The World Without Crows

by Ben Lyle Bedard

  "Minor lacerations!" cried Andy. "A vorpal weapon will take off your friggin’ arms!"

  "I'll bite your legs off, you pansy!" interrupted Glenn. They erupted into hoots of laughter.

  His mother came down the stairs with a platter of chocolate cookies with white chocolate chips, his favorite. She tussled his hair. He didn't notice when she left. Under the table, Jessica took his hand. She looked at him and smiled, her wide, round face strangely free of acne.

  Eric squeezed her hand and smiled back.

  "All right," he said. "Let's get started." He took out the adventure he had been writing off and on for a year. It was called "The Village of the Living Dead."

  When he looked over the screen that hid his dice from the players, all his friends were dead. Jessica stared at him through the hole where the bullet had blown out her eye. Black ooze ran down her cheek.

  Eric woke up, breathing hard and irregularly, like his body had forgotten the rhythm of living. He stumbled out of his tent and panted over the red hot coals of his fire. "Oh shit," he mumbled. "Shit." Sweat dripped from his face. He fumbled for his pistol and held it in his lap. "Shit," he said. "Oh god." Finally the panic receded.

  But Eric would not sleep again that night.

  He waited until the sun rose, watched the brilliant pink and reds spread over the wooded landscape, listened to the birds awake and cry into the light. When it was bright enough to move north, he did, grateful for the movement in his limbs.

  But even so. It was a long time before the fear left him.

  _

  Eric's compass was foggy. Water had seeped inside it, and now it was difficult to read. His knife, which he used for practically everything, was getting dull. His tent leaked. After he ate Charlie's beans, he had no more food. Now he sat on a ridge overlooking a town. It was nothing more than a few houses crowded around a crossroads. Remembering the gang and the red snake painted on the side of the truck, Eric was hesitant and fearful.

  It was his stomach, in the end, who made the most persuasive argument.

  Eric crept down toward the houses, pistol in his hand. He wouldn't make Charlie's mistake. He wouldn't try to talk to them, he would shoot.

  It wasn't hard to pick out the right building. There was a faded old beer sign out front. It read, "One Stop." Eric crouched and listened, but he heard nothing but the wind clapping up against the houses windows and rattling loose roofing. Eric looked cautiously up and down the road, but there was nothing. Finally, his heart beating, he walked up the steps to the store. When he opened the door, little bells rang. The sound was so loud, a crow squawked in response.

  Eric stepped inside, holding out his pistol. Inside, there were several sounds he hadn't heard from outside. Scraping, bumping, shuffling. Eric couldn't tell if there was a window open and the wind was blowing through old papers, or if there was someone in there. He crouched down and moved as quietly as he could. But it was hard for someone like him to move stealthily. He seemed to make a lot of noise.

  Then he saw her. An old woman with the paper at the counter of the store. She was looking at a paper. The headline read PARIS EVACUATED. It had a picture of the Eiffel Tower on the front. The woman was staring at the page, but Eric could see she wasn't reading. Her face was yellow and blue. Her eyes were shrunk and black. Her lips had pulled back so that her teeth made a garish smile. Half of her hair was missing and her scalp had been scratched away on one side so that her skull gleamed underneath.

  "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.

  3

  __________

  WOOSTER

  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."

  "I know you can, Birdie."

  Eric went slower all the same.

  _

  Moving north, they came to a large creek and followed it north. Eric told Birdie he thought it was called the Killbuck, but it was hard to be sure. His map wasn’t clear.

  Eric and Birdie kept to the forest when they could, but kept the road in sight. Roads were the only way that Eric could be sure he was going in the right direction. As they moved north, more signs began to have SNAKES spray painted on them.

  Eric saw a person walking on the road once, but he could tell, even from far away, that whoever it was was no longer living. It had a way of walking that was clumsy and awkward. No human walked like that. The worm had rooted into its brain. It was nothing more than walking corpse.

  Eric and Birdie crept back into the hills and forests and worked their way north, trying to keep clear from the roads.

  They came to a very small town called Blissfield. There were only a few houses. A burned out truck decayed in the middle of the street. One of the houses had a red snake painted on it. Nothing moved in the town.

  "Wait here," Eric whispered to Birdie. "I have to see if there's food there."

  Eric got up, but Birdie clutched his hand. "No," she said. "I'm coming too."

  "Birdie," Eric hissed. "It's dangerous down there!"

  "It's dangerous every where," she said.

  She was right. "Okay, but stay close and don't wander off."

  They went into the town.

  It was quiet in the houses. Most of them were empty. They looked like they'd been abandoned for years. Squirrels, raccoons, and foxes had moved in. They had built nests all over the houses, and they scurried away when they came near. In a few, they found a couple cans of food, corn, beans, and, in one, a small can of shrimp. In one room, Eric found a box of crayons and put it in his bag with a notebook he found in the closet.

  Soon afterward, Eric got a bad feeling. He didn't like staying in these places for too long. He took what they had found and crept north out of town where the Killbuck slid past. They crossed a bridge across it and kept moving north.

  The feeling wouldn't leave Eric. He kept Birdie close to him and kept looking over his shoulder. Finally he couldn't stand it, and they climbed up a hill into the woods to eat.

  Eric kept watching around him, his hand on his gun.

  _

  Eric and Birdie moved north at a greater pace. Eric still felt nervous. He was angry too, even if there wasn’t a target for his anger. He couldn't let anything happen to Birdie. She was his responsibility now. He hated to think what might happen to a little girl in the wrong sort of gang. Birdie needed him. He kept looking over to her in concern. He felt fear like a knot in his throat.

  The whistling sound came to him suddenly. He stopped abruptly, putting his arm in front of Birdie. "Shh!" he hissed. Birdie crouched near him. Eric crept toward the sound, motioning Birdie to wait. He pulled out his pistol. He could feel his heart beat rapidly in his chest, almost painfully. Peering from around a tree, he saw a lean figure against the Killbuck creek, fishing. It was a young woman, not much older than him, Eric figured. As he watched, her voice rose up around him.

  "Sail away, sail away, sail away!" she sang.

  It was a very popular song, right before the end. Eric relaxed his grip on the pistol. He was ashamed he pointed it at her. She pulled back suddenly, and her pole made an arc over the water. She gave a cry of triumph and, wrapping her hand around the line, dragged a fish on the bank. She took a club and brought it down upon the fish's head, ceasing its struggle upon the shore.

  Perhaps he made a sound. He was never sure. Her head snapped toward him suddenly, and without a doubt, she saw him, a fat kid with a gun. Eric froze. For an instant they stared at each other without moving or making a sound. And then her hand flashed and then glittered, holding a long, slim knife.

  Eric took a step back and lifted up his pistol.

  "This is my fish!" she cried. "Back off!"

  "I don't want your fish," he replied. "We just heard you singing and--"

  "We?" The young woman paled and glanced around her.

  "Just me and one other person," Eric said, unhappy he'd even mentioned Birdie.

  "What do you want?"

  "Nothing," he said. "I was just, just looking. I thought you might be a part of a gang."

  "Gang?" The woman stood up and breathed out a puff of air. "Hardly. Where's the other guy? Hiding?"

  "Yes," Eric said.

  "Tell him to come out."

  "No."

  They stood and looked at each other. The young woman was probably only a year or two older than him. Her hair was yellow like corn, tied back in a pony tail. She was slim and short, her face round, with a short, squat nose. Like them, she was very dirty. She had on a jean jacket and green pants. He didn't want her to know about Birdie. If it was just him and a little girl, maybe she would steal all their stuff and leave them out here with nothing. She looked like she'd used that knife before.

  "Hi." The both of them turned. "My name is Birdie," Birdie said. She waved.

  The effect on the young woman was i
nstantaneous. She smiled and lowered her knife immediately. "Hello Birdie," she said. "My name is Sarah Ross." She glanced over to Eric. "Would you like to come and share this fish with us?"

  Just then another figure strode to them. He was tall and lean, with bright red hair. His face was smothered by freckles. He looked at Eric and grimaced.

  "Who the fuck are these jokers?" he asked, casually waving a gun toward Eric and Birdie.

  _

  At the shore of the Killbuck, Sarah cooked the fish with Birdie's help. After the fish had fried, Sarah stripped the flesh from the bones, added some water, a measure of powdered milk, wrinkled potatoes and a can of corn. Taking a plastic bag from her backpack, she retrieved a shaker of salt and pepper and vigorously shook them both into the pot. She also sprinkled some other herb into it. Birdie stirred it while it cooked.

  It was fish chowder. Real fish chowder.

  When Sarah served it to them in tin cups, Eric could hardly believe what he was holding. For weeks, he had eaten plain rice and canned beans. Birdie sat down next to him and they both spooned the chowder into their mouths.

  It was the best meal Eric had ever eaten.

  _

  They had just finished eating when the redhead returned. He had left angrily when Sarah invited them to dinner, stomping and swearing into the woods. His name was Brad. "How was dinner?" he asked, sitting down beside them. "Food that you ain't worked for always tastes best, don't it?"

  Eric looked away, ashamed of himself. It was true. They had contributed nothing to the meal.

  "Brad, please," Sarah said.