Ben Bedard - The World Without Crows

“Stop it, Eric!” Lucia exclaimed. “Sergio’s right, you’re going to get us killed!”

Eric whirled around to face them. “So what?” He glared at them. “I told Birdie I would protect her! And that’s what I’m going to do!”

“Eric,” Lucia said gently.

“Carl Doyle knows where she is,” Eric said. “I’m going to find him and he’s going to tell me. I’m not giving up on her!”

Lucia tried to stop him. “Eric, please—”

“You don’t have to come,” Eric said. “I can’t live with myself if I leave her. I’d rather die than abandon Birdie. Don’t you understand? I’d rather die!” Eric turned away from them. He heard them follow him, but didn’t turn. Up the road, he found a car that started. Lucia sat in the front while Sergio slipped in the backseat.

Eric had never driven before. He put the car in gear and hit the gas. The tires squealed in response, the car slid gently to one side, and then straightened out.

He would find out what happened to Birdie or he would die doing it.

The car was a 1989 Ford Probe, sleek and silver and responsive. Eric had seen commercials for the car as it drove around corners to the tune of electric guitars. He had wanted one so badly. It would make him cool. He would be someone other than the fat kid. Now he cared little for anything but Birdie. Still the music of the commercial echoed meaninglessly in his head as he swerved the car around wrecks.

Have you driven a Ford lately?

The Probe slid past a sign that said Cairo. Underneath it, painted on a piece of plywood in garish, bloody red, were the words: NO MINUTEMEN ALLOWED.

“I don’t like this,” Sergio said as they swung around three overturned vehicles and then into the town itself.

Up ahead, there was a crowd of vehicles parked haphazardly in the street and on lawns. Eric pulled out his .22 and set it on his lap.

The vehicles, mostly trucks, were parked in front of a plain, block-style church, with only the faintest hint of a steeple, a mere box crouched upon the church like a gargoyle. Wide double doors were propped open. Above the door, like the masthead of a ship, was a wooden black bear, with one paw forward, as if it was trying to say hello. Directly over the door and under the bear was a sign, painted in blue. It read GOOD PRINCE BILLY.

Crowded around the church were about two dozen people. Above a pit dug on the lawn a deer slowly roasted over an open fire, and two other carcasses waited, skinned.

Nearly every one of those dozen people had a rifle. And they were pointed at them.

Eric shook off Lucia’s arm and stepped out of the car with the pistol in his hand.

“Who are you?” one of them called.

“You one of them Minutemen?” another added.

Eric walked toward them. “I’m looking for a man in a pith helmet,” he said.

“What the hell is a piss helmet?” The crowd laughed.

“I think you picked him up this morning,” Eric continued. “I just need to talk to him.”

A dozen rifles tensed toward him.

Eric thought about Birdie. He could see her in his mind. It was the only thing that kept him from dropping his pistol and holding up his hands.

“Kid,” said one of them. “I think you best get in that car of yours and keep moving.” Before he could respond, a figure emerged from the church, a stocky old woman with bold hair, curled and silver.

“Hold on,” she said. “Put your guns down, for crissakes. Jim, Rudy, Beth. Come on now, these are just kids.”

They lowered their guns. “That’s a kid with a gun, Billy,” one said defensively.

“I’d have a gun too if I were them,” the woman said. “Wouldn’t you, Jim? World ain’t exactly welcoming these days.” She walked up to Eric and extended her hand. “My name’s Billy,” she said. “They call me Good Prince Billy around here. Welcome to Cairo.”

Good Prince Billy had rough, dry hands.

She was short, even shorter than Eric. She wore jeans and a denim shirt over a plain, pink t-shirt. Her face was wrinkled, and a crease that made her seem constantly reflective dominated the bridge of her sharp nose. Cunning eyes seemed to cut into him as she appraised him. Eric felt small and embarrassed under her gaze. Despite himself, he handed over his pistol.

“That’s for the best,” she said, taking the gun and winking at him. “Don’t want no misunderstandings.”

Eric shook his head. “I didn’t mean to, you know,” he stammered. “You know, scare anyone.”

“I know you didn’t, honey,” Good Prince Billy said. She slipped the gun into her pocket and turned toward the crowd. “All right,” she said, waving at them. “Get back to whatever it was you were doing. I’ll take care of our guests.” She motioned at them with a round wave of a hand and a thin, somehow humorous smile. “Follow me,” she said.

And they did.

The pews had been removed from the inside of the church. At each end were rows of bunk beds. “We all sleep in here,” Billy said. “People need each other, especially in times like these.” She looked them over. “That’s what happened to your friend,” she said. “Too much solitude will sour a man, drive him crazy.”

“He’s not our friend,” Lucia said.

“Well,” Billy said, “friend or not, he’s not right in the head. Don’t help he’s got the Vaca B neither.”

“Can we see him?” Eric asked.

Billy sized them up. “Why?”

Eric swallowed. “He took one of our friends, a little girl named Birdie. We want to know what he did with her.”

Billy stared at them. Her eyes softened. “Sorry to hear that,” she said. “It’s a hell of a world, ain’t it?” She walked to the back of the church and then opened a door.

They followed her down steps lit by a fluorescent light. It was the first time Eric had seen artificial light in some time. Billy noticed him looking up at it. “We got a generator down in the cellar,” she explained. “Let’s us have light, powers the kitchen upstairs. Keeps us sane.”

“Who are the Minutemen?” asked Lucia.

Billy looked at her and smiled. “No time for that story now, honey,” she said, starting back down the stairs. “Let’s just say there’s folk who want to be left alone and folks who want to meddle in other people’s lives.”

“And you just want to be left alone?” asked Eric.

Billy laughed. “Well, we ain’t interested in no war, that’s for sure.”

“War?” Sergio asked.

“Like I said,” Billy continued, going down a hall at the base of the stairs. “No time for that story now. Tell me what you know about this man.” Good Prince Billy turned, opened a door and led them down a hallway.

“His name is Carl Doyle,” Eric said. Their footsteps echoed. “We met him back in Ohio. We told him where we were going before we realized he wasn’t right in the head. He’s been following us ever since.”

“He killed our friend,” Sergio added. “Just shot him down in the street.”

“Where are you headed?” asked Billy. “And why does he care?”

Eric stopped as they came to another door, this one thick metal. Billy turned to him, waiting for his answer. “We’re going to Maine,” he said. “We’re going to live on an island.”

“Escaping?” Good Prince Billy laughed. “I don’t know, honey. I think you’ll find the world has a way of following you. Ain’t no man an island.” She winked at him. “I read that somewhere.”

Eric wanted to explain to her about the winter, about being surrounded by water, about being far from urban centers, but Billy had a way about her. She was right. He felt silly and naive. “Who are you?” he asked.