Ben Bedard - The World Without Flags

So I don’t return to Cairo.

But my bad night’s sleep and feelings of guilt don’t make me a very good travelling companion. I don’t do much that second day except nod and scowl. When Randy tries to talk to me, I just give him a dark look that tells him to leave me alone. He doesn’t seem to mind or notice, but just smiles and turns back to the road.

I’m in this mood all through the long day. We don’t find the place he told me about the night before. “Tomorrow,” Randy tells me. “We’ll get there tomorrow.”

I spend the day watching the roads, frowning, bitter about every mile that passes beneath the cart, taking me farther away from Eric and Pest. I hardly even say thank you for the evening meal and just go back to the cart to sleep. Thankfully, on the second night, my exhaustion wins over my guilt, and sleep comes to me almost immediately.

I dream of summer. I’m walking. I’m thirsty.

When I look over to my right, the man I know as my true father is walking beside me, holding my hand. When I look to my left, it’s my mother, holding my other hand. She smiles down at me, and her face is more clear to me than it’s ever been before. She’s got a thin face and long, straight black hair. Her eyes are golden and her neck is long and graceful. I never knew she was so beautiful.

Everything is clear in my dream. My father’s voice, my mother’s face, the feeling of asphalt under my feet. My father tells me, “Birdie,” he says. “I know you can do it. You’re going to be just fine, you hear me?”

I look up at my mother who leans down toward me. “Sometimes when the monster swallows you,” she says sweetly. “It spits you right back up!” She laughs and taps my nose.

“You’re going to be right as rain,” my father says. “You’ll see.”

But when he looks at me, his eyes are full of worms, and a river of dark fluid runs from his mouth.

I wake up suddenly, violently sitting up, protecting my face from the river of filth coming from my father’s mouth. When I realize I’m awake, I sit there, breathing heavily, and, I have to admit, moaning a little. I’ve never dreamed so clearly of my mother and father. Eric told me that I used to tell different stories about them when I was younger. I said they shot each other, I said they died of the Worm, I said they vanished, I said that they were killed by gangs. Over time, Eric and Lucia realized I didn’t really remember. As time passed, Eric told me, I stopped talking about them at all. All these years I thought I had truly forgotten them. These memories shake me. It’s a long while before the dream fades away. I breathe deeply, in and out, the way that Lucia taught me so long ago when I feel overwhelmed.

I focus on the smoldering campfire and Randy’s figure curled up in a sleeping bag next to it. By the time I settle down, I realize that it’s dawn. I breathe in and out and watch the sunrise. I listen to the birdsong and the wind in the trees.

Finally I feel better and the nightmare loses its hold on me. I don’t forget it exactly, but I can feel it dispersing, drifting away, melting into the dark corners of my mind. I breathe a lot easier, and even though I woke up so violently, I feel much better than I did the day before. Almost immediately, I feel bad for my attitude with Randy. He hasn’t done anything. He didn’t deserve the scowls and grunts I pointed his way the day before. He was, after all, doing us a favor. Wanting to make up for it, I decide the best thing to do is to make him some breakfast, surprise him when he wakes up.

I start by silently scraping up some hot coals in the fire and then putting a few dry pieces of wood on them. Then, while it smokes and sputters to life, I step lightly over the cart and begin rummaging through the food. I’m looking for a treat, something sweet, something that says, hey, sorry I was such a jerk yesterday. That way I don’t actually have to say it. I don’t find much except dry venison and some vegetables that are so old and wrinkled, they look like the fingers of dead old men. I shiver and continue searching. There must be something more than that. In one of the bags in the corner of the cart, I find them, like a treasure trove, bar after bar of roasted oats, honey, and nuts, wrapped in plastic. They’ll make a perfect breakfast. To make it even better, I find in another bag, resting close up against a sack of water to keep it cold, two glass jars of fresh milk, yellowish with cream. He must’ve got that from Cairo.

My mouth waters thinking of the fresh milk, and when I hear the fire crackle behind me, I go back to check to see if there’s enough water for tea in the aluminum pot from last night. I’m happy to see that there is and it’s already bubbling at the bottom, tiny pearls of air clinging to the bottom. Nothing seems better to me right now than a hot cup of tea, made creamy with fresh milk. I go back to the cart to get the mugs, bowls, and spoons for breakfast. I sit down by the fire and break up the oatmeal bars in the bowls while I wait for the water to boil.

By the time Randy wakes up, I have everything ready. He takes his tea in his hand with a smile and then yawns. “What’s this?” he laughs. “Four star service?”

I have no idea what “four star service” is, but he looks so funny in the morning that I laugh too. His hair is exactly the same as always, exploding out in every direction like some kind of confused meteor shower.

“Someone feels a lot better today,” Randy says, sipping at his tea.

“I needed some sleep,” I tell him. This is about as close as I plan to get to admitting I was a jerk the day before or apologizing.

“So did I,” Randy agrees, stretching and groaning luxuriously. When he’s done with that, he takes the bowl I hand to him and sets it on his lap. He nods and winks at me in way of thank you, and I’m grateful he doesn’t hold my behavior yesterday against me. “Listen,” he tells me as I sit down cross-legged to sip my tea. “We ought to come across that place today. Might even get there this morning.” He coughs suddenly, turns to the side, and spits out into the forest. He wipes his mouth and looks at me with his green, sparkling eyes. “Let me tell you,” he continues, “that place is like the best for you guys. There’s a house and a basement and a little barn and everything.” He takes a drink of his tea. “Best thing is,” he says, “this place is way off the road. I guess there used to be a driveway, but you can’t even tell now. It’s a hike into the forest, all right, but no one goes there. No one knows it’s there. Except for the ole Vandal.” He winks at me.

“Sounds perfect,” I say. I feel more optimistic than I have in a long time. I feel a little embarrassed for moping all that time and thinking the worse of everything. All I have to do is find this place with Randy and then go back to get Eric and Pest. We should be settled in just a few days. Then I can take care of Eric until…well, until. “Thanks,” I say.

“No,” he says with a grin, “thank you for bringing along some granola! That’s how I know you’ll be just fine. Planning!”

I laugh as Randy picks up the bowl of cereal and jabs his spoon into it. “Well, I can’t take credit for that,” I tell him. Randy looks up at me as he puts the spoon in his mouth. “I found those granola bars in your cart. I hope you weren’t saving them for anything.”

Randy’s face goes as pale as the moon. He turns to the side and spits out the granola on the ground. Then he pours the hot tea in his mouth and spits out into the dirt frantically. He springs to his feet and begins to spit into the grass, retching and gagging desperately.

“What’s wrong?” I stand up, confused. For a moment, I think the milk must be spoiled and I’m about ready to laugh, but then I see them in my mind. They flash eagerly in my mind. The granola bars wrapped in plastic. Randy gave them to us at the Homestead. I remember how most everyone ate them and then the Worm came. Then the bar I slipped into Eric’s pocket. Squint ate that one, just hours before he turned. That granola bars. I jump to my feet and stab out an accusing finger at Randy. “You infected us with the Worm!”