Ben Bedard: The World Without Crows

Now Eric groaned as he lifted himself to his feet. It had seemed simple then, tracing lines on a map. Now, if he was not careful, he would be lost in a dead world. His vision blurred and his heart sped up. The world was gone and none of the lines on his map mattered anymore. He was nobody in a land of nowhere.

There was no map for that.

The days were cold and gusty. The rain came in quick, frigid showers. Eric tramped north, his backpack heavy on him.

In late afternoon, when he could walk no more, when the pain won, he found a high place, dry and out of sight. He built a fire and boiled water to drink. He wouldn’t drink any water that hadn’t been boiled for thirty minutes. He ate cold beans from the previous day. Then he lay down and watched the gray sky. He listened to the birds.

If there was enough light, he read.

Sometimes, he took out a little leather pouch. From it he poured crystalline dice, in all of the Pythagorean shapes. There were pyramids and diamonds and cubes and dodecahedrons. He separated them. He rolled them on the surface of his book.

At night, he often woke up clutching at the cramps in his legs and crying out. He hated the sound of his own voice. He seemed to hear it aching out over the distances, alerting everything and everyone that he was here.

He was weak and cowardly.

Zanesville seemed huge to him. The southern end was smoking. Sometimes he heard distant engines, roaring, or a crack of gunfire. The gangs were there, as he feared. He had planned to follow the 70 over the bridge and then follow the Licking River north until he was far enough away from Zanesville, and then turn northeast again. Now that he was close to the city, he didn’t want to get any closer. Even if the gangs didn’t shoot him outright, Eric would not survive among them. He knew it.

At school, they had called him Porko, Chubs, Tits, Fag, and Dump Truck, among others. He was pinched, slapped, pushed, and punched with impunity. The worse were the ones in groups, who had people to impress. Eric knew what he could expect from gangs. Except now they would be in control. Now he would have nowhere to hide.

Eric crossed the 70. A military jeep was on its side. A dog was there, chewing on a bone. When it saw him, it growled but then grabbed the bone and trotted away toward the city. Eric looked toward Zanesville and the gray ribbon of the Licking River and thought how quickly he could cross. If he could only summon the courage. But he could not. He continued north.

He hadn’t gone far when he heard the engines. He ducked down in the wet grass and looked back to the 70. Several cars roared past. Eric swallowed. If he had tried to cross, they would have caught him. Maybe they would’ve shot him, thinking he was a Zombie. Maybe they would have taken him alive.

Either way.

When he reached the Licking, Eric followed it upstream until he found a boat. It was an old aluminum canoe. He pushed it into the cold river, and then carefully climbed in. He had only been in a canoe a few times before in his life, all with his father. Being exposed on the river was unpleasant, so he crossed as quickly as he could, although he loved the feeling of gliding on the water.

He hiked as quickly as he could north, away from the smoking city and into the woods.

Eric had no more food. He came to a town named Dresden. He sat by the side of the road and listened carefully, but he could hear no evidence that anyone was there. He wanted to keep moving. He wanted to keep in the forests. But his stomach hurt now. All he could think about was food. Somewhere in the town, there was a house that had food in it. Beef stew, chicken noodle soup, spaghetti. The possibilities made him shake with anticipation.

He was about to climb up to his feet and go into town when he heard a clicking sound. Eric looked up to see an old man with a shotgun pointed at him.

“Don’t shoot!” Eric cried. “Don’t shoot!” He put his hands up like he’d seen in the movies.

The old man studied him and then lowered his shotgun. “Well, you’re not a Zombie,” he said.

“I’m not a Zombie,” Eric asserted.

“That’s what I said,” the man said. He reached out a hand and smiled. “Name’s Charlie.”

“Eric.” He got to his feet with effort and then shook the man’s hand.

“You look about as dirty as a Zombie though,” he said. “You hungry?”

“Yeah,” said Eric. It made him ashamed somehow.

“Come on then.”

Charlie was a short, grizzly man with gray hair and beard. He wore a bright red, plaid hunting jacket and jeans. He had a round, happy face, and long wrinkles at the corner of his eyes. He also wore rectangular glasses. He looked like Santa Claus on a hunting trip.

Charlie led him away from the town. He went down to the forest. There was an old cabin there. Smoke came from the chimney. Charlie led him inside. The cabin walls were lined with shelves of books. The cabin was warmed by a flickering fireplace. Eric had been frightened, but the warmth, the promise of food, and the sight of so many books comforted him. Charlie motioned him to sit at a table. Eric put down his backpack and sat down. It was the first time he had sat in a chair for days. It felt wonderful.

“I’ve got some stew on,” Charlie said. “Wash up first.” He motioned him toward the back of the cabin where there was a large steel basin of water. Nearby was a bar of soap. Eric washed his face and hands and then rinsed his hair. When he came back to the table, the stew was ready. Potatoes and corn and beef. Eric sat down and slurped it up hungrily, though he kept an eye on the man, who sat by the fire with a book and pretended to ignore him.

Eric ate, feeling the comforting cold of the pistol stuck in his pants.

After Eric ate, he sat by the fire. Charlie put his book on his knee and started talking.

Charlie told him he had once been the town librarian. “I was an expert on Zane Grey,” he said. “Always thought I’d write a book on him.” After the Vaca B struck, he moved out of the town. He said this old shack had been his grandfather’s, and he never knew what to do with it until now. “Sure came in handy, though,” he said. “I stayed in town as long I could to help, but it got bad. At first, there was just people helping people, but then most everyone died. There weren’t no one to help anymore but ourselves. The gangs went bad.”

“I seen it too,” Eric said. “They shoot people.”

“They do worse than that,” Charlie said.

Eric swallowed, but didn’t say anything. Charlie studied him, so Eric knew it was his turn. “My Mom died of the worm,” he said.

“She crack?” he asked.

“No,” Eric answered. “She just died after a while. When she died, I knew I had to do something. I decided to move somewhere far away from the cities. Far away from gangs.”

“So you came here?” Charlie laughed. He had a deep, kind laugh.

“No,” Eric said. “I’m only passing through. I’m going to Maine.”

“Maine?”

Eric told him about his plan. He spread out his map and showed Charlie the route he would take. The island. The lake that would freeze over during the winter and the frigid nights that would freeze any Zombies solid. How there were no cities near there. How the gangs would ignore them and stay in the cities. Charlie listened and then studied him for a moment, quietly.

“You’re not a fool, are you, Eric?”

“I hope not.”

Charlie thought in silence for a while. The fire popped and snapped. “There’ll be a lot of work to do when you get there. You’ll only have a couple months before winter.” Charlie paused again. “It’s a good idea,” he said finally. “The Snakes get more active here all the time.” He studied Eric.