“I’ve got an idea,” I tell Pest, springing to my feet. “Come on, help me!”
Pest follows me into the forest, and when I tell him what I have in mind, he catches on immediately. We don’t have a hatchet to cut down small trees which would have been the best, so we have to settle on gathering fallen trees and branches. We gather them into a pile, and then we quickly pick out the best, dragging them back to the camp. We arrange the wood into a kind of sled and then lash it together as best we can with the rope I use to tie up Eric. I’m kind of at a loss as to how to attach the sled to Bandit until Pest pulls out some more rope from Bandit’s saddlebags.
“What’d you bring rope for?” I ask Pest as we work tying one end to the makeshift sled.
Pest doesn’t answer at first. “Franky wanted us to bring you back.” He doesn’t look at me when he says it.
I narrow my eyes. How Franky convinced everyone to hunt down Eric, kill him, tie me up, and drag me back to the Homestead is beyond me. I guess people will do anything if they’re scared. For a minute, I get angry, but then I remember all the things I almost did to keep Eric safe and the anger cools. We do what we have to do. What we think is right. I don’t blame them, but Franky. He’s a different story. His reasons aren’t so noble.
We harness up the sled to Bandit, and then turn to Eric. He has been standing motionless the whole time near the fire. He is leaning back with one arm sort of forward like he’s reaching to get something. It’s creepy. When I go grab him, he grunts, like he’s reluctant to move away from the fire. But it doesn’t take much to get him to the sled. Getting him to lie down on it is another thing entirely. We pull and tug at him for a while, before we have to just trip him. He falls on the sled hard and then just lies there.
“Unh,” he says.
“You’re okay,” I tell him.
Pest and I tie him down with clothes, twisted up blankets, and Eric’s own belt. Then we throw the backpack on him and strap that to Eric. I check to make sure he can breathe okay and wipe his mouth and his face. I stand back and survey the construction. With the backpack on top and the log sled on bottom, Eric looks squashed in the middle.
“It’s like an Eric sandwich,” Pest observes.
“Just for a little while, okay?” I say to Eric.
Eric doesn’t make a sound.
Then I go to Pest who’s packing the rest of my stuff in Bandit’s saddlebags. I feel nervous or something about talking with him. When he turns to me, his round face is blank. He brushes his black hair out of his eyes.
“Go west,” he tells me. “Find Good Prince Billy.” His eyes have that depth and intelligence that spooks me in someone so young. “It’s the only way to keep Eric safe.”
“Thanks,” I say, although my first impulse is to tell him I can take of Eric fine myself. Pest makes me feel that way. “Listen,” I say. I take a deep breath. It’s hard for some reason to say what I want to say. “Thanks for helping me and Eric. Without you. . .” I can’t finish the sentence.
Pest shakes his head, like he’s annoyed with me. “You don’t have to thank me,” he says. There’s a touch of irritation in his voice. “I owe him.”
We look at each other for a second. I want to put my hand on his shoulder, but when I move toward him, Pest steps away suddenly. “Good luck,” he says.
“Yeah,” I say. “You too.” I watch him as he walks away. He gets to the edge of the woods and turns back to watch me leave. Pest is so weird.
I get up on Bandit who nickers a little. He doesn’t like to be ridden much. He doesn’t like to do anything really. Then, watching behind me, I give him a little nudge and shake his reins. “Up now,” I tell him.
When he moves forward, the sled drags forward easily. Eric is jostled a little, but it holds. Soon we’re headed down the road and away from Pest. I look up to see him still watching us leave. I lift a hand to wave, but he doesn’t wave back.
I know I owe him a lot, but I can’t help feeling that he’s a creepy kid.
Then we’re gone and Norman is behind us. It isn’t until it’s far too late to turn back, when I realize that I don’t have a single gun anymore, not even one loaded with blanks.
66
As we ride into the night, the moonlight falls lightly on the road. Dragging Eric is noisy business, but somehow it feels quiet to me. I have time to calm down. It’s been a horrible couple days. I ride lightly on Bandit and chew on strips of meat. It seems like such a pleasure, such a luxury, to have time. I don’t even mind being tired riding into the night. It feels nice to be drowsy and to know that I’m putting miles between me and, well, everyone else. It feels good to know that Eric is safe. As I ride, I feel sure that things from here on will be easier. I will ride west and find a nice little house somewhere safe. Then I’ll stay there and take care of Eric until he either gets better or. . . Anyway, I’ll just stay there and wait it out. I don’t need Good Prince Billy. I wouldn’t even know where to start looking for her. It’s safer to keep Eric away from everyone. Soon everyone will know the Worm is back, and Eric will be in even more danger.
When I pass the road that leads south to the Homestead and keep heading west, I feel much better. It’s weird to be so close to home again. I feel like the past couple of days have been a waste of time, like I’m going in circles. For a second, it frightens me, but then I feel better. The real goal is keeping Eric alive. If I lead him in circles until he gets better, I will call that a success. But I certainly have to get some space between me and the Homestead.
The road turns north to go around a lake. In the moonlight, the lake looks silver. As Bandit clops up the road, I marvel at the stillness of the water and how it shines in the light, like it’s been polished. After all the chaos of the last few days, having a few moments to look and see the world seems like a luxury. The silence of the night is welcome too. No gunshots. No whispered talking or scheming. I’m so relieved I don’t have to think a hundred miles an hour that it seems like everything is slow and beautiful, a rhythm of serenity. I feel myself begin to tear up, not from sadness, but from sheer relief. Both Eric and I are still alive, walking among silver lakes, pine trees shining at their edges like sharpened blades, fields populated by shards of crystalline grass. The peace I feel is immense, almost overpowering.
But it doesn’t last. Soon the beauty flakes away, and I begin to helplessly recall the faces of the people who won’t see this beauty ever again. Artemis and Peter and Matt and all the boys of the goon squad that are mostly dead now, except for Pest. And I see Pest himself, his round, white face, like a baby’s, his dark, curly hair, and his shining blue eyes, shimmering with intelligence and cunning. I wonder if, like all the rest, I will ever see him again. The thought makes my heart drop in my chest.
Then, as if my dropping heart has raised another memory, like my emotions are some kind of watery deep inside me, I remember again the days following the Worm, not recently, but a decade in the past when I was just a little girl. I remember a night like this. I’m walking under trees. Leaves crunch at my feet. Eric is walking next to me. He stops suddenly and looks down at me. He’s smiling. He puts his hand on my shoulder. I’m so tired, but his hand gives me energy because I don’t want to let him down. I want to keep going. Then he takes my hand.
It’s the memory of the hands that brings me racing to another memory, one older and more confused. Of my actual father. The feel of his large hand in mine, warm and soft, comes with images of fire and smoke. I’m frightened. I hear him talking to me, but I can’t understand all he’s saying. Only these words focus clearly: “You can do it, Birdie.”
That’s when I hear the crash, and I realize I’ve been sleeping. I look back. The sled has fallen apart.
67
I swing off Bandit and go back to check on Eric. He’s fine, lying flat on his back on a ruined sled. It’s all the same to him if he’s moving or not. I take the opportunity to wipe the black bile from his chin and face. He’s getting even thinner. I have to figure out a w
ay to feed him or he’ll just waste away. I can’t keep giving him sugar water. I don’t have enough sugar for that. I look at him, concerned. I can’t help but brush his hair out of his eyes with my fingers. I feel my heart twinge in me so painfully, I have to get up and get away from him. I’m not going to be any use to him if I start crying my guts out.
It doesn’t take too long before I realize the whole sled is completely unfixable. The rope we used to lash it together has been frayed by the dragging. I try to use the remaining pieces to fix it, but it’s hopeless. When I think I have it fixed and get back on Bandit, he steps forward and rips it all apart again. Eric just lies there on a pile of logs in the middle of the road.
“Unh,” he says, but I don’t bother to answer him. I jump down from Bandit to survey the remnants of the sled and think. I stand there for a while under the moon.
Bandit is grazing on the side of the road, not a care in the world. At first I get very frustrated, but then I shrug. What can I do? I feel grateful that the sled lasted this long, just far enough to be ahead of Norman and Pest. It will take them all night to walk back to the Homestead. It gives Eric and I the start we need to vanish.
“Well,” I say to Eric, beginning to untangle him from the ruined sled. “I guess we walk from here.”
“Unh,” he says as I tug him to his feet.
“I’m not happy about it either,” I tell him. I pat him on the back.
There’s enough rope left to lash Eric’s backpack to Bandit. Then I climb on Bandit, who is annoyed at this and tries to step away, but I swing into place before he can get far. It’s the first trouble he’s given me, so I feel more lucky than annoyed. “Hush now,” I tell Bandit as he walks sideways for a second with the new weight. Then I prick him forward with my heels.
Looking back, I watch Eric get tugged forward by the rope and then walk. He walks faster without the backpack, I’m happy to see, but he doesn’t walk fast enough to keep from getting pulled by the rope every couple of minutes. Every time the rope goes tight, he staggers a little forward before finding his stride. Everything is great then for a minute or two before Bandit’s pace takes up the slack in the rope and the cycle starts again. If Eric would speed up just a little, it wouldn’t happen, but Eric is a one-gear machine, so every minute or so, I have to pull the reins on Bandit and get him to stop. Then I wait for Eric to walk closer before getting Bandit to move again. It’s a real pain, to say the least. I can’t think of any way to change the pattern.
At least the rhythm of stopping and going keeps me awake. I’m not too excited about the thought of falling asleep and dreaming. Things are tough enough, I don’t know why my stupid brain has decided that now is the best time to dredge up all those old memories of my father. It seems needlessly cruel.
Rounding the lake, we turn south and follow the road until I see another, in worse state, headed off to the west. I take that one and keep following it, putting as much space between me and the Homestead as I can. At some point, just as the sky starts to turn that deep violet color right before dawn, I see a road to the north and I take it.
This road is considerably worse. Sometimes it’s hard to see it’s even a road. There’s crumbled asphalt everywhere and it’s hard to walk. I have to keep an eye on Eric to make sure he doesn’t trip and fall. If he falls, he won’t even try to protect himself like a normal human. He’ll just fall. Hard. If he breaks a leg, I don’t know what I’ll do. Finally I have to get off Bandit and lead Eric more carefully. Now I’m the one tugging at Bandit, who stops whenever he can to munch on grass or just stand there, looking at nothing, not moving in the slightest. I really don’t know what’s going through his head when he acts like that. Maybe the dumb horse has the Worm too. I laugh a little at that, but I guess it’s not really that funny.
“Come on,” I say to Bandit, giving his rope a tug. “Stupid zombie horse.”
“Unh,” says Eric.
“That’s right,” I say. “You tell him, Eric.”
We’re walking mostly uphill now, sometimes steeply. With the dawn light coming, it’s easier to see and maneuver around the pits in the asphalt road, but it’s still not easy going. I’m really tired, and guiding Eric is hard. He’d walk right over a cliff if I pushed him in that direction. A couple of times, he stumbles and almost falls, but I get to him just in time, putting my shoulder to his chest to keep him upright. Whenever I do this, I almost gag just from Eric’s smell. It’s getting worse, it seems. Plus, when I put my shoulder into his chest, I can feel his bones. Sharp. Distinct. Eric was always tough and broad around the shoulders. Now he isn’t much more than a skeleton. I feel like every mile we walk is dragging him that much closer to death. If Eric doesn’t eat, I don’t see how he’ll live much longer.
If this worry isn’t enough, there’s also Bandit. Now that there’s no one riding him, he’s got the idea that he’s his own boss. He must be tired too because he just wants to stand in that obstinate way of his, motionless, head straight forward, not budging at all. It seems like every fifteen minutes, I have to yank at his reins to get him to move. Between Bandit and Eric, it’s hard as hell to move at all, let alone the miles and miles I want to get away from the Homestead.
Just then we crest a hill. There’s no trees at the top of the hill and the morning sunlight is brilliant. I shade my eyes and blink.
“Unh,” Eric says. I give his rope a tug and he stops.
“Yeah, it’s bright,” I agree.
Below us are rolling hills, fields sparkling with dew, acres of jewels, bordered by evergreen. About a mile off, I see a herd of deer lazily rising from their night’s rest. There must be a hundred of them. After the humans all died off, the deer inherited these fields and have been multiplying like crazy ever since. That might change in the future. Randy used to tell us stories of wolves, pushing down from the north. I look down at the deer and think their easy days are numbered. For now though, they look peaceful and content.
Then I see it, up ahead. In the middle of the field, on the crest of another hill, is an old clapboard farmhouse with a lopsided barn next to it. It’s just the kind of place I’ve been looking for. Just seeing the place and the hope it represents makes me forget my exhaustion. We can rest there. I tug at Bandit’s rein and eventually he starts forward and then I give Eric a little shove in the back to get him going, and our slow train moves ahead, one plodding footstep at a time. The sun is rising to our right, cutting across the glimmering fields and shining bright in a cloudless sky. Already the fields have started to steam from the evaporation of the dew. The birds have come alive in the sun too and as we make our slow way to the farmhouse, I watch swallows dart and fly over the field, catching their breakfast of insects and chattering as they go.
The sun has climbed far over the trees before we reach the farmhouse. I tie down both Eric and Bandit to a fence before I eye the farmhouse apprehensively. Now that I’m here, I have to deal with the idea that the farmhouse might not be empty. I haven’t got a weapon either. Not a gun filled with blanks. Not even my knife. I survey the house. I don’t see any evidence of people using it. It looks like it hasn’t been entered in a very long time. But I can’t afford to be stupid, so I circle around, looking for the slightest evidence of use. The barn doors are open, but there are no footprints or hoof prints in the dirt around it. There’s no sound. The only movement I can see are the barn swallows who dive in and out of the barn through the open door.
Finally I creep into the barn and look around. It’s a simple barn with a few stalls and a hay mount above. In the back corner there’s a chicken coop, but there’s only a few old gray feathers to show it was ever used. Carefully I climb the wooden ladder to the hay mount. Nothing up there but a few piles of hay, rotted almost to dirt. I climb back down and look in the stalls, but the barn has been thoroughly cleaned out. There’s nothing in there that could be of any use whatsoever. Not so much as a stray nail. I pry a thin board off the wall between the stalls. It’s got a nice heft to it, and I give it a
practice swing. That should do some damage if it comes to that. Emboldened, I move closer to the house with my new weapon.
The house isn’t in great condition. As I get closer, I see some details that I missed before. All the windows are broken. The roof is sunk in on one side and looks on the verge of collapsing. The door is open too, but only a crack, as if someone forgot to shut it on their way out. I can’t help but imagine that a family must have lived here once. Laughing kids, barking dogs, a few cars, maybe a horse or two in the barn. I open the front door carefully, but the hinges screech, which makes me cringe.
Still, I tell myself, it’s a good sign. No one has opened that rusty door in a very long time. I slip inside with my plank ready to swing. The living room, or what’s left of it, is fairly large. A rotting couch happily sprouts grass in the center of the room. A bowed coffee table sits in front of it. Surveying the damage is a wrecked television set, shattered long ago, probably just for the hell of it. I don’t see any other reason to smash a television set. Behind the television is a wall covered with moss and dripping water. This is where the collapsed roof leaks in. The water has rotted out the wood in the ceiling. The house smells like wet, damp earth. But no sign of anything alive. . .yet.
When I move to the kitchen, I see that the place has already been searched over, many times. All the cupboards are open, some of them broken. There’s not a can left, not a toothpick, nothing. Not even an old knife or fork. It’s completely scavenged like a dead deer after the wild dogs have fought over it. There’s absolutely nothing here. But this is good news. I’m not looking for supplies, I’m looking for a place to stay.
I check the second floor, but it’s even worse than the first. Someone has even scavenged the mattresses, shoving them out of broken windows is my guess, by the looks of the windows, which aren’t just broken but totally smashed away. I don’t stay on the second floor long. The floor creaks and whines too much and I don’t trust the house. It looks like it might start collapsing any day now. Eric used to tell me that the worst thing that can happen to a house is a leaking roof. Then it’s only a matter of time before it’s totally ruined. Looking at the house, I can see why. It won’t be long before it just crumbles in on itself.
The World Without Flags Page 17
