Ben Bedard - The World Without Flags

“Don’t start, Birdie, damn it,” I tell myself. I breathe quickly, trying to gather the courage to do the only thing I can think of doing, the only thing that will save me and Eric. I sob again without wanting to. It sounds like someone else. I realize that tears are coming down my face. I breathe in and out quickly and then pull at my left hand. I look where the skin bunches against steel, where it keeps the cuffs from sliding off. Trembling, I close my eyes. I don’t have time for this. I breathe. They could come back at any moment, and that would be the end.

I breathe and then hold out my left wrist. I put the shining blade just below where I have to cut. The blade is cold and hard and very sharp. I press down, feel the pressure against my bone.

I close my eyes.

Hold my breath. Feel my body steady.

And then, with one swift movement of my arm, I slice.

I come loose suddenly with a feeling like an electric shock in my left wrist. I stagger back, shaking with pain, but I’m free and the elation makes me forget the flesh I leave behind. Without looking at my carved up hand, I run to the campfire where there’s a rag drying on a rock. Feeling faint, I wrap up my cut and broken wrist. I clench my teeth to keep from screaming as I pull the rag tight. Suddenly, my vision starts to darken, like someone poured a dark liquid into my eyes. I sink down to my knees, struggling not to faint from loss of blood, from pain, from the relief of escaping. I struggle against the liquid darkness boiling up inside me, but I feel like I’m drowning in it. I put out my hand and feel the pine leaves of the forest floor. For some reason, this steadies me. I feel the tide of darkness pull away from me. The pain in my wrist roars back to life, and gritting my teeth, I push away from the ground and stand up.

“Don’t you move.”

I hear the warning before I see anyone. But I recognize the voice. It’s Randy.

There’s really only one thing I can do. I have to run and hope that he misses when he shoots with the gun he certainly has pointed at my back. If I stay, he’ll only kill me at his leisure. I’d much rather die running. I tense to sprint into the forest, turning ever so slightly, so that I run at an angle away from him, a little harder to shoot down.

“Don’t do it, Birdie!”

I stop dead in my tracks. I recognize that voice too.

It’s Pest.

I turn around slowly. When I see them, my heart doesn’t know whether to despair or celebrate.

“You try to run for it, and I kill them both,” Randy warns me. With Randy’s gun pointed at his head, Pest stands looking at me, his face black with ashes and smoke; beside him, his jaw hanging open, his eyes bound tightly with a red bandana, is Eric. They are both safe. Alive. At least for now. At least for a few minutes longer. I’d give anything to run to Eric, but I know if I start moving, Randy would shoot me down.

Randy smiles at me with his pearly wall of teeth. “I knew I was right to keep these two alive until I had you.” He smiles at me like we’re sharing a joke. He looks around, taking in Doctor Bragg’s corpse and the bloody handcuffs dangling from my right hand. Pest and I look at each other but say nothing. Randy shakes his head. “Goddamn,” he says finally. “You’re a survivor, no doubt about that. Nearly cut your own hand off, I bet.” His face twists into something like pride, but the way his eyes flashes at me is not as innocent as that. “It’s a shame, really.”

Randy raises his gun and takes slow aim at my chest. The sick grin never leaves his face.

“Hold on there!”

My heart stutters in me as I turn my head. Boston and Sydney come striding out of the forest. Randy doesn’t lower his gun, but his grin is gone. It’s been replaced by a stiff frustration that seeps into his eyes, which glint malevolently at me like sharpened knives. He had his chance to get rid of me easily and he’s lost it. He just had to talk. I can feel the regret coming off him like heat waves.

Behind Boston and Sydney, another man enters the camp.

“The President wants to talk to her,” says Boston as they walk forward.

I turn away from Randy to face the President of the Stars, a man I’ve never met who now holds our fate in his hands.

President Ramon Barber is a short man, dressed in clean, perfectly fitting military fatigues. You would never know looking at him that the world had ended ten years ago. His combat boots are black and impeccably polished. His buzz-cut hair is black as night with no sign of gray. What I notice is his deeply-pocked face, his skin as rough and uneven as a battlefield. His brown eyes search me with interest, but his eyes aren’t exactly friendly. I can see that he’s a man who makes important decisions, decisions of life and death, and he never questions them, even if he is wrong. He’s a man without regret, pointing forward. That’s not good. To him, I’m a member of the Gearheads who’s been poisoning innocent people with a terribly contagious disease. There’s no good decision from his point of view that ends up with me alive. I’m much safer to him dead. I’ve still got enough sense to be afraid, enough sense to keep my mouth shut until he asks his questions. I’ve got to think. Over Barber’s shoulders, I see Randy watching us, looking uncomfortable, his gun hanging at his side.

“What’s your name, girl?” Barber asks me. His breath smells like coffee.

“Birdie,” I answer.

Barber looks me up and down, pauses at my broken and bound wrist, bright red with fresh blood, and then looks me in the eyes again. “How old are you?”

I shrug. He frowns and I can see by the indignant little flicker in his eye that I better respond with words. “I don’t know,” I say. “Sixteen or seventeen, I guess. Maybe more.”

He seems satisfied with that answer, but the indignation hasn’t left his eyes. “You going to do something with that?” He nods down at my hand, and, confused, I follow his gaze. I’m surprised to see that I’m still holding my knife. Instantly, I let it drop from my hand.

“She didn’t do anything!” cries Pest suddenly. He steps forward, but falls suddenly from a blow to the back of his head. He collapses to the ground, groaning. Randy shrugs at Barber, still holding the gun that knocked him down. Barber turns back to me, and I see it doesn’t bother him to see a defenseless boy struck down. He’s seen worse. He’s done worse. I have to be careful with him, and no matter how careful I am, it might not save me. I glance over to where Boston and Sydney are standing, watching, and I can tell from their hard eyes that I won’t find any help from them. The both of them have the attitude of people witnessing harsh but fair justice. There isn’t a spark of sympathy from either of them. It’s not just my life they’re judging, but Eric’s and Pest’s too. If I can’t find a way to convince them I didn’t try to spread the Worm for the Gears, we are all dead. I feel a horrible electric spasm of fear pulse through me. It’s so strong that I have to close my eyes to keep from sprinting away out of fear. I don’t want Eric to die. I don’t want Pest to die. I don’t want to die.

For the first time in my life, I feel it. I mean, my own life. Not in terms of the life I have lived, my memories, my dreams, people I’ve known and loved. Instead, I think of my life as this thing ahead of me, this space of time that hasn’t arrived yet, and I see that it could be, it should be, much, much longer than what has come before. I see my life as this tiny thing waiting to happen, like I haven’t even had a chance to do anything. I feel that I haven’t even begun living and I’m going to die. I begin to tremble. I’m trying to hold it together, but it’s hard. It’s so hard.