Ben Bedard: The World Without Crows

“Hello.”

Eric whirled around at the voice behind him, and, seeing images of the Snake gang, he brought up his pistol and fired. The sound made him close his eyes in shock, and he stumbled back.

When he opened his eyes to shoot again, he saw that his pistol was pointing at a little girl. She was shaking and crying and holding out her hands like she could stop a bullet.

Eric made a strangled sound and dropped his gun where it clattered on the floor. He stumbled toward the girl, and fell to his knees loudly. “Did I shoot you? Did I shoot you?”

“Please don’t shoot me!” she cried.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t know!” Eric went to grab her, but she screamed and stumbled back. “I’m so sorry!” he said. “Are you hurt? Please tell me if I hurt you!”

The girl didn’t respond, but sat down and cried. When Eric tried to approach her, she screamed. Eric shook with fear and guilt. He waited on the floor there with her. The little girl couldn’t have been more than six or seven years old. She was dressed in a pair of purple overalls and a pink sweatshirt with a puffy heart on it. They were filthy with stains. She had pink ribbons in her dark, frizzy hair, tied clumsily. She sat hugging her legs, with her head tucked between her knees. Eric didn’t dare come near her. He could only wait.

After nearly a half hour of silent crying and shaking, she started to calm. Finally, her head still between her knees, her muffled voice sounded. “I’m hungry,” she said.

Eric nodded. “I’ll find something, okay?” She didn’t respond, so Eric pushed himself with effort to his feet. Even after the gunshot, the Zombie at the counter had not moved but kept studying her newspaper. Eric ignored her and walked up and down the aisles. Then he saw in the corner of the store, a blanket and a nest of t-shirts. Around it were bags of rice. The little girl had been eating it raw. There were also dented cans of food around a hammer. Eric took off his backpack and began putting the food into them. Then he took a can of chili, and took out his can opener. He went back to the girl, and slid the food toward her. She didn’t look at him but snatched the food, and began to eat it with her fingers.

“I didn’t mean to shoot at you,” Eric said softly. “I’m really, really sorry. I was scared.”

The little girl kept eating. When she was done, she ran her finger inside the can and licked it clean.

“Don’t cut yourself,” Eric warned. “Be careful now.”

“Okay,” she mumbled. Eric took out his canteen and poured some water in the can. The little girl drank it and then held it out again. Eric gave her more water. She drank that too. Finally she put the can aside and looked at him.

“My name is Eric,” he said.

“I’m Birdie,” the little girl said. “Are you going to be my friend?”

“Yes,” Eric said. “Yes, Birdie, I’d like to be your friend.”

Eric pushed the squiggly worm on the fish hook. Birdie made a face, watching the twisting worm on the hook.

At the general store where he had nearly shot Birdie, he found fish hooks, fishing line, and sinkers. Using his survival knife, he had cut a limb from a maple. Now it was his fishing pole. Eric had only fished twice before in his life, both times with his father. He had cried when his father slapped a fish’s head against the boat, killing it. “For crissakes,” his father had hissed. “Don’t be such a pussy.”

Eric dropped the line into the little brook and sat down to wait. He wasn’t sure what else to do. Birdie sat down next to him and watched the water.

Birdie had not hesitated to come with him. She just picked up a battered, faded denim backpack and followed him. She was careful at first and wouldn’t come near him. Eric thought it would be difficult to keep her moving, but she never complained and she never lagged behind. After several hours, she walked beside him. She didn’t say much. Once she said, “I was alone for a long time.” A few hours later, she said, “I’m glad you came.” Otherwise, Birdie seemed to occupy herself with her surroundings. She did so carefully, thoughtfully, with hardly no childish joy. She was careful and reflective, like someone three times her age.

Eric felt no tug of the line that said a fish had taken the bait. He pulled the line out finally and gave up. The worm was pink, soggy, and limp.

Birdie followed him as he picked a place to camp. When Eric went to get wood for the fire, Birdie helped without being asked, and when he began cooking their meal of rice and canned chicken, Birdie opened the small can of chicken while he put the rice and water on to boil. When it was done, they both ate in silent appreciation. Salty, greasy and smooth, the meal was the best Eric had tasted in weeks.

They did not speak after the meal either, but Birdie sat close to him while she poked at the fire. It was good to have her there. He didn’t want to ask her about her life before the Vaca B. He didn’t want to know what she’d suffered to be next to him. He didn’t want to tell her about his life either.

It didn’t matter anymore. That was what the silence was saying. None of that mattered. All the past did was hurt.

It was windy the morning they arrived at Woodbury Wilderness Area.

They walked over the green fields and past the little, blue ponds to copses of trees and bushes. The leaves had sprouted green and lush. Rolling clouds passed through, bursting with rain showers before moving on, leaving a bright, fresh sun. Eric and Birdie set up their camp by a pond rippled by gusts of wind. Birdie tried fishing again while Eric cleaned and bandaged his feet, which were painful, sore, and bleeding.

Using his knife, Eric cut down brush to fashion a protective wind break for his tent. Birdie helped him start a fire. It crackled and spat under their pan of steaming water. While they ate, Eric told Birdie about Maine. How beautiful it was. How the air smelled like pine and fresh water. How the loons sounded over the waters of the lake. How they would be safe there on the island.

They watched deer browse in the field opposite them. There were about twenty of them, calm and peaceful. Everything was quiet as the sun began to set.

Eric took aspirin for his pain, and then they crawled into the tent, exhausted. Birdie followed him in.

“You’ll see, Birdie,” he told her in the enclosed darkness of the tent. “We’ll be safe on the island. No one will bother us there. No Zombies, no gangs. No one.”

Outside, the wind blew in gusts, flapping their tent. There were distant gunshots.

The cold wind bit at them in the morning. They shivered as they packed up their tent. When they began walking north, Eric noticed a red spot on Birdie’s sock.

“What’s wrong, Birdie?”

“Huh?”

“Your foot.” Eric pointed.

Birdie shrugged but sat down and took off her sneaker. Eric felt a pain in his heart at the sight of the blood.

“Why didn’t you tell me your foot hurt?”

Birdie shrugged.

“I know you’re a tough girl,” Eric said. “But you need to let me know if you’re in pain. Things like this can be dangerous.” Eric looked her in the eye. “Okay?”

“Okay,” she said.

He took off her socks. Her feet were blistered and bleeding. After washing them as best he could, Eric bandaged them. It wasn’t too bad. He had caught it in time. When he was done bandaging her, he put his hand on her shoulder.

“We can go slow for a while,” he said.

“I’m all right, Eric,” she said defiantly and got back up. “I can go as fast as you can.”