Ben Bedard - The World Without Crows

Lucia had nothing to say to that. Eric could see her struggle for a response, but in the end she just put her hand on his shoulder and said, “I’m sorry, Eric.”

Eric turned back to the lake. “We need to find a different place to get water. This place is full of death.”

Eric took out Birdie’s denim backpack. He had never opened it. The contents of Birdie’s backpack were:

—Four, stubby crayons, one brick red, one black, one orange, and one gray.

—Six drawings and three blank sheets of paper.

—A small can of mandarin oranges.

—A water bottle, half-full.

—Two red barrettes with white flowers, clasped together in an X.

—A glossy cover of a magazine with the Little Mermaid on the front with flowing red hair, folded carefully into a square.

—Three round pieces of red and white hard candy.

—A box of pancake mix, unopened.

—One packet of strawberry Kool-Aid.

—A small screwdriver with a translucent yellow handle.

—One pair of child’s sunglasses in a white frame.

—A diamond wedding ring with All My Love Always etched on the inside.

—Six paperclips.

—Two dull pencils and one pen.

—One creased picture of a white cat.

—A slip of paper with GRAFTON written in Birdie’s handwriting.

—One quarter, a dime, and four pennies.

—Three rubber bands, two red and one blue.

From the top of a forested hill, opened to the eastern side so they could see the smoking ruins that was New York City far on the horizon, they saw the largest horde of Zombies they had ever seen. Thousands of them, groaning and lumbering, pushed toward the ruined city. They made a low, rumbling sound painful to hear. Eric felt he was on the lip of hell and looked down upon damned souls.

“They must smell water,” Lucia said breathlessly.

Sergio trembled at the sight and then finally turned away and walked down into the woods to escape it.

“But for the grace of God, there go I,” said Eric, unable to look away.

“What?”

“It was something my mother used to say.”

They were quiet then until an explosion ripped through the Zombie horde. They staggered back in terror, the bright, blooming fire and smoke pushing corpses high into the air. The horde made a groaning sound, deep, low and horrific, like the song of some tortured leviathan of the black depths.

Into the gap created by the explosion, the Land Rover drove. Eric fumbled for his binoculars, breathless.

Another explosion followed as Doyle threw sticks of dynamite into the Zombies. Eric’s hand shook as he tried to hold the binoculars steady on the Rover. Carl Doyle was leaning out the window, red sticks of dynamite in his hand. His dark face was contorted and all shadow.

“Do you see her?” Lucia asked. “Do you see Birdie?”

Trembling with excitement and fear, Eric tried to keep the binoculars on the Land Rover as it bumped and dove among the burning Zombie corpses. There was another rocking explosion. Sergio stumbled up the hill toward them, his eyes wide with terror.

“Jesus Christ,” he swore when he reached the top.

The Zombies let out another groan as the Rover plowed through them. Now Carl Doyle was driving with one hand. The other hand held out his samurai sword which stabbed and slashed awkwardly out the window.

“Is she there?” Lucia repeated. “Do you see her?”

The Land Rover plowed through another moaning group of Zombies and then shook as it hit a road. A second later, covered with dark gore, the Rover vanished into the woods to the east. Eric dropped the binoculars.

“Well?” Lucia looked at him anxiously.

“I didn’t see her,” Eric said. “It was too dark.” He looked at them and felt a twist of anger for the expectant hope he saw there.

He didn’t have much hope himself. He didn’t realize until then, but he didn’t have hope for Birdie, and he resented they did. Brad had died. So had Sarah and John Martin. Birdie was dead too. He could feel it.

They were all going to die.

The chase was on.

Instead of resting at the Delaware Water Gap, they pushed on, turning away from the rising sun and heading north toward Catskill Park. That was where Doyle expected them to go, so that was where they would be. Eric kept his gun in his front belt now and spent most of his time daydreaming of killing Doyle.

As they hiked quickly away from the belt of forest around the Water Gap, they tried to ignore the great, gasping clouds of dark smoke rising in the east. It seemed like all the east coast was on fire.

None of them mentioned the fire or the smoke.

When they talked, which was infrequent, they spoke of food and water.

Only Birdie mattered otherwise.

They didn’t speak her name anymore.

Hiking as fast as they could, they stuck to the Delaware river, with great hills rising on each side of them, the northern arm of the Appalachian mountains. As they snaked their way north, following the river, the hills grew softer and began to flatten into overgrown farmlands. They came at last to a road, Route 209.

Without pause, Eric turned onto the road, hiking fast across the dirt and leaf covered path through the forest. Beneath it was the asphalt, but it looked like no one had driven on the road for a while. Eric searched the road for any side of Carl Doyle, but saw nothing.

“We shouldn’t walk on the road,” Lucia said, following close behind Eric’s fast pace.

“I’m not hiding anymore,” Eric answered. “We don’t have time for that.”

That night they crossed Interstate 84 and camped in the lightly wooded fields. Eric spread out his map. It was ragged and lined with creases like an old man’s face. Eric’s finger traced a line of blue, the Delaware River.

“We need to cross somewhere,” Eric said.

“Why don’t we swim?” Sergio asked.

Eric shook his head. “Too much risk,” he said. “If we swallow even a little water by accident, we would end up with the Vaca Beber. Those rivers are poison. Also,” he added, looking at him. “Doyle needs a bridge.”

Eric traced his finger down the map and then stopped at a town.

“Are you sure?” Lucia asked. “It’s right through a town, Eric.”

“I’m sure,” he said. “Every day we wait is another day Birdie is with Doyle. We cross now.”

Eric tapped a dot on the map.

Port Jervis.

Sergio and Eric sat together, looking east, where the horizon glowed dirty red. Twice the horizon lit up brightly for a moment, a soundless explosion in the dying city. Sergio stared at it. His bravado failed him. He suddenly looked frightened and small to Eric.

“I don’t really like baseball,” he told Eric. He didn’t take his eyes from the burning horizon. “My Dad loved it though. Watched it whenever he could.” He swallowed and then smiled thinly. “Mets,” he said, looking at Eric. He was quiet then for a while before he began again. “Guess I must’ve been a little of a disappointment to him. I never played sports. I played video games.” Something like laughter emerged from him. “Doesn’t that seem like a lifetime ago? Or maybe it was never real.”

Eric didn’t have anything to say. It did seem unreal, that life. It seemed more unreal with each day that passed. Had he ever got up to frying bacon? Had they gathered to watch movies and eat pizza? Had he ever sat next to his mother on the couch and rested his head on her shoulder?

“It doesn’t matter,” Eric said finally. “None of it matters now.”