Ben Bedard - The World Without Crows

“I’m not shooting anyone I don’t have to shoot.” John Martin said nothing else.

But Brad continued, upset. “Goddamn it, that crazy fuck is going to follow us all the way to Maine! We should shoot him. You fuckers don’t have the guts, but I do. If my gun was loaded, I would’ve shot him. No one talks to me like that! Did you hear him? Excuse me, sir, pardon me, sir. Well excuse me, you fat fuck, but next time I see you, I’m going to blow your fucking head off! How’s that for order?”

Sarah tried to calm him, but he jerked his shoulder away from her touch and glared at her furiously. Eric had never seen him so enraged.

When, by luck, they came across a little tackle and bait shop, Brad wouldn’t go inside. He stayed outside, waiting, and when they returned, he was still fuming. “We need bigger guns,” he said, when they had gathered outside the tackle shop. “Who gives a shit for fishing? I want a gun.”

They moved sourly north.

A Zombie boy sat numbly in a tire swing. His little blonde head was cocked unnaturally to the side. His eyes were entirely coal black.

When they traveled, Eric noticed, they fell into a certain order. When he played D&D with his friends, marching order was very important. It decided who was strong, who was weak, who protected and who needed protection.

Up front, John Martin and Brad walked, not side by side, but jointly.

Behind them were Sergio and Lucia. Lucia walked with her head high, while Sergio had a way of constantly looking around them, and sometimes glancing back behind them.

Then came Sarah. Sometimes she slowed and walked with Birdie. Often Birdie preferred to walk slightly ahead of Eric. She kept her eyes to the ground, as if deep in thought.

Eric came last.

In D&D, he would be the warrior at the rear that kept them from surprise attack. The weakest fighter. The one no one was sure about. The one still trying to establish himself, to grow into who he was.

They were just outside of Champion Heights when it happened.

From one of the houses, a cracked Zombie burst out the door. He was a young man or used to be. His short dark hair was half missing, and his eyes had completely turned to black jelly. His right hand was missing. He gurgled and screamed as he ran toward them. John Martin pulled out his gun and fired while the rest of them ducked down at the sound. The Zombie howled but did not halt. John Martin fired three more times. The third time took the Zombie in the neck, and its head fell to one side, held on by a flap of skin and dark, putrid muscle. It stumbled and then fell sideways in the grass. From there, it kicked and thrashed for an impossibly long time.

“That’s what you should have done to Carl Doyle,” Brad said, as the sound of the last gunshot still lingered in the still air. His statement throbbed in the air with the last echoes of gunfire.

They were north of Champion Heights, quiet and pensive, the thought of food still there but distant. At some point, they would have to turn to the east to go to Pymatuning. For now, all they wanted was to find cover so they could fix some food and try to forget about the day.

They hadn’t gone far when they saw a long driveway leading to a farm. Brad stopped by the driveway and gazed at the farm.

“What’re you doing?” John Martin asked.

“A farm,” Brad said.

“So?”

“Every farmhouse has guns,” he said. “Rifles. Shotguns.” His eyes turned back to the farm. “I’m going in.”

“Brad,” Sarah pleaded. “Let’s just find a place to rest and eat! We can get the guns tomorrow. Okay?”

“No,” said Brad. “You guys can go if you want. I need a gun.” He started walking up the driveway.

“Hey,” John Martin said. “Don’t just walk off alone.”

Brad turned to him, without pausing. Walking backward, he gave him the finger. “Don’t tell me what to do,” he said.

John Martin shook his head, and then turned to them. “Go on ahead,” he said. “I’ll go with him.” They nodded.

Eric walked behind him and when John Martin noticed, he opened his mouth. “I’m going with you,” Eric stated. John Martin looked at him, shook his head again, snapped his tongue against the roof of his mouth in irritation, but nodded in the end. Halfway to the farm, he turned, hoping for some reason to see Birdie there, standing in the field, watching him.

But she wasn’t standing, waving at him. Instead, he stared into the bright yellow sun setting behind them. It burned a deep, dark yellow, like a rotten lemon.

Then Eric turned back toward the farm. He had to jog to catch up with John Martin. Brad had stopped to wait for them.

“I don’t need your help,” he spat when they came close.

John Martin didn’t stop, but passed by him without a word.

Eventually Brad followed, the three of striding toward the farmhouse.

The farmhouse probably hadn’t been a working farm in half a century. The house was in passable shape, if a little sagged in one corner, but the barn roof was so bent in the middle, it looked like a saddle. The farmhouse was painted a deep cream color that had turned slightly brown with age, while the barn may once have been red, but was now the dark color of aging, rotting wood. Parked in the barn was an old truck. Its back tires were flat and gave the truck the impression of a dog sitting back on its hind legs. Around the house was a large and overgrown lawn, thick with dandelions and a few thorny plants with soft, purple flowers.

In the heavy sunlight of dusk, the windows of the farmhouse glowed like orange cataracts. It was impossible to see inside.

The quiet was thick as the light. Now that he stood in front of the house, Brad no longer looked as angry as he had before. They stood there for a moment, eyeing the house and the surroundings. Nothing stirred.

Then Brad stepped forward like he was breaking through something. He clomped loudly up the steps and onto the reverberating porch. The screen door squeaked as he opened it. The door was unlocked.

It happened in an instant. First they were outside, looking, studying, appraising, and then, as if it was the body of someone else, Eric was stepping onto the porch, listening to the porch beneath him, reaching the door, and holding the screen door as he stepped across the threshold.

Before he knew it, he was inside.

Before they had gone, whoever they were, they had left the house immaculate. Everything was in its place. There were white doilies on the arms of the couch. The dishes were done and the sink was clean but for a fine coat of dust. On the coffee table there were four coasters, each facing a chair or a seat at the couch. In the middle was a vase where dead flowers stood. Petals from the flowers littered the coffee table like potpourri. All the pictures on the wall were straightened, and there was a piece of floral cloth draped over the television. It was as if the house was prepared for its own wake.

Brad walked across the carpet and threw open a closet door. He rummaged through it violently, throwing old coats and boots behind him on the floor. John opened a big wardrobe in the living room and searched inside. Eric walked quietly up the carpet steps to the bedrooms. People sometimes kept guns in their bedroom closets.

The bedroom was as clean as the one downstairs. There was a full size bed, made and tucked in. On the nightstand next to it was a book with a ribbon lying next to it, as if waiting for a reader. Eric thought about what Birdie had asked him about ghosts. Whoever lived here was neat, ordered, but in a caring way. She did it, and Eric was sure it was a she, not to force the world into order, but to welcome those she loved. To make people feel at ease and comfortable. Eric thought her spirit was still here. Maybe that was what Birdie was talking about, this feeling. Eric worried if he had told her the right thing.