Ben Bedard - The World Without Crows

“I wasn’t no one,” she said. “Now I’m the Good Prince. Life is a strange thing.”

She opened the door.

There was another set of stairs, this time lit only by a light bulb swinging from a wire. It was an old basement. It hadn’t been used in years, maybe decades. It still smelled of moist earth, but beneath the cold and the damp, Eric smelled the stench of rot.

“I know it looks harsh,” Good Prince Billy warned them before they descended. “But there ain’t no help for it. We make them as comfortable as we can, but they’re dangerous.”

“Who?” asked Sergio.

“The cracked ones,” she said. “Most of the time they wither away and die, but sometimes they live. Sometimes the crazy bastards beat the Vaca B. We leave them down here to fight it through, one way or the other. We wish them the best. We give them a chance. It’s all we can do.”

When they reached the bottom of the stairs, they saw a large, empty room with a moist, cement floor. In one corner huddled Carl Doyle, chained to an iron bar that ran the length of the back wall. He wasn’t moving, and they couldn’t see his face, but it was Doyle.

“He might live?” asked Eric, turning to Billy.

At the sound, Carl Doyle turned to them, his face dark with blood. “Eric? Is that you, my boy?” His chains rattled coldly as he rose to his knees. “I knew you’d come!” His pith helmet gone, his ravaged skull lay open, a gleaming white scar. Wisps of ragged hair grew on the side of his head. His square jaw still looked strong, but his face was caked with dark, dried blood. His leg had a small splint on it, but even from where Eric stood, he could smell it, rotting.

“It’s me,” Eric said, his mouth dry. He couldn’t help but think of Doyle as a wounded bear, chained to a cage.

“Good show!” he said. “I’m proud of you, my boy! Now we can continue. We can reach the island, Eric, I feel it deep inside me. It’s like another heart in me, beating. I hear it sometimes at night. It’s like.” Doyle licked his chapped and ragged lips. “It’s the origin. It’s where we can make a stand, dear boy. We can rebuild from there. They say the sun never set again. No. That’s not right.” Carl Doyle scratched his head, his fingers coming away wet and red. “Anyhow,” he continued. “You and I, we understand, even if no one else does. Churchill said that success consists of going from failure to failure without loss of enthusiasm.” He looked up at them and grinned. Half of his teeth were missing. “I have lost no enthusiasm for this, our venture.”

“This is the first time he’s talked,” Good Prince Billy whispered to them.

“Doyle,” said Eric. He crouched down in front of him, but careful to stay out of reach. “Please listen to me very carefully. We can all go to the island, but we need to go together.”

“Of course!” Doyle exclaimed. “Solidarity and what not! We all need to do our part to rid the world of these Huns!”

“Doyle, listen,” Eric said. “Please, god, make him listen.” He put his hands in his face, took a deep breath, and then started again. “We need to go to the island as a group. All of us.” He took another breath. “Doyle, where is Birdie?”

“What? Who?”

“The little girl,” Eric said, grinding his teeth in frustration. “The little black girl,” he added reluctantly.

“What? Her?” His chains rattled as he heaved his bulk to his full height. He towered over them and Eric, despite himself, stepped away. “What do we need of savages!” he bellowed. “There is no room on the island for savages!”

Eric stood up, enraged. “She’s not a savage!” he yelled. “She’s just a little girl!”

“Savages!” cried Doyle. “We will build a world without them! All they do is spread chaos! They suck the life from us! And we, the two of us, you and me, we are the ones to create order! Order!”

“Fuck order!” Eric shouted. “Tell me what you did with Birdie, you son of a bitch! Tell me right now!” He stepped toward him. “Right now!”

“That’s how it is, huh?” Carl Doyle’s voice dropped low and his English accent vanished. “You turning into some foul-mouth little punk, huh? Just a little fucking punk.”

“What did you do with her Doyle?” Eric growled. “Did you kill her? I swear to god, Doyle, if you killed Birdie, I’ll bury you. Do you understand that? I’ll fucking bury you!”

“Okay, that’s enough.” Good Prince Billy took Eric by the shoulders. When he went to move out of her grasp, her strong hands tugged him back. “I said enough.” Eric looked down at his feet. He saw a tear fall from his face. The clear drop of salty liquid hit the cold cement without a sound.

“All right,” he said, wiping his face. “All right.”

As they left the room, Eric turned back. Doyle slumped back down on the floor and curled into the corner, without another word.

As they climbed back up into the church, Eric had never felt so certain that Birdie was gone forever. He was going to have to live with it. This is how life is, he thought. Brad is gone. Sarah is gone. John Martin is gone. Birdie is gone.

There’s nothing you can do about it.

You have to grow up. Be a man.

The people in Cairo called themselves the Mustangs.

They hadn’t been in a big group of people since the beginning of the outbreak. Good Prince Billy said they were fifty four of them. They lived in the church and the houses surrounding it. At night they gathered around the church and inside it. A series of floodlights lit the area. In the light, people stood, talking and laughing. There were old men and women, there were babies, innocent of the world that was so recently destroyed. There were sullen teenagers and happy couples. Serious people, whispering. Smiling people, telling tall tales. Quiet people, listening. People ignoring them, people watching them. So many people.

At first Eric filled with terror. His heart hammered in his chest painfully. He felt like he wanted to run for the shadows, to the comfort of the wooded night. From Lucia and Sergio’s wide eyes, he could tell they felt the same. But the grief of Birdie’s absence kept him from the full force of his fear. A part of him no longer cared if he lived or died. It was not such a serious thing. Like most of the people he had ever known, some day he too would die. There was no amount of fear that could conquer that fact.

After Good Prince Billy left them outside the church to talk with a group of people inside, Eric planned on going to the car, to sit inside the silence and breathe easier. But he was surprised by Jim, the man who had confronted him with his rifle earlier. Eric took a step back, expecting anger.

“Peace hombre,” Jim laughed. “I brought this for you and your friends.” He handed them a platter of juicy venison. Eric took it thankfully.

“Thank you,” he said. Even the smell of the meat was making him melt inside. He thought he might cry.

“No problemo,” said Jim. “If the Good Prince thinks you’re okay, you’re okay in my book.”

Forgetting their fear, the three sat outside the church of Good Prince Billy and ate roasted venison until their faces glistened with fat.

What Eric remembered about that night with the Mustangs:

—There was an old man whittling on a park bench.

—A man and woman spent the evening necking behind a tree.

—At the side of the road, there were two posted guards. Each had on a protective vest. Each had an assault rifle. Each had somber eyes.

—A small band playing fiddle, guitar, banjo, and flute sang the song “Froggie Went a-Courting,” and “The Mule.” Everyone cheered this part of the song most: