Ben Bedard - The World Without Crows

Brad walked forward, and when the Zombie, dragging her foot, came near to him, he waited impatiently for her to cross their path. They were so close to her, they could hear the air whoosh in and out of her mouth. Black liquid oozed from her lips. She gurgled and heaved forward.

“Come on, hurry up,” Brad told the Zombie.

Sergio laughed uncomfortably.

“If I ever turn into a Zombie,” Brad said, suddenly, as the woman dragged by them. “Just kill me. Seriously. This is pathetic.” He stepped around her and headed for the first door. “Seriously, just fucking shoot me.”

They all tried to laugh.

At the first house, Eric found a pantry with several cans of food, which he put in his backpack. Looking in the cupboard, he found a packet of noodles. There was a bag of flour too, but when he opened it, little moths flew out. The flour was full of worms. He found some hard candy in a little, emerald glass jar, shaped like a clamshell. He stuffed them in his pocket.

The sound in the empty house hurt somehow. He walked carefully.

There was a mantelpiece above a fake fireplace. It held pictures of men and women. Children. Smiling at the beach. Holding a baseball bat. He looked at an old photo of a man in a military uniform. He was supposed to be serious, but his eyes twinkled like it was all a joke.

In the back there was a room for children, painted purple. There were plastic toys all over the room and a chest against the wall, under the window. Eric asked Birdie if she wanted to look in there, but Birdie shook her head.

“There might be crayons,” Eric told her. But Birdie shook her head.

Eric opened the chest and searched through it. He found some crayons and put them in his bag.

“They’re all dead, aren’t they?” asked Birdie, standing in the middle of the room with her arms crossed before her and her hands clenched together.

Eric shrugged. “Probably,” he said.

“Are their ghosts here?” asked Birdie.

“No.” Eric saw that Birdie was trembling. “When people die, they just die, Birdie.” It was not harmless to believe in ghosts anymore. If she did, the world would be for the billions dead and that wasn’t the way it must be. “Do you believe me?”

“Yes,” she said, but she was still trembling.

Eric crouched in front of her. “People live on, but only in our mind and our heart,” he said. “They live in our memories, Birdie.”

“But I forget.”

Eric swallowed. It had not been long, but already his mother’s face was indistinct. “Me too,” he said. He wanted to say something. He wanted to comfort her, but he didn’t know what to say. He didn’t have an answer. No one did.

There was a thundering of footsteps then, and Eric shot up to his feet, tugging Birdie behind him.

“Look what I found!” Sergio cried, both he and Brad standing in the doorframe. He held out a dull gray pistol.

“I found bullets for it too,” said Brad happily.

Eric suddenly felt like he wanted to slap the both of them. “Don’t come crashing in like that,” he said in an even tone. “What’s wrong with you?”

They blushed and laughed uncomfortably.

As they moved to the next house, Eric felt Birdie’s hand in his. He felt strange. Larger. He moved in a world that did not scare him.

Maybe that was it, he didn’t feel scared anymore.

Maybe.

When they regrouped, they were smiling. The Heights had not been scavenged, at least not thoroughly. They were heavy with supplies. Both Sarah and John Martin’s backpacks bulged. Moving through the streets, they made their way north. They hardly noticed the Zombies in the streets and houses. They were too excited about the food to be quiet.

“I can make cake!” said Sarah excitedly to them. “I could build an oven with stone. I could!”

The thought of cake made them all giddy.

“We found pasta and tomato sauce and some parmesan cheese,” Sarah continued. “Spaghetti tonight! And maybe some sausages with it. I could even make them in the shape of meatballs and cook them in the sauce!”

“Spaghetti and meatballs,” Brad breathed, wide-eyed. Their mouths burst with saliva.

“And there’s something else,” Sarah said, her eyes shining. “A surprise!” She laughed.

It was then that the Land Rover came squealing to a stop in front of them. It had emerged from a side street as if from nowhere. Carl Doyle leapt out, almost before the engine whirred down.

He carried an assault rifle.

One of his legs was torn to shreds. Carl Doyle’s eyes were red and bloody. He had the Vaca B.

“I want my medal back,” he hissed pointing at them.

There was a burst of gunfire.

John Martin stood, pointing his gun toward Carl Doyle. The rest of them froze, hearts pounding.

“Calm down,” John Martin said, his gun steady. “Put that gun down.”

Carl Doyle licked his lips, but he didn’t move. He kept his gun cradled. He shook his head like something annoyed him and he could shake it free. “Excuse me, sir, I don’t have a problem with you. I am here to speak to Eric. He and I understand.” His eyes lit up. “We understand the island. I don’t have anything to say to you.”

“Just put the gun down,” John Martin said. “I don’t want to shoot you.”

“Preposterous,” said Carl Doyle. “I will do nothing of the kind. I am here to speak to Eric. We have a certain idea in common. A place where we can be civil. Civil, you understand. But without order, there is no civility. And order is what we lack. If I don’t get my medal, it means that we fail.” Doyle turned away from John Martin as if he wasn’t there. “In short, I want my medal back, if you please.”

“Mr. Doyle,” Eric spoke up. “Please listen to me! We don’t have your medal!”

“Now Eric,” Doyle laughed. “You are a solid bloke, I know. I understand, you understand, but he and them and the other savages, no. No, they understand only desire, the pinch of the stomach, savage fornication, how the blood warms at murder. That is not civility, not in the least. You and I, we can go to the island. We can have order. But first I want my medal back. Without that, there is nothing.”

“Time for you to leave,” John Martin said, his voice, already low, rumbled now.

“Don’t be absurd,” said Carl Doyle.

“Just shoot him!” exclaimed Brad. “He’s got the worm, he’s going to die anyway!”

Carl Doyle’s eyes went wide and his head snapped to Brad. “I beg your pardon! I do beg your pardon, sir!” His voice boomed about them. Even John Martin took a step back. “I have contracted no such disease! Yes, my leg is ruined. But I am in no way suffering from that Brazilian filth! Is that clear, sir!”

Brad swallowed. “Yes,” he said.

“Yes what?”

“Yes sir,” Brad said in a small voice.

There was another gunshot, and when John Martin lowered his gun again to point at Carl Doyle, he was steady again. “I’m only going to ask this one more time. Leave.”

Carl Doyle leveled his gaze upon John Martin. For a moment, his bloody eyes blazed a fire of red light. Then, without another word, he turned, climbed into the Land Rover, and sped off, shutting his door. As they watched the Rover speed away, Doyle veered to the side to strike a Zombie. It flew ten feet through the air before it hit a telephone pole.

The Zombie burst apart like a watermelon.

They were quiet now and anxious as they moved north. Only Brad was vocal.

“Should have shot that fat fuck,” he said to John Martin.

“I’m not shooting anyone unless I have to,” he responded.

“He’s dying of the worm anyway!” Brad exclaimed.