Ben Bedard - The World Without Crows

Eric felt a chill and his heart fell. Maybe Brad had been right. Maybe they would have to kill him. Brad had been prepared to do it. But when Eric thought of doing it, he felt nauseated and afraid.

As they sat by the fire, silent, Eric thought there was a test ahead of him. He could feel it. It would be the test of his life. He would have to face it. Some day, maybe soon. He could not avoid it. But he shrunk from it, terrified.

The thought tortured him and he could not sleep.

Lake Erie was huge. Eric had never seen the ocean before, so it was the most water he had ever seen. The gray waters, calm and flat, stretched to the north and west. They arrived at the shore haggard but strong. The beach was made of stone pebbles, some round, some large and flat and gray. Eric and Birdie and Sarah sat on the rocks and looked at the water. John Martin, Sergio and Lucia sat together on a knoll overlooking the stones and water. The waters lapped gently against the rocks. The plan was now to move east, but for now, they didn’t seem much interested in anything except staring at the huge lake.

The waters seemed to go on forever. It seemed strangely lifeless to Eric. Thinking of the lake, he had imagined waters glowing blue as sapphire. But the lake was the color of lead, flat and endless. The sight made him think this whole idea was useless. He should have stayed home. He should have stayed in Athens. Maybe it would’ve been better, after a while. Maybe the gangs would settle down. Why had he thought that hiking hundreds of hundreds of miles was a good idea? Was it, in the end, only because he missed his father, only because he still felt empty somehow without him? Was it all about him and his stupid desires and foolish fears? Looking out over the gray waters, Eric thought such thoughts and grew heavy with self-loathing and doubt.

Suddenly Sarah burst into tears. She put her face in her hands and then dropped her head against Eric’s shoulder. Eric stiffened in surprise, but then awkwardly put his hand around her shoulders. Her yellow hair snarled on his shoulder.

“I’m so sorry,” Sarah sobbed. “It’s all my fault! This is all my fault!”

“It’s okay,” Eric said, trying to soothe her.

“No! No!” Sarah was inconsolable. Eric didn’t say anything, but just rubbed her arm. Sarah opened up her hand in front of him. For a while, Eric couldn’t understand what he was looking at. Then it resolved into a flat round piece of shining metal.

It was Carl Doyle’s medal.

“Why?” asked Eric, before he could stop himself.

“I don’t know,” Sarah sobbed. “I-I found it while we were escaping. He must have dropped it in the forest.” She gave out a tortured groan. “My grandfather had one, and maybe, I…I don’t know, Eric. I just took it.” Eric didn’t know what to say, but his heart fell in him. Sarah cried. “I wanted to give it back, but I was scared. Then it all got so crazy, I really didn’t dare. I’ve been so scared, Eric. Now-now, look what happened. All those people are dead! Brad is dead and it’s all my fault!”

Eric didn’t know what to say. He took the medal from her, and then put his arm about her. “It’s not your fault,” he said. “Carl Doyle is crazy. He would’ve found some excuse, I think.” He didn’t know if he believed what he told her. If it hadn’t been for the medal, maybe Doyle would not have fixated on them. Maybe they would be back at the Slow Society. But he didn’t want to tell Sarah this. She was already wracked with guilt.

“I’m so sorry, Eric,” she said. “I’m so sorry.” Looking out over the lead gray water, the medal seemed heavy in his hand.

Eric held Sarah by the lake for a long time.

They built a fire up on the knoll in the midst of a ring of stones from the beach. As they boiled water for the next few days, Sarah began making dinner. After her confession to Eric, she seemed in a much better mood. John Martin, Sergio, and Lucia had spent the afternoon fishing. They had caught a few fish and Sarah was busy preparing them. Stirring the fried fish, she added corn and canned potatoes. Tasting as she went, she added salt, pepper, and some other spices that Eric did not know. Finally she let it simmer for a long while.

The others were quiet and reflective. Birdie, who had spent the afternoon wandering on the beach, spread out a collection of stones, whose uniqueness only she understood. She ordered them in a circle, and then picked them up one by one and placed them in the circle, before taking them out again and replacing it with another. Eric was too preoccupied with the medal in his pocket to follow the logic of Birdie’s game. He had promised not to tell the others, but already, this promise dug into him. By the time dinner was done, the sun had set. The fire cast a red light upon the dark waters of Lake Erie. The lake was somehow more comforting in the dark. They ate silently for a while.

“You know,” John Martin said finally. “We’ve been talking.” Here it comes, Eric thought. They want to leave us now. “We’re going to be turning north soon. We’d be happy if you came with us.”

Eric blinked in surprise. “You want us to go with you?”

“But we’re going to Maine,” Sarah said.

“Why?” asked Lucia. “Why don’t you come with us?” She was looking at Eric and he tried not to blush, though he doubted he was successful.

“We’re going to Maine,” Sarah repeated.

“We’re going to live on an island,” Birdie said, looking up from her circle of stones. “Then the Zombies can’t get us.”

“You’d be safe with us too,” said Sergio.

“You could shake Carl Doyle,” said John Martin. “He thinks you’re going east.”

“I don’t know,” Eric said. “I have to think about it.”

Sergio leaned forward to speak, but John Martin shook his head. Sergio sat back, expelling his air, exasperated. He crossed his arms and then uncrossed them before Lucia put her arm about him. Sergio gave her a little twitch of a smile, and seemed to relax.

After another moment, John Martin lifted himself to his feet. “Take a walk with me, Eric.”

Eric looked around at the others before he got to his feet. Unhappy, Sarah glared at the two of them. But Eric shrugged and then followed John Martin out of the circle of red firelight, and to the moonlit shores of Lake Erie.

Eric had always realized the size of John Martin. He towered over the rest of them. His arms were as big around as most people’s legs. But Eric had seldom noticed how careful John was with his movements. How his big hands were held to his side or used to accentuate a point with a twist. Big as he was, John Martin moved with easy, muscular grace. His eyes were wide and welcoming, and Eric felt like he listened. There was a quiet patience about him that Eric trusted.

John Martin looked at him for a moment, and then, twining his hands together, he turned his gaze at the lake. “After the plague, when everyone I knew was dead, I shut myself in my basement,” he began. “My plan was to wait a year or two until everything settled and then come out again.” He paused for a second. “So I hoarded all the food I could find and blocked up all the windows and doors. I started to wait. I also started to think. I thought about my aunt who raised me and the woman I should have married but didn’t. I thought about the ending of everything. And I waited. Weeks and weeks. I started wondering why. What was the reason for any of it? What would I do when I came out anyway? All I had in that dark basement was myself and my own thoughts. One day, I started thinking about ending it. I had a gun. I started cleaning it. Talking out loud, arguing back and forth about whether or not to use it. One day I put the gun in my mouth. I felt the trigger. I couldn’t think of a single reason to live. Not one.”