Ben Bedard - The World Without Crows

And for what?

Eric’s eyes fluttered with tears.

For this.

A green island set in the blue of a lake, staring up at the azure sky. The brilliance of living. The beauty of it standing against the darkness. The wonder.

Eric covered his face with his hands. As the sobs came to him, he felt Lucia and Birdie grasp him. The three survivors cried in each other’s arms and could not let go.

They were the ones who lived and they did not know why.

From the shore of Mooselookmeguntic, the island looked flat, like a green plate floating upon the water. The sun was setting and turned the lake to fiery gold. They had already set up camp and Lucia had set a pan of water on the fire to boil. Eric’s heart felt tight in his chest, like cold stone. Birdie, tired from the day’s hike, had crawled underneath the ragged canvas tent they found in the Bethel farmhouse.

Eric stood at the shore.

They had made it. It was impossible to believe. The wind coming off the lake seemed as soft as cotton. There was no sign of humans. No smoke from another fire. No floating corpses. There was only the lake, waving gently against the shore. Standing there, he heard the ghostly call of a loon. It echoed off the lake with mysterious poignancy.

“It’s hard to believe, isn’t it?” Lucia asked, suddenly next to him.

Eric turned to her. “I’m sorry about Sergio,” he said. “I haven’t said so yet. I’m sorry.”

Lucia looked away, over the lake, then down at her feet, then back at him. Tears swelled in her eyes. She looked about to say something, but the look just hung there until she shook her head and swallowed.

“You know,” said Eric, “I didn’t think I’d make it here. I was sure of it sometimes. Now that I’m here, I don’t understand. I don’t understand why we made it. How are we here when so many other people aren’t?” Eric choked up, but continued. “It was all so random. Brad was just trying to protect us, Sarah died cooking for us. I don’t know why John Martin had to die. It was so…” Eric struggled for the words. “Meaningless,” he finished. “Meaningless.” He looked out over the lake.

“Don’t say that,” Lucia answered. She took his arm and jerked it until he looked at her again. “Don’t say that again, Eric.” Her eyes were fierce. “Sergio died for us to get here. So did John. They died for us. They died so we could be here and live in peace.” She felt suddenly enraged. “What did you think you would find? The meaning of life?” She gave out a painful laugh. “Why do you have to think like that? From that distance? Life is here. It’s there. It’s all around us. It’s not in here!” She stabbed at her head ferociously. “You don’t find meaning in there. It’s out there!” She started to cry, but when Eric touched her arm, she calmed.

“I didn’t mean it,” he said to her softly. “I’m sorry. I won’t say it again. I won’t think it. You’re right.” Eric pulled her into his arms. “You’re right,” he repeated, smelling her hair. “I won’t say it again.”

They were both quiet then, absorbed in each other’s embrace. They had never been so intimate with each other, so close. Eric closed his eyes, smelling her hair. He found the coldness of his heart loosening, easing, like a knot slowly being undone. With it came a softness that was almost painful. Eric squeezed his eyes shut against the violence of the feeling. But he could escape it no longer. He loved her. He loved her with all that remained in him to love.

“Eric, my boy!” a voice boomed, causing Eric and Lucia to leap away from each other. “We made it!”

The top of Carl Doyle’s head was entirely gone. There was only bone left. A flap of scalp and hair hung off to one side of his head like a toupee that had blown off. His eyes were filled with dark blood so that they were dark as ebony. His putrid leg was stank like death and a cloud of flies buzzed around him. A new gunshot wound in his shoulder oozed black blood. His clothes, once neat and perfect, were now torn, ripped, and stained with blood. His upper lip was half-chewed away. When he opened his mouth to speak, Eric could see white specks of worms writhing inside his mouth and gums. The smell from him was sickening and sweet.

“Eric, my boy!” Doyle laughed. “I thought you’d survive. I could see it in you, you understand. You weren’t just some bloody native. No sir! You had good sturdy bones. Tough, you know. Right to your bones. A good Englishman, I could tell.” He limped forward. In his right hand was his samurai sword, its once glistening blade, dark with filth. “It’s like Churchill once said, my boy. If you’re going through hell, keep going!” Doyle lifted up the sword and gave it a little flourish in the air. “You and I,” he said, leveling the sword at Eric. “You and I. Through all those bloody savages! Imagine that, will you? Cut a bloody swathe right through them, didn’t we, boy?”

“Yes,” said Eric. He pushed Lucia away from him, hoping she would go to Birdie and get her away from him. When she moved, however, Doyle flashed his dark eyes over her.

“What’d you bring her for?” he asked, his accent dropping. “Fucking savage. You’re not thinking of ruining the island for us, are you, Eric?” He lumbered forward again, his sword pointed at him. “You thinking of bringing this fucking spick slut to the island? You going to raise a goddamn family of half spick mongrels on our island!” A white worm wriggled out of the corner of his mouth and stuck there, its little head tasting the outside.

“Calm down, Doyle,” Eric said.

“Remember,” Doyle said, picking up his accent again. “Remember, this island is our new beginning. It’s time to get everything right. A new order. From the island, it all begins. This time we do it right, Eric. There’s no room for savages. This time we won’t try to save them. There will be no burden, not any longer. It’s just us, my boy. You understand, right?” Doyle’s sword wavered and then dipped down. His bloody eyes pleaded with him. “You understand it can’t happen again, right? It’s got to be the last time. It has to be.” His voice was small and pathetic. Then he drew in a great breath, groaned, and stood upright, straight, tall and thick as a bear. “We must have order,” he stated forcefully. His eyes focused on Lucia, who was staring at him with wide, frightened eyes.

Just then Birdie came out of the tent. She had the shotgun in her hands.

“You leave us alone,” she said, her voice low and ominous. The shotgun looked like a cannon in her hands. Her tiny finger was on the trigger.

Doyle turned to her. His face contorted with hatred and rage. Raising his sword, he yelled, “Traitor!”

Birdie shot. The gun flew out of her hand, and she fell to the ground.

Doyle hardly moved, but he was hit in the side. Doyle’s face burned with fury. “Traitor!” he boomed again, and lunged forward.

Eric dove toward him and hit his side. Both of them fell to the ground. Eric felt sick from the smell of him as he struggled to get the sword from his hand. Grasping with both his hands at Doyle’s meaty fist, he still couldn’t loosen his grip on the deadly sword. Doyle’s strength was unstoppable. Doyle reached back his other hand and clubbed him once on the shoulder. Pain rushed through him, but Eric clung to the sword hand. If he let go, Doyle would cut them all down. Doyle picked up his fist to hit him again, when he saw Lucia grab it with both hands. For a moment, he seemed subdued, with Lucia on one hand and Eric on the other.

But he was far too strong. He jerked up to a sitting position, and then, with a cry of anger, he pulled Lucia forward with violence, sending her flying through the air. Watching her hit the ground, Eric felt wild with rage. With all his strength, he punched Doyle in the face with his left hand. Eric felt bone crack and flesh tear. But Doyle did not seem to be hurt. Instead his own left hand crashed down into Eric’s chest, and, helplessly, Eric let go of Doyle’s sword arm to clutch at his chest for breath.