The World Without Flags

by Ben Lyle Bedard

  As he half-falls to the ground, he reaches out and brushes against me with the palm of his hand. The glove has fallen off. For a minute, I recognize the hand. It’s the same one that use to reach out to me in the night, just to make sure I was safe. It’s the same one that took my hand so many times when I was young. And I remember for an instant, like a flash, long, long ago, when it was just him and I on the road, before the Homestead, before Lucia. His hand in mine, leading me away from danger. Protecting me.

  I’m crying before I can stop myself. I put my hand on Eric’s head as I cry. I don’t dare to touch him nearer to the mouth than that, in case he bites. I’m trembling then as I cry. I can’t let myself be weak.

  I sniff and straighten my back. I take my hand from Eric’s head and step back.

  “Good night, squirrel,” I say.

  “Unh,” he says.

  It takes everything I have left in me not to collapse in grief.

  52

  I dream someone takes my hand in theirs. It’s not Eric’s hand. It’s much larger. I don’t have to look around to know the world is on fire. I can smell the smoke. I look at the hand in mine. It’s large and black and is wearing the ring. The hand is warm and smooth. I tighten my grip on it.

  “You can do it, Birdie, I know you can.” It’s the same voice, deep and beautiful as honey.

  I look up to see my father, but his face is in shadows. I smell it then. The stench of old urine and dead things. White worms writhe in the darkness. My father’s mouth yawns open and black bile begins to spew out over me and I can do nothing but feel the worms wriggle on my skin.

  53

  I wake up shaking and sweating. I’m trembling so hard that it’s hard to breathe. I take deep, deep breaths to calm myself. I can still feel the dream, lingering like a stench. I slide out of my sleeping bag and let the cool night air take some of my sweat. I shake my head and walk down the road, away from the fire that’s burned down to weak, orange coals. As I walk, reality comes back to me. The dream fades.

  The moon is bright. Trees whisper in the cool breeze. The sound of my footsteps crunching on pine needles and leaves comforts me. The dream tatters in the breeze. My breathing calms. I even start feeling a little cold. I turn around and walk back toward the fire. I see the little campfire ahead of me, a tired, brick-colored, ancient thing, gloaming in the coals and ashes. I pick up some fallen wood for the fire. When I return to the fire and feed it, little yellow flames licking at the dry wood, I wish that everything could be solved so easily.

  But it can’t. Boston and Sidney are taking us back to the Homestead, and I don’t know how I can get Eric away. At the Homestead, they will certainly kill him, walk him out solemnly to the fields and give speeches. They’ll be sad and solemn when they do it, but they’ll put a bullet through his brain all the same. Even if they don’t, Eric is dying. He won’t eat. He’s just going to turn to skin and bones and then shrivel up and die. That is, if the Worm doesn’t kill him first, if he doesn’t crack and then I have to do something I don’t think I can do. Nothing is simple. I feel like I’m failing Eric. I sit by the fire, poking at it, prodding it back to life. If Eric could run, there’s a chance we could vanish into the forest. We could get somewhere alone and then I could deal with the other problems. But he can’t run. Sometimes he can hardly walk. If we disappear tonight, I feel sure Boston and Sydney would hunt for us. They would want to know why. They are spies after all. At least that’s what I think they are.

  I look up from the fire. Boston is fast asleep in his sleeping bag near the fire. Sidney is on watch, I guess, his back against the tree, snoring. Snoring?

  I stand up quietly to investigate. Walking silently as a cat, I go over to Sidney. Yes. He snores lightly through his huge nose. He’s fallen asleep with his gun on his lap. They’re both asleep.

  I reach back and take out my gun.

  I probably won’t have a better time than this.

  Think, Birdie. Think.

  I could do it. One shot in Sidney’s head and then, twirling around fast, another in Boston’s before he even realizes what has happened. Two rapid shots and then we’d be gone. Bang. Turn. Bang. Easy as feeding the fire.

  My heart starts beating rapidly.

  The gun is warm and real and heavy in my hand. If I don’t do this, Eric could die. I can’t let that happen. I swore I wouldn’t let that happen. I put my finger on the trigger and add pressure. What do I know of these guys? Who knows how many people they’ve killed? Women and children both probably. Who knows? I lift up the gun in the darkness and point it at Sidney. I’m just a few steps away. I won’t miss. Just two shots. Bang. Turn. Bang.

  I take a deep breath.

  Squeeze the trigger.

  If I don’t, Eric will die. I squeeze. I picture the movements I need to make. The last pressure of the trigger, the turn at the waist, pointing the gun at Boston who will probably sit up straight at the sound of the gun. And then the second shot. Easy. I squeeze.

  If I don’t, Eric will die. I steady my aim and take a deep breath.

  But my finger won’t move.

  I can’t do it. I can’t.

  I let the gun drop. I have to find a different way.

  When I get back to my sleeping bag, I feel sure Eric would be proud of me. I slip inside and close my eyes.

  This will give me no consolation if he dies because I couldn’t do what had to be done.

  54

  The next day I wake up to blinding sunlight. The sun is almost directly above me. I slept until midday. I feel a lot better than I did last night. When I sit up, I see it’s a beautiful day. There are long, lazy clouds in the sky, but otherwise the skies are deep blue. To each side of the road are tall pine trees. Boston and Sidney are by the fire, drying long strips of venison. The sight of the meat makes me ravenous. I think I could eat half the deer myself. I sit up and stretch. Somewhere a chickadee calls out. Chick-a-dee-deee-deee.

  “There’s some breakfast left, if you want some,” Sidney says, noticing I’m up.

  Do I want some breakfast? Talk about an understatement.

  I try not to think about how close I came to shooting him last night as I go to the fire. There’s a pan in there with two large deer steaks. Soon I’m sitting down and gorging myself. I eat both of the steaks without so much as a pause. Then I sit back, wiping my greasy face with my sleeve, and take a deep breath. I could almost take another nap.

  But I remember Eric then, so I boil some more tea. The sleep has done me some good. I’m thinking much more clearly. I’ve got an idea.

  Boston and Sidney work silently on the deer, but I notice Sidney watches me as I get up.

  “Thanks for the breakfast,” I tell him.

  “No problem,” Boston says. Sidney just nods, his big onion nose dipping down and then back up. When he turns away, I see his cauliflower ear and I wonder for a second what happened to him before I stop myself. Best not to think about that. I don’t know what’s going to happen. There’s a good chance that all of this is not going to end well. It doesn’t seem smart to wonder about the past of a man you might have to kill. So I just turn and walk away.

  Eric has moved during the night. He’s lying on his stomach in the pine needles with the heavy backpack on top of him. From the sound of his breathing, it sounds like the weight of the backpack is not easy for him.

  “Come on, Eric,” I say. I push him over. His face is covered with black bile.

  I stand up and walk away, trying to hold down my breakfast. “Oh, man,” I say, covering my mouth with my wrist. “That’s nasty.”

  But there’s nothing to do but clean him up as best I can, so I hold my breath and get the rag. Then I go through the bag until I find the bag of maple sugar I brought from the Homestead. I mix some in with the mint tea. This way Eric will get some kind of nourishment. Better than nothing, I figure.

  I have to turn my head away as Eric drinks it though, with his lapping tongue that has turned black. It’s too gross to watch. Th
e smell alone is brutal. But I think I got some food in him, so that feels good.

  After the tea is gone, I clean him up again, and help him stand up.

  “Unh,” he says when I’ve finally hefted him to his feet.

  I walk him around a little, just to exercise him, get the blood to his muscles. Then I stand next to him and look back through the trees, down at the camp where Boston and Sidney are working on drying the strips of deer meat. Eric’s mouth hangs open. His breathing is rough and makes a gurgling noise, like he’s trying to draw air through liquid. I turn away from him.

  I try not to look at Eric too much. He doesn’t look like the man I remember. He looks like a skull with a beard now. The wrappings I made for his eyes are stained deeply black. I don’t even want to imagine what’s underneath that. And his clothes are just too disgusting to mention. With his jaw hanging open and a little to the side, he looks like a stranger. It’s hard to imagine this is the same person who used to teach me mathematics during long winter nights, who used to read books to me, who taught ne everything I know. It breaks my heart to see what he has become. I want to hug him or something, but I can’t because he might bite me. I feel my chest kind of freeze up.

  Eric suddenly tenses up and then makes a horrible, wet hacking sound. A fist-sized blob of black bile, writhing with pale worms, rolls out of his mouth and then down the front of his shirt. It leaves a stinking, wriggling trail on his clothes as it drops to the forest floor.

  That does it. I stagger to the nearest tree and wretch out a good portion of my breakfast into the bushes.

  “Damn it, Eric,” I say, spitting on the ground when I finish.

  When my stomach settles, I take a few deep breaths. I have to clean him up now.

  It takes a few tries before I can do it without gagging. Finally, I’m done. I stand back with the rag and look at Eric. He’s leaning forward with his arms dangling down, his jaw hung open. At least he’s breathing better now.

  “Unh,” Eric says.

  “Well, I’m glad you feel better,” I tell him, “because I don’t think I’m ever going to eat again in my life.”

  55

  When I get back to the fire, Boston and Sidney are sitting down, enjoying another meal. They have a frying pan full of potatoes on the fire as well as a boiling kettle. They are smiling and talking to each other. They quiet down when I approach. By the time I sit at the fire, they are quiet, watching me.

  “How’s he doing?” Boston asks. Sidney just studies me. I’m not sure how much these guys really trust me.

  “He’s all right,” I ask. I take a breath and decide to get to the matter at hand. “Can I ask you something?” Boston nods and Sidney just shrugs in a way that says well, if that’s what you want to do. So I continue. “Are you spies?”

  Sidney smiles, but Boston looks serious. Then it’s like they switch parts. Boston laughs out loud and Sidney gets real serious. I wait until they settle into their parts. They both look at each other and smile faintly and shrug and seem to communicate a lot by just looking at each other.

  “We’re not exactly spies,” Boston says after a second. “The President sent us north to look for supporters. We try to talk to them before the Gearheads can recruit them.”

  “And to see if the Gearheads have come this far north?” I ask, watching them.

  The question seems to make Boston nervous. But Sidney chimes in. “Yeah, you could say that,” he answers. “As we look for supporters, we’re supposed to watch out for Gearheads.”

  “Seen any?” I asked.

  They’re quiet, looking at me. “You tell us,” Sidney says finally. “Have we?”

  Now they’re both studying me. The tension has gathered suddenly between us, like a fog has rolled in. I even notice that they’re keeping their gun hands at the ready by holding their tin plates with their left hands. I smile and then give out a little laugh.

  “I’m not a Gearhead,” I say. “I’m just trying to get my father back to the Good Prince.”

  “Well, there’s the thing,” Boston says. “The Good Prince isn’t siding with anyone. Not yet. But she will. Thing is, maybe she’s got spies of her own.”

  I puff out some air. “Yeah, like a girl and her mentally deranged father make a really good pair of spies.”

  They both keep looking at me.

  “Seriously?” I cock my head at them.

  “Since we’re being honest,” Sidney says, “I’ll just come out and say it. Something isn’t right with your story. You’re hiding something.”

  “If I'm so suspicious, why’d you give me my gun back?” I ask. When they keep studying me without responding, the answer comes to me. Fear crackles down my back. “Those aren’t real bullets in my gun, are they?”

  They don’t answer which is answer enough. I thought about the night before, my gun pointed at Sidney. I almost shot a blank. That would have been the end of me. They would have killed me and then Eric. I get up, feeling a knot of panic in my chest. I feel my heart in my throat. The feeling of security I had until a few seconds ago is gone.

  “Calm down,” Boston says, not moving. “We’re not going to hurt you.”

  “We could’ve done that a thousand times by now,” Sidney adds, which sounds threatening, but actually does calm me a little. I step back though. Without a weapon, I feel lost and a little angry. My knife isn’t even with me. I should have listened to Eric. He’s told me a million times never to go anywhere without it.

  “So what do you want with us?” I ask.

  “Nothing much,” Boston says.

  “Just information,” Sidney adds. “Just the truth. Whatever you’re hiding.”

  My mind explodes with buzzing thoughts, each one clambering for attention. Obviously I can’t tell them that Eric has the Worm. They’ll shoot him where he stands. I need to tell them some truth though. Something that seems to give up what I’m actually hiding. A truth to hide the lie. My head buzzes with different scenarios. I have to pick one and fast.

  I sigh and sit back down. “Yeah, all right,” I say. “I’m not from Good Prince Billy. We didn’t get attacked by bandits.” I shrug at them. “I’m from the Homestead, the little community on the hill you’re taking me to. Eric is my father, but he didn’t get beat up by bandits. He got kicked by a horse a few months back.”

  They’re studying me, seeing if they trust this new story. Waiting.

  I clear my throat. “At first everyone helped take care of Eric, but he just got worse and worse. And people started saying it might be kinder if they. . .well, if they. . .you know,” I say. I let it catch in my throat like a sob, which is easy enough because they would have killed Eric if they knew he had the Worm so it’s close to the truth. I sigh and blink like I’m fighting not cry. “So we had to leave. We snuck away just a few nights ago.”

  They wait for more, but I’m silent. I sniffle a little and wipe my nose with my sleeve. As I’m doing it, I notice a little white worm crawling on my arm. I make a noise before I can help it and then cross my arms roughly over my chest, hoping they didn’t see anything, I feel the worm with my left hand and, doing everything to keep my disgust hidden, crush it. While I do this, I look back at them, searching for any signs they had seen a conspicuous, little white worm crawling on my clothes. They are still studying me for truth. No sign that they saw any worm. That’s one relief anyway.

  “I’m sorry I lied to you guys,” I continue. “I just didn’t know if I could trust you.” Truth is, I wish I had come up with this lie at the beginning. It’s much better, but I had no idea they were going to take me toward the Homestead. It was the best I could think of at the time. I guess I’m not as good at this lying thing than I thought.

  Boston and Sidney are quiet watching me. Finally Boston speaks up. “So we’re taking you and Eric to the very community that wants to kill him?”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “What were you going to do?” Sidney asks.

  I shrug. “I don’t know. I wasn’t thin
king very well, I guess.”

  “No wonder you seemed nervous,” Boston says.

  Yeah, no wonder. I wait, looking for some sign that they’re buying this story. It’s the closest to the actual truth I can give them.

  Boston smiles suddenly and then pours me a cup of boiling water. “Relax,” he says, holding out the mug. “Have some tea.”

  I smile at them and they smile back. I take the mug of tea and sit down.

  Another crisis averted. For now.

  56

  My new, closest-I-can-get-to-the-truth story seems to satisfy them. Around the fire, Boston gets chatty. He tells me how the two of them met in something like boot camp, back when President Barber was just Barber. They helped him carve out a place in Boston, a place free of gangs and violence, a sanctuary in the center of the ruinous disaster that followed the years after the Worm. The sanctuary grew every year until Barber came up with the idea of the Stars and, after a swift vote, declared himself President of the United States. Their sanctuary grew much faster than that, reaching north, south, and west. To the west, it pressed against the growing faction of the Gearheads. Despite the Gearheads’ claim that thye too had a president, President Brown, at first there was respect between them, even hope, Boston tells me, but things went sour in just a few years. When the war between the Gearheads and the Stars broke out, President Barber sent the two north by boat to Eastport. Since then, they’ve been heading back to Boston, stopping at all the communities they can find, searching for allies. . .and potential enemies. All this time, they’ve been keeping detailed notes, ready to give a report back to their President.

  “The President is going to create order,” Boston says. “You’ll see. No more bandits. No more uncertain winters. No more lawlessness, murder, and all that. President Barber will end that for everyone, just like he ended it in Boston.”

  Sidney nods. “No more killing people just because they’re damaged,” he tells me meaningfully, glancing toward the forest where I have Eric tied up, just in case I didn’t get the drift.