Ben Bedard - The World Without Crows

There were times when it was easy to think that there had not been such things as humans here.

For days they hiked, though now slowly and carefully. They saw a convoy of vehicles once, heading west, about fifteen cars, trucks, and vans. In the back of one of the trucks were men wearing military fatigues and holding assault rifles to their sides, barrels pointed at the sky. Sergio “took point,” which was his term for scouting ahead as Brad had once. Eric guessed John Martin let him do it because it made him proud and happy. John was constantly scanning the land around them with binoculars, so there was little danger. The two groups had talked little over the past days, as if rehearsing for their ultimate separation.

Eric, however, studied them more, tortured now by his decision. There were hundreds and hundreds of miles left to hike, through towns and around cities, up and down mountains, all of it through land threatened by Zombies and gangs of armed people. He shuddered thinking of the times they would be forced to scavenge for supplies. The longer they traveled, the more chance they had of being caught by paranoid and armed strangers who had no reason to trust them. Or they could be surprised by a cracked Zombie, like Brad. And even if they reached the island, was there any guarantee it would be safer? Would they be able to find the supplies to survive the winter? Just the three of them? If he led them to a slow death by starvation in Maine, he would die first of guilt. He tried to tell himself he was not the leader, but Sergio was right, he knew it. If he asked them to, both Sarah and Birdie would, in the end, agree to join with John Martin.

He found himself looking at Lucia more, trying to indelibly write her movements upon his mind. He listened when she talked, thinking of her accent, how wonderful and subtle it was. And he thought of her asking him to join her and her brother in a game of pass, and hearing Sarah say she liked him. The cruel thought stuck in him like a thorn.

He was sullen and quiet at night. He only talked with Birdie, and, because she talked so very little, this was not much. It was only in these times, when he watched Birdie draw with her dwindling crayons, watched her frizzy hair move in the wind, saw her smile at him sometimes, a brittle, tender smile, as delicate as any flower, it was only at these times when, filled with a protective, fierce determination, he ever felt sure of himself.

It was a solemn group that tramped east, through a land beginning to rise and fall in ever greater folds until, one day, they saw in front of them, no more than a mile or two in the distance, the forested hills of the Alleghany National Forest.

It was then a cracking shot pierced them. They ducked in fear as the gunshot echoed about them. It was Sarah who grabbed him and pulled him forward.

“Run!” she screamed.

Sprinting for the cover of the forest, Eric looked once over his shoulder. There, by the road they had been following, was the motionless body of John Martin, just another stone on the numb earth.

“ What happened?” Eric asked again. He had asked many times, but hadn’t heard the answer. He didn’t feel real. Nothing did. He blinked around at the forest where they had hid. Nothing made any sense to him. Trees were alien creatures burrowing into the sky. Birdie was next to him, her face pressed into his side. Sergio was clinging to Lucia next to him, low in the bushes, and Sarah was on her stomach, looking past the trees toward the road. Somewhere on the road out there was John Martin, shot down. “What happened?”

“Shut up,” Sarah hissed. “It’s Carl Doyle.” She tugged him down to the ground.

As if summoned, the Land Rover appeared over the crest of the hill. It was moving so slow, it reminded Eric of a stalking cat, moving closer and closer to its prey.

“Enough of this,” said Eric. He pushed himself to his feet.

Sarah clutched at his clothes, but Eric tugged himself free. He walked alone, out of the forest, and toward the Land Rover. He couldn’t feel his feet.

When Eric found himself alone, his hands in the air, he had second thoughts. He had no plan. He had no gun. He had nothing but a determination to end it.

As he walked, he looked at the ground. It was strange how his feet walked through the grass, crushing flowers and thorns. It was strange they kept moving when all he wanted to do was run in the opposite direction.

“That’s close enough!” Carl Doyle barked. Eric stopped, his hands in the air.

“I want to talk!” Eric called out.

Carl Doyle opened the door to the Land Rover and stood out. Eric swallowed when he watched Doyle approach him. He looked worse than ever. His eyes were entirely red and oozed a dark, almost black, blood. The hair on his head was thinning, and though he walked with both legs, one was stiff. It gave him a strange, rolling gait. The sweater and pants he wore, once neat, were now covered with filth. Even the Land Rover, behind him, that had looked so immaculate once, was covered in gore.

“Well, well,” Doyle said, looking at him. “It’s Eric.” He said this as if he was genuinely surprised to recognize him. His fake accent came back. “I’ve been searching for you. And now I’ve found you, old chum. Jolly good!” He slapped his leg, and then all the emotion dropped from his face. “It’s the savages, don’t you know. The savages. You wouldn’t believe it if you saw it. I’ve been traveling here for years, and I can’t find it. I find nothing. Just more of this.” He waved his arm around. “The Congo,” he said. Eric looked around and swallowed.

“Mr. Doyle,” Eric began.

“Yes, sir?”

“Mr. Doyle,” Eric began again. “If we return your medal, will you please leave us alone?”

“Of course!” Doyle exclaimed. “The medal! If it was mine, if it was here, with me, don’t you know, sir, if it were, then it would mean something. It would bring all of this into a center. You know what I mean, don’t you? The circle. The point from which it all makes sense. The island!” His eyes glittered. “The old girl was right, by god!” Doyle laughed and drew his sleeve over his eyes. Blood smeared across his face.

“If I give you the medal, are you going to leave us alone?” Eric asked again.

“I can talk to you, can’t I, Eric?” Doyle took a step toward him. Eric shrunk away without meaning to, but Doyle didn’t seem to notice. “You and I know, don’t we? You and I see. If there’s nothing but this waste.” Doyle waved his arm about him. “Nothing but this, then there’s nothing at all. I’m talking about order, sir! Order and then civility and then we have something. Otherwise, it’s nothing but savages! And we’ve seen a lot of them, haven’t we now?”

“Yes, we have,” Eric agreed. He reached into his pocket and took out the medal. He held it toward Carl Doyle between his thumb and finger. “We just found it,” Eric said. “I swear if I knew we had it, I’d have given it to you sooner.” His hand shook as he held it toward him.

Carl Doyle seemed hypnotized by the medal. He picked up his chin and thrust it forward. Stepping forward, he took it from Eric’s hand. Then, letting the medal rest in the palm of his great, meaty hand, Doyle looked down on it. An expression came upon his face that Eric would never forget. It was sadness and pain, mixed with a strange, incessant, depthless greed and hunger. Doyle closed his fist upon the medal. For a moment, he seemed feeble and helpless, ashamed. His hand went to his pocket and then his face was blank once more. He looked at Eric and, clearing his throat, put a hand upon his shoulder and shook him gently. “Good show,” he said. He winked at him, and a drop of blood pulsed wetly down his face.