But we have to be far from the road. I’ve got no choice but to lead him farther away. I had thought that I could take a quick bearing of our location on the road and then just walk in the woods, roughly parallel to the road, but now I’m convinced that we can’t do that. It would only take one little fall from Eric to torpedo this whole plan. We have to walk on the road and I’m not walking during the day. It’s too risky.
By the time the sun comes up, I find a big boulder, split in the center, like an inverted V. The way it sits makes a perfect little cave. I make a quick check for bears, but it looks pretty clean in there, so I lead Eric inside. I find a nice tough root to tie him to on the opposite side of the cave, and then I struggle to get him to sit down. I know he needs the rest, even if he doesn’t. Finally he sits, his legs splayed out in front of him, his arms laying on his thighs, palms up. He snaps his jaw a couple times at me and then wheezes and gurgles and finally coughs up a little black drool. I shudder and wipe his chin.
“Unh,” he says.
I sigh. His eyes are darker than normal. The worms are collecting in knots in the corner of his eyes. I move away, feeling grossed out.
Then I set up a little bed for myself, out of reach of Eric’s rope. Just in case. I keep the gun out and right beside me. It’s loaded.
I lay down to sleep, but I can’t. Whenever I close my eyes, I see the white worms wriggling in the corner of Eric’s eyes. When I open them, Eric is staring straight forward, not moving, his mouth open. Tracks of blood run from his eyes, but the blood is very, very dark, almost black. Finally, I get up and open the backpack. I take out an old, crimson t-shirt that says HARVARD on it and I rip it into long strips. I go to Eric and wrap his eyes in the bandages, trying to ignore the smell coming from him. When I’m done, Eric looks much better. If it wasn’t for his slack jaw, he’d look almost normal. Well, as normal as a guy in a blindfold can look.
I go back to bed, but I can’t sleep. So much has happened to me in the last couple days. I can feel it inside me, waiting to come out, waiting for me to remember. I’m so tired, but now I’m full of nervous energy. I feel like if I let myself sleep, maybe everything will come back to me, everything that I’ve lost, and it’ll be too much for me. I feel like I might just break down, just completely lose my mind.
I’ve seen it happen before. There was a woman named Candy once a few years back. She showed up one summer, half-starved to death. She was quiet and middle-aged, with long, thin blonde hair. She had black bags under her eyes and she didn’t speak so much as mutter. She was always rubbing her nose, and I remember her elbows were really dirty. I don’t know why I remember that so vividly, but I do. Those filthy dark brown elbows. We all thought she was okay, that she would fit in with us eventually. We all thought she just needed some food and some rest. About a week later, we found her in the forest, eating dirt. We couldn’t get her to stop. She said she was keeping the sky away. We tried everything and finally tied her down in her bed. One day she got loose and we found her in the fields, vomiting up mud and manure. She died a few days later.
I’ve never been afraid of something like that happening to me before. But that was before I lost everything, my home, the only family I ever knew, my best friend. Now I’m wandering in the woods with a zombie. I don’t know where I’m going. Now I seem to understand people like Candy a lot more than before. Sometimes it’s too much. Sometimes there’s no overcoming what’s happened to you. It just breaks you.
It scares me. It scares me so much I can’t sleep. I just tremble in the cave most of the day, trying to avoid reality. Trying to escape it, just not too much. I don’t know how to manage the difference between the two. Late in the afternoon, I finally fall asleep.
45
By dawn the next morning, we reach the old town of Eustis. Maybe a day’s rest was what Eric needed because he walked a little faster the next day. I can’t say the same for myself. I feel worse than I did the day before. I know I’m not thinking very well. I’m so tired, I’m finding it difficult to understand the difference between dreaming and reality. I had to stop myself from shooting at a squirrel, thinking it would be good to eat. A gunshot, of course, would be heard for miles. I know I have to sleep, but I’m afraid of my dreams, my memories.
Eustis is just a dozen of old, clapboard houses. A few houses burned down at some point. The rest are sagging in the middle like an old horse, their windows broken. The grass and trees have taken over completely. I know the houses have been searched and searched again over the years. There’s not anything here anymore that might be useful to anyone, unless you want firewood from tearing the houses down.
At Eustis, this road ends and another begins, stretching north and south. Going through the town feels like it might be stupid, but we’re making good time on the road. I’m also afraid that Eric will hurt himself off the road. If we can avoid getting caught for the next two days, I can stop worrying about Franky following us. There’s no way they have the time or the resources to search for more than a couple days. They have fields to work, and they need all the horses for that. I just have to keep up this pace for a couple more days, I tell myself, and then we’ll be a little more safe. But I’m nervous and anxious and paranoid. Sometimes for no reason, I think I hear horses. I tug Eric off the road and shove him to the ground and wait, heart thumping, but nothing. There’s never anything. I don’t know if it’s lack of sleep or what. I don’t know what I’m hearing. My own nightmares probably. Maybe it’s dumb I walk right through town, but I’m doing it. I want to move as fast as we can. The plan is to walk through town and then, about a mile or so north, walk into the woods and rest for the remainder of the day.
Eustis is spooky. I don’t leave the Homestead much. Okay, I don’t ever leave the Homestead. I haven’t seen these remnants of the old world in many years. Everything seems so quiet. Just these big, looming old houses, with their broken windows that look like diseased eyes. There’s even water stains under them that makes it look they have the Worm, like they’re bleeding from their eye sockets. As we walk through the town, the silence is horrible. Eric keeps walking as always, without a care. He makes so much noise, it’s like an army is walking through Eustis. The sound of his stomping echo off all the buildings, and make horrible sounds inside. I shudder just to think what’s inside these buildings.
“Shhh,” I tell Eric. I know it’s useless to shush him, but I do it anyway. Eric continues striding forward. He doesn’t move his arms when he does this though, so it makes him lurch, which makes a lot more noise than I want to hear.
All the way through Eustis, to the last house with its double garage all grown over with trees and shrubs, I feel horribly anxious. My heart is thumping in me like crazy. I have to keep my fists balled up tight just from the tension.
But then the houses fade away and there’s just trees and a battered old road that’s half gone back to the wild. I begin to calm down. Eric doesn’t care one way or the other. He just moves forward, as usual. With the forest around me again, I feel a little more secure, and I tell myself that I’m never going to do that again. We are easy targets. I mean, it’s not as if Eric can run. I can’t take that risk again. That was very foolish.
We’re not far north when this becomes painfully clear. I hear horses. This time, it’s not my imagination.
46
There’s nowhere to run, even if we could.
On both sides of us are bodies of water. The road cuts right between two ponds. On either side, it’s just open grass to the water, nowhere to hide. I stand motionless, stupid. I can’t think of anything to do. The horses are coming from the north. I think there are two. I feel a tug suddenly. Eric has kept moving, of course, and yanked the rope right out of my hand. He’s striding forward without a care in the world, right toward the riders.
I run forward and grab his rope and give him a little tug. He comes to a stop eventually and then just stands there.
“Unh,” he says.
The riders appear then,
riding out of the forest a quarter of a mile ahead of us. There are two of them and they see us right off. I know there’s no hope in running, even if Eric could run. The horses stop. I see the two figures on the horses talking. My heart is in my throat. I look for familiar features. Is it Norman? Franky? Anyone from the Homestead? I stand there, squinting at shadows, trying to decide if I recognize anything about them, a telltale gesture or way of holding themselves. Maybe even a hat I might recognize. Nothing. I reach into my belt and hold Eric’s gun for a second, but then I put my hands to my side. Better keep my hands visible. People out here are nervous on the best of days, and if they think I have a gun, they might shoot me first and figure out the rest later.
But I know the gun’s there if I need it.
The riders move forward. From here, they are just outlines. Their shadows stretch out to my left, over the field. I don’t recognize the horses either, but I can’t be sure. I can’t be sure.
I don’t know which would be worse, people from the Homestead or strangers. People out here, they’re not okay in the head. Most would kill the both of us for a cucumber, let alone all the supplies we’re carrying. It occurs to me that we’re prime targets for murder and looting. Eric is hefting a treasure trove on his back for a lot of people. Food, clothes, tent, blankets. We’re a real lucky find.
I didn’t think too much about that either.
At least if they’re people from the Homestead, I might be able to talk our way out of this. Maybe I can convince them not to kill Eric. It’s a better shot than strangers. Maybe I was wrong to leave.
All these doubts fly through me as the riders approach.
It’s obvious soon enough that I don’t know them.
There’s two of them.
Their guns are out, pointed at us. They haven’t shot yet. That’s something.
Think, Birdie.
47
When Eric taught me how to shoot, we were still on the island. Lucia was still alive then, and she was watching us. He had set up several old cans on a stump. It was a summer day. I remember that because I wanted to shoot the guns and then go swimming. I didn’t want to shoot. The noise scared me. Eric had to crouch down to talk to me.
“Okay, Birdie,” he told me. “Hold out the gun. There you go. Now breathe. Aim steady. Yes, like that. Breathe out. While you’re breathing out, see how it steadies your arm? See that? Now breathe out, steady, good. Now squeeze the trigger. Don’t pull it, that will make you miss. Squeeze it gently. Good. Go ahead. When you’re ready. Don’t forget to breathe.”
I shot. Once. Twice. Three times. Two cans fell. I was proud, but Eric didn’t seem happy or unhappy. He just looked down at me.
“But you know what the most important part of a gun is?”
I shook my head.
“Your own head.” Eric gazed into my eyes with his, which were as blue as the lake behind him. “You have to think, Birdie. Think.”
48
Two strangers, both with guns pointing at me. No time to pull on them. One of us would be dead before I shot. Maybe both. If they wanted us dead, they could have shot already, meaning they might not be all bad. Or they might be afraid there are other people nearby. I watch their body language. The way they sit on their horses. Careful, but not afraid. Maybe even a little excited. I can’t see their faces yet, but they seem eager to approach. Horses at a trot. Horses are moving well. Well-fed, well-looked after. Good sign. These people can’t be totally gone if they’re caring for their horses. I might be able to talk with them.
As they ride closer, I get a better look. One’s tall and slim, wearing a plaid shirt and a baseball cap with Red Sox written on it. He has red hair. His skin is pale with red splotches. His eyes are narrow and bright and pale in color, almost like copper. He’s holding a hand gun with a large magazine, probably has four times the shots I do. The other man is shorter, stocky. His nose is bulbous, like an onion, and one of his ears is mashed up so it looks like cauliflower. He’s got bushy, brown hair, and there’s a ratty, uneven growth of a beard to match. His eyes are rounder, more kind somehow, and greenish in the morning light. They’re both fairly clean. I wonder if they’re part of another community around here, but I find that doubtful because we would have heard of another group so close to us. They aren’t your normal bandits, who are dirty as hell, and have a vacant emptiness in their eyes. These guys have something, they are a part of something. I don’t know if that makes them more or less dangerous.
I try to keep my hands from straying near to my gun. Better they think I don’t have one. It’s not easy.
“Keep your hands where I can see them,” the short, stocky one says, his pistol pointed at me. They ride closer.
The slim one stops a dozen feet away and leans forward in his saddle. “What’re you tied up for?”
I’m confused for a second before I realize that he’s talking to Eric. I think fast.
“He doesn’t talk,” I say. The two look at me.
“Unh,” Eric says. They look at Eric and then back at me.
“Except for that,” I add quickly. “He’s simple in the head,” I explain. The two study us for a second. Gradually I see them relax. Their guns are still pointed our way, but with less resolve, less tension. I continue, seeing an opportunity I don’t want to go to waste. “I found him this way. They took his eyes out.” I point toward Eric’s bandaged head.
The taller one frowns. “Who?” he asks.
I shrug. “Some bandits, I guess,” I say. “I found him like this. Bandaged him up the best I could.”
They both look at Eric with pity. At least that’s what I’m hoping.
“What’s the rope for?” the short one asks. There’s still suspicion in his voice.
“He wanders off,” I answer. “He’s not right in the head.”
“Where’re you coming from?” It’s the short one asking again. The tall one has his eyes on me too. They both seem to be satisfied with my story about Eric.
“West,” I say. “I used to be with Good Prince Billy.”
“Why’d you leave her?” The tall one asks this question. They both seem to recognize the name. I wonder immediately if it was a good idea to use it.
I shrug. “I had some stuff to trade.”
“You come all this way alone?” asks the short one gruffly, his eyes kind glancing him around him.
“I’m what’s left,” I say simply.
The two look at each other. “Lots of goddamn bandits around,” the short one says.
They seem to relax. Their eyes stop their focus on me and wander to the trees and over the lake. Then the short one with the onion nose looks back at me. His eyes search me up and down, but without menace. Like he’s sizing me up as a person, not as a threat. He puts away his gun then, and the taller one does the same.
“My name’s Sidney,” he says. “This is Boston.”
The tall one touches the visor of his baseball cap. “Nice to meet you.”
“We’re here from the United States of America,” he says.
“President Barber himself,” Boston adds.
Sidney gives him an impatient glance, but then turns back to me. “We’ve come here looking for people to help rebuild our nation.”
“And keep it safe from Gearheads,” Boston says.
“That too.” Sidney nods. “That too.”
The war.
I forgot all about the war.
49
We aren’t exactly prisoners. We aren’t exactly free either. Eric and I are walking back along the road we just came, headed back to the Homestead. The only good part of meeting Boston and Sidney, besides the fact that they didn’t just shoot us down in the road, is that obviously they haven’t heard of the return of the Worm. That means that either it just happened in the Homestead or that it hasn’t come any farther. It’s good information. The bad part is that I can’t think of a good reason to refuse to join them. I can’t do anything suspicious. We look too damn pathetic to refuse help. So here we are,
walking back the way we came while I think of a way to shake them.
Boston is ahead of us and Sidney is behind, walking their horses as slow as they can go. For some reason, Eric has lost his stride and he’s back to plodding. The two are still watching us. Their guns aren’t out and they haven’t searched us for weapons, but it’s obvious I don’t have much choice but to join them. War has made them suspicious of people. Well, even more suspicious. No one trusts anyone out here. No one who lives very long.
“There’s a community around here somewhere. I guess it’s built on a hill. You’ll be safer there, trust me,” Boston tells me, turning slightly to face me. “It’s dangerous out here, especially with the Gearheads around.” What can I do? I can’t say we want to go walking off into the wilderness to trade with squirrels and raccoons. I can’t tell him that the most dangerous place for me is the place they’re taking me. It’s like a death sentence for Eric. And if they kill Eric, my life will be over. I can only join them until I can slip away or think of something.
“Well, I haven’t seen any Gearheads,” I say. I’m hoping to talk them into letting us move on alone by ourselves.
Sidney makes a gruff sound behind me. “They’re around.”
Something in his tone. Maybe he’s worried that we are Gearheads. Spies or something. Like them? Is that what they’re doing? Are they spies for the Stars? I want to ask some questions to get more information, something I can use to get free of them, but I ask myself, what do spies want? Information. The more questions I ask, the more suspicious they’ll become. So I do what I’ve done most of my life. Keep my mouth shut.
With every step, we are closer to the Homestead. I feel a sense of doom. I know in the end, I will have to pull my gun. It will have to be at the desperate end. These two seem like hardened soldiers. They’ve been trained. They’ve seen battle. All I did was shoot someone with a shotgun once, and it nearly broke my shoulder. Pulling my gun has to be the last resort. It almost certainly means that I will die, and Eric soon afterward. But what’s the difference if we die out here or back at the Homestead?
The World Without Flags Page 12
