the idea that the farmhouse might not be empty. I haven’t got a weapon either. Not a gun filled with blanks. Not even my knife. I survey the house. I don’t see any evidence of people using it. It looks like it hasn’t been entered in a very long time. But I can’t afford to be stupid, so I circle around, looking for the slightest evidence of use. The barn doors are open, but there are no footprints or hoof prints in the dirt around it. There’s no sound. The only movement I can see are the barn swallows who dive in and out of the barn through the open door.

Finally I creep into the barn and look around. It’s a simple barn with a few stalls and a hay mount above. In the back corner there’s a chicken coop, but there’s only a few old gray feathers to show it was ever used. Carefully I climb the wooden ladder to the hay mount. Nothing up there but a few piles of hay, rotted almost to dirt. I climb back down and look in the stalls, but the barn has been thoroughly cleaned out. There’s nothing in there that could be of any use whatsoever. Not so much as a stray nail. I pry a thin board off the wall between the stalls. It’s got a nice heft to it, and I give it a practice swing. That should do some damage if it comes to that. Emboldened, I move closer to the house with my new weapon.

The house isn’t in great condition. As I get closer, I see some details that I missed before. All the windows are broken. The roof is sunk in on one side and looks on the verge of collapsing. The door is open too, but only a crack, as if someone forgot to shut it on their way out. I can’t help but imagine that a family must have lived here once. Laughing kids, barking dogs, a few cars, maybe a horse or two in the barn. I open the front door carefully, but the hinges screech, which makes me cringe.

Still, I tell myself, it’s a good sign. No one has opened that rusty door in a very long time. I slip inside with my plank ready to swing. The living room, or what’s left of it, is fairly large. A rotting couch happily sprouts grass in the center of the room. A bowed coffee table sits in front of it. Surveying the damage is a wrecked television set, shattered long ago, probably just for the hell of it. I don’t see any other reason to smash a television set. Behind the television is a wall covered with moss and dripping water. This is where the collapsed roof leaks in. The water has rotted out the wood in the ceiling. The house smells like wet, damp earth. But no sign of anything alive…yet.

When I move to the kitchen, I see that the place has already been searched over, many times. All the cupboards are open, some of them broken. There’s not a can left, not a toothpick, nothing. Not even an old knife or fork. It’s completely scavenged like a dead deer after the wild dogs have fought over it. There’s absolutely nothing here. But this is good news. I’m not looking for supplies, I’m looking for a place to stay.

I check the second floor, but it’s even worse than the first. Someone has even scavenged the mattresses, shoving them out of broken windows is my guess, by the looks of the windows, which aren’t just broken but totally smashed away. I don’t stay on the second floor long. The floor creaks and whines too much and I don’t trust the house. It looks like it might start collapsing any day now. Eric used to tell me that the worst thing that can happen to a house is a leaking roof. Then it’s only a matter of time before it’s totally ruined. Looking at the house, I can see why. It won’t be long before it just crumbles in on itself.

I breathe easier. We’re alone.

I decide to set us up in the barn. After unpacking and unsaddling him, I guide Bandit into a stall where he nickers at me petulantly. “I’m tired too,” I say, defensively. “It’s not like I wanted to walk all night either.”

Bandit tosses and shakes his head.

“Don’t be an asshole,” I tell him, feeling underappreciated.

I’m so tired, I just want to get Eric into a stall, lay him down, and then crawl into the last stall by myself and sleep for about seventy hours. But as I’m maneuvering Eric, I’m struck by how much weight he’s lost since he got sick. It breaks my heart, and before I know it, I’m crying again, soundlessly. I rub the tears out of my eyes, but a feeling of guilt rises to me, hot and angry. I can’t sleep knowing he’s like this. So I find myself walking around, gathering up old, dry wood and then struggling to start a fire. Finally I get one going, crackling and snapping energetically, and I go to the backpack and come back with a kettle. Then I pour the last of the water that I brought with us. Struggling to stay awake, I wait for the water to boil. It seems to take forever. I realize I’m crying louder now, but it’s not from sadness. I’m just so tired. I haven’t had a decent night’s sleep since before the Worm hit us. I’ve never cried from exhaustion before. It’s pure misery.

After about six hours, it seems, the water boils. I wipe my eyes and pour some into an aluminum mug. I notice I’m shaking a little, but I breathe and try to control my crying. Then I stir in all of our maple sugar until it’s fully dissolved. I’m sniffling the whole time. It’s so hard just to stay awake. Then I have to wait for the boiling water to cool. I don’t want to burn Eric. After that ordeal, I bring the mug to Eric who is standing where I left him. I put the mug down carefully on the ground and move Eric into his stall. Then it’s another struggle to get him to sit.

“Come on,” I say, tugging at him. “Just sit down!”

“Unh,” Eric says, not budging.

I try to trip him, but he seems pretty good at keeping his feet for some reason. Maybe I’m too tired to do it right.

“Come on!” I yell and push him. Luckily, he stumbles a little, and I take advantage of it and pull him toward the ground. He falls slowly to the ground and then topples to one side so that his face is pushed into the dirt.

“Unh,” he says.

“Damn it, Eric,” I hiss, and pull him back up to a sitting position, his legs spread out in front of him like a frog. Half of his face is covered in dirt. I take out the rag from his shirt that I’m starting to think of as the drooly towel and wipe his face clean, or try to. Mostly the dirt just streaks like camouflage. I’m too tired to wipe anymore, so I leave him like that and go get the mug of very sugary warm water. It’s the last of our sugar so I’m careful with it. It could be life and death for Eric.

I crouch in front of Eric, holding the mug carefully. Eric just sits there with his jaw open. To get his attention, I pour a few drops into his mouth. Immediately Eric jerks violently to life, sitting straight up toward me, his tongue lashing out for the water. The movement is so abrupt, he knocks the mug out of my hand. I feel the emptiness in my hand and my heart plummets inside me.