Ben Bedard - The World Without Crows

Later that night, after they had eaten fresh fish caught by Sergio with a side of beans and rice, Eric sat down next to Birdie who was breaking in a new box of crayons.

“I’m sorry, Birdie,” he said.

“I know,” she said, without looking at him.

“I’ll be more careful,” he said.

“Okay.”

Eric sat down and looked at the campfire. The reflection of the flames in the river stretched across the water in long, red lines. Eric stared at it for a long time.

The next day they came to Samuel Morey Bridge.

It was a simple steel frame bridge, an arc of green across the river.

There were guards on their side of the bridge, a man and a woman, each holding dark assault rifles.

From a distance, they took turns watching the guards with the binoculars. The guards paced back and forth, sometimes sitting on the hood of a red truck, sometimes talking, sometimes pointing their guns playfully over the river.

“We’ll have to find another way across the river,” Lucia said. Sergio said something in Spanish, but Lucia shook her head. “We have to get across.”

They were in the midst of making plans when the Land Rover sped up to the bridge.

Doyle came to a screeching halt. The two guards had their assault rifles pointed at him. They were shouting for him to stop and get out of the truck. Carl Doyle, looking immense, even from this distance, pulled himself out of the Land Rover.

The shooting began almost immediately.

The first guard died instantly. Doyle shot him in the face. The other guard, the woman, cried out in pain, shot in the stomach. She lurched over and fell face down. Doyle walked over and shot her in the back of the head. Twice.

When he got back in the Land Rover and drove over the bridge, he ran over both bodies, mangling them, and leaving long, red tire tracks on the bridge.

“How did he survive?” Sergio cried. “How does he keep surviving? Why doesn’t he die and leave us alone?”

“I don’t know,” Eric said.

“It’s because he’s crazy,” Lucia said. They looked at her. “That’s what they say. God protects crazy people and drunks.”

They were silent, walking north along the river. After the gunfight, the bridge was clear, but Eric insisted they avoid it. “They were guards for someone,” he explained. “If we’re found anywhere near that massacre, they’ll blame us for it. We need to get away from this bridge.” They had been walking for a while now, and were tired and upset. It was horrible to think of Doyle still out there, still following them.

They came then to a bend in the river. There was a tiny shack there, and, as Eric had hoped, it was a boathouse. Creeping inside quietly, they found several aluminum canoes. They put them in the water, and, after careful testing, they climbed inside two: Eric and Birdie in one, Sergio and Lucia in another.

Side by side, they paddled the canoes into the river.

It was late afternoon. The sun was hot and orange on the horizon. The air over the water was cool, and, as they paddled to the other side, Eric saw a kingfisher skimming over the water, hunting. In the midst of the river, there was a feeling of safety mixed with the danger of exposure. It was easy to spot canoes on the river. But they continued north all the same, and did not land until it was getting too dark to see. They landed at a park where a bridge had once been. Only the stone piers were left. They climbed up the bank, dragging the canoes behind them. The four of them stood watching the river.

“I’ve never been in a canoe before,” Sergio said. He smiled. “It was cool.”

For some reason, that made Eric laugh. Lucia soon joined him, and Sergio himself a second later. Only Birdie didn’t laugh.

“I don’t see what’s so funny,” she said. “It was cool.”

That really made them laugh.

After consulting Eric’s tattered map, they decided it was time to stop moving north. Now they turned east, with the goal of the White Mountain National Forest in mind. Thinking of the dead guards, they hit route 25, also called the Moosilauke Highway, and stayed well away from it. But it was difficult. The terrain had swelled around them and soon mountains rose up steep where hills had been. Not great blue and white monsters like they saw on the horizon, but big, green furry ones, with rocks bursting from them like earthy muscles.

Near Benton State Forest, Sergio, with his binoculars, called down from the tree he had climbed, “It’s Doyle! He’s behind us!” He pointed toward the highway and Eric strained his eyes. He saw a glint of sunshine light like fire from Doyle’s windshield, and then the unmistakable square shape of the Rover coming toward them.

“Damn it,” Eric swore as the four of them huddled together. Eric looked at them, these three faces that were so important to him now. Lucia’s sharp, beautiful face; Sergio’s round face with his anxious eyes; Birdie’s calm, mysterious face. For an instant, he was filled with love for them all, a hot feeling that he could feel blush his face. He swallowed it down and cleared his throat.

“What’re we going to do about this guy?” asked Sergio. Eric could see on his face that he wanted to set up an ambush, and rid themselves of Carl Doyle forever. A part of him felt that way too. It felt like something that had to be done, that he would have to do eventually. But he also remembered John Martin word’s: “I’m not going to shoot anyone unless I have to.”

“We’re going to keep away from him,” Lucia said. “That’s what we’re going to do.” She shot her brother an angry look, and Eric knew they had talked about this before, that Sergio was trying to pull him on to his side.

“We can’t outrun a guy in a truck!” Sergio exclaimed.

“We’re not trying to outrun him,” Eric said to him. “We’re trying to avoid him.” He stood up and motioned behind them. “We go over the mountain. He can’t follow us there.”

There were no real trails where they hiked now. They struggled up steep hillsides, rocks and leaves slipping under their feet. At times, they had to circle, looking for a way around a rock outcropping. At other times, they scrambled up as best they could. When they reached the summit, the green carpet of forest beneath them, they collapsed, breathing hard as the sun set, red and orange in the west.

Eric and Birdie built a fire in a pit, under a tree, to keep the light from Doyle’s eyes. After a scant meal of rice, the four of them sat, fatigued and sore, around the crackling fire.

“We can’t keep running from this guy,” said Sergio. “He knows where we’re going. We’re going to have to face him sometime.”

“He’s sick,” said Lucia. “He’s got the Vaca B. He can’t survive forever. Every time we see him, he’s worse than he was.” It was an argument they had before. They were having it again, this time for Eric’s benefit.

“He might not die,” argued Sergio. “You heard what Prince Billy said. Some of them survive. He’s dangerous! Look at what he did to those guards! He killed them just to get across a bridge. We should set a trap and kill him.”

“Why are you so sure we can do that?” asked Eric. “Doyle seems to survive everything. He’s fought Zombie bears, for crying out loud. What makes you think he’s afraid of a couple of pistols?”

“We could get something stronger. A shotgun,” Sergio suggested.

Eric shook his head. “He’s too dangerous for us to handle. If he can fight off the Minutemen, what chance do we have?” Eric poked at the fire. Sparks burst up from the fire. “Besides,” he added after a pause. “He’s trying to help us.”