Ben Bedard - The World Without Crows

“There you are, my boy, there you are,” he said, his fake accent even thicker than usual, as if it were a symptom of the Vaca B. He cradled his assault rifle in his arms. “I knew you’d make it through the jungle.” He looked around, blinking away a dark tear from his eye. Eric watched it roll down his face like snot. “Look at this place,” Doyle mumbled. “Nothing but darkies and savages and traitors. No civilization, no order. Nothing.” He looked back up at Eric. “But it’s a gift,” he said to him seriously. “It’s our chance to start again, to do it right. We can build something pure and good, something orderly. A blinding whiteness, my boy,” Carl Doyle said. “Like dawn. A new. A new. New…” Carl Doyle bit his upper lip and then smacked his lips. His tongue was swollen and the purple color of a deep bruise. “My boy,” he said confidentially. “Can you spare me some water?”

Eric nodded, his mouth dry. He pulled out his canteen and handed it to Doyle. After leaning his gun against his leg, Doyle upturned it and swallowed noisily. The water swirled and sucked and gurgled down his throat. When Doyle handed it back, his lips had left dark blood on the mouth of the canteen. The sight of it made Eric’s stomach turn.

“Water!” Doyle said. “That is an apt metaphor for what we need. Water, Eric. Pure, clean, necessary.” His small eyes glittered dangerously as they slid toward Lucia and Sergio. His accent dropped suddenly when he growled, “We don’t need any fucking mud in the waters.” When he turned back to Eric, the glittering anger was finished. His smile returned. Eric saw Sergio’s hand drift down toward his gun. It was supposed to be cunning, but it looked clumsy and obvious. Eric felt like choking, but instead, he locked eyes with Sergio and shook his head almost imperceptibly. Sergio scowled, but his hand stopped.

“Come now, my boy,” said Doyle. He clapped Eric on the shoulder with such unthinking violence, Eric stumbled to the side and almost fell. Doyle didn’t seem to notice. “Let’s go,” he said.

“Go where?” asked Eric, his face going pale with fear.

“Why, the island, old chap.” Doyle smiled. “It’s close! We shall be there before sundown!”

Eric looked at Lucia and Sergio. He turned his head on his shoulder and saw Birdie standing on the porch of the house, one hand grasping the railing.

“What’re you looking at?” asked Carl Doyle, his accent crumbling. “We don’t need these savages,” he said. Doyle’s body grew tense. Eric watched as he adjusted his rifle and put his finger to the trigger. His heart thundered in him so forcefully, it was hard to hear. His arm was moving. His hand was reaching for his gun. He wouldn’t leave Birdie. Over Doyle’s shoulder, Eric saw Sergio reaching for his gun. It was happening. It was really happening.

Then the gunshots crashed through the air, and Eric wondered who had shot. Was he shot? Eric looked around, confused. Only Doyle seemed to move, loping toward the Land Rover. There were more shots. Eric blinked. Nothing made sense. He felt his heart, but everything else in him was still. He might have been a Zombie himself, he felt so utterly devoid of control over his body. He felt his hand clasp the cold grip of his .22. Then the gun, in his hand, swung around his body. All he could see was Doyle’s retreating back.

There was more gunfire, but not from him or Doyle. Eric felt confusion seep into his body as the .22 came up level to Doyle’s back. But his finger froze. Then Doyle was in the Rover and it leapt away. Eric’s arm with the gun fell.

It was then he noticed the other trucks, and the men and women pouring out of them, firing toward the Land Rover. Others pointed their weapons at him. They were yelling something and Eric took a moment to hear them.

“Put the gun down! We will shoot you! Put the gun down!”

Finally the roar in his head vanished. Eric dropped the gun and put his hands in the air.

It was only then that he noticed that Sergio had fallen, and Lucia was over him, screaming.

Sergio slumped between Lucia and Eric, bleeding over the seat. Lucia sobbed, her hands pressed on the gunshot wound. The blood oozed around her fingers. One man kept a gun on them during the drive.

“Please help!” Eric cried. “He’s bleeding to death!”

“Good,” the man said.

Sergio was dead before they arrived, his pale face pressed limply against his sister’s chest.

Lucia let out a wail.

Birdie pressed her hands on her ears, her eyes squeezed shut.

When the trucks stopped, they were tugged out of their seats. The men had to pull Lucia out of the truck by her hair, screaming and kicking. When they dragged out Sergio, they let his body collapse limply on the lawn. A woman leaned forward and spat on him. Lucia let out a howl and sprang toward her, but a man, laughing, gripped her in his arms while another began to tie her legs and arms. Eric stood motionless.

They were on the lawn of a church, a great, steepled clapboard structure. Over the double doors was written in red, GRANITES. Lucia screamed and wailed until they finally gagged her. When they were done tying up Lucia, they turned to Eric who held out his hands numbly.

Eric couldn’t keep his eyes from Sergio. His body was face up, his face pale, his eyes open to the sky. He looked surprised. The sight of him made Eric’s head go fuzzy, as if he was on the verge of fainting.

When they were trussed up tightly, they were dragged into the church.

“Keep your fucking mouths shut,” they were told.

The church was crowded with people. Standing at the head, where the priest would usually stand, was a tall, thin man. His face was long like a horse. His hair was dark and very short. His eyes shined toxic green. They glittered when he saw them, but the man’s face was as emotionless as a blank piece of paper. Behind the man were two closed caskets.

“It is another sad day for us Granites,” he said in a voice as strong and cold as stone. The crowd muttered in agreement. “Here lie Leo Jackson and Jane King,” he continued. “Excellent people, the both of them. I could tell you all about these two, but we know them, don’t we? There ain’t a one of us here who don’t know these two. And we known a lot more, haven’t we?” There were nods and choking sounds. “Cause these two are only the latest. Weren’t too long ago and there were more of us, Lord knows that’s true. We were just simple folk, trying to lead decent lives, trying to mind our business. But the outside world came anyway, didn’t it?” Someone let out a guttural bark, inarticulate and furious. “It struck us down!” cried the man with new, terrifying energy. The whole crowd seemed to hold their grief and rage in the same hand where it became confused and horrific.

The man stared at them with his ruthless green eyes. “Do you know where the Vaca B came from? Where the worm came from? The scientists told us it came from Brazil, before they too were struck down. The worm lived in the Brazilian jungles. They cleared the land for ranches so that McDonalds could make a profit. Somehow the cattle got the worm down there. Then the cattle ranchers got the worm. Then the cities got the worm. Then everyone started dying or going crazy. The whole world fell because of a worm in Brazil. Everyone knows that. But do you know that no feather falls on this earth without the assent of God?” He looked at them sternly. “Not a single feather, ladies and gentlemen. Nothing happens in this world unless God approves it. Nothing. Not so much as a particle of sand is out of place in the universe.”