The World Without Crows

by Ben Lyle Bedard

  The Snakes had not been there yet.

  There were Zombies everywhere.

  _

  "Welcome to Champion Heights."

  Eric read the sign and felt sick. Nestled under spreading green trees, were rows of short, two story houses or smaller ranches. Each house was surrounded by an overgrown lawn in front of it, the grass already two feet high. Useless telephone wires crisscrossed above the streets.

  Lumbering across the street, dragging one broken foot behind her, was a young woman, half of her face scratched to the bone. She walked to a house and began licking the chipping clapboard. Her tongue was ragged and frayed like a flag in the wind.

  Birdie clutched at his hand.

  Looking into a light blue house near them, Eric saw another Zombie, an old man this time, standing at the window. His hair was mostly ripped out. What was left was red and matted with blood. Somehow the old man had lost half his nose. It dangled from his face, connected by a thin tissue of skin. He stared at them through red eyes.

  "I don't like this," said Eric. Brad shouldered his backpack.

  "Fucking grow a pair," he responded. Sergio chuckled next to him. Though they had just met, it was obvious that Sergio had attached himself to Brad. Brad glanced back at Eric, his face severe. "They're only Zombies," he said. "We need the food. As long as we keep seeing Zombies, we won't see Snakes. They're the real problem."

  Eric wanted to respond, but he didn't. He knew Brad well enough now to know it wouldn't do any good. He thought back to the Zombies on the street back in Athens. He had seen one, cracked, come racing down the street, a man in his forties, sprinting like a young man. The man was screaming, "The wind is talking! The wind is the fire!" Then he flung himself on a passing Zombie. Tearing him apart, the cracked man, eyes dripping blood, held up his bloody claws of hands. "It's the wind! The wind!" The memory made Eric frigid.

  Brad walked forward, and when the Zombie, dragging her foot, came near to him, he waited impatiently for her to cross their path. They were so close to her, they could hear the air whoosh in and out of her mouth. Black liquid oozed from her lips. She gurgled and heaved forward.

  "Come on, hurry up," Brad told the Zombie.

  Sergio laughed uncomfortably.

  "If I ever turn into a Zombie," Brad said, suddenly, as the woman dragged by them. "Just kill me. Seriously. This is pathetic." He stepped around her and headed for the first door. "Seriously, just fucking shoot me."

  They all tried to laugh.

  _

  At the first house, Eric found a pantry with several cans of food, which he put in his backpack. Looking in the cupboard, he found a packet of noodles. There was a bag of flour too, but when he opened it, little moths flew out. The flour was full of worms. He found some hard candy in a little, emerald glass jar, shaped like a clamshell. He stuffed them in his pocket.

  The sound in the empty house hurt somehow. He walked carefully.

  There was a mantelpiece above a fake fireplace. It held pictures of men and women. Children. Smiling at the beach. Holding a baseball bat. He looked at an old photo of a man in a military uniform. He was supposed to be serious, but his eyes twinkled like it was all a joke.

  In the back there was a room for children, painted purple. There were plastic toys all over the room and a chest against the wall, under the window. Eric asked Birdie if she wanted to look in there, but Birdie shook her head.

  "There might be crayons," Eric told her. But Birdie shook her head.

  Eric opened the chest and searched through it. He found some crayons and put them in his bag.

  "They're all dead, aren't they?" asked Birdie, standing in the middle of the room with her arms crossed before her and her hands clenched together.

  Eric shrugged. "Probably," he said.

  "Are their ghosts here?" asked Birdie.

  "No." Eric saw that Birdie was trembling. "When people die, they just die, Birdie." It was not harmless to believe in ghosts anymore. If she did, the world would be for the billions dead and that wasn't the way it must be. "Do you believe me?"

  "Yes," she said, but she was still trembling.

  Eric crouched in front of her. "People live on, but only in our mind and our heart," he said. "They live in our memories, Birdie."

  "But I forget."

  Eric swallowed. It had not been long, but already his mother's face was indistinct. "Me too," he said. He wanted to say something. He wanted to comfort her, but he didn't know what to say. He didn't have an answer. No one did.

  There was a thundering of footsteps then, and Eric shot up to his feet, tugging Birdie behind him.

  "Look what I found!" Sergio cried, both he and Brad standing in the doorframe. He held out a dull gray pistol.

  "I found bullets for it too," said Brad happily.

  Eric suddenly felt like he wanted to slap the both of them. "Don't come crashing in like that," he said in an even tone. "What's wrong with you?"

  They blushed and laughed uncomfortably.

  As they moved to the next house, Eric felt Birdie's hand in his. He felt strange. Larger. He moved in a world that did not scare him.

  Maybe that was it, he didn't feel scared anymore.

  Maybe.

  _

  When they regrouped, they were smiling. The Heights had not been scavenged, at least not thoroughly. They were heavy with supplies. Both Sarah and John Martin's backpacks bulged. Moving through the streets, they made their way north. They hardly noticed the Zombies in the streets and houses. They were too excited about the food to be quiet.

  "I can make cake!" said Sarah excitedly to them. "I could build an oven with stone. I could!"

  The thought of cake made them all giddy.

  "We found pasta and tomato sauce and some parmesan cheese," Sarah continued. "Spaghetti tonight! And maybe some sausages with it. I could even make them in the shape of meatballs and cook them in the sauce!"

  "Spaghetti and meatballs," Brad breathed, wide-eyed. Their mouths burst with saliva.

  "And there's something else," Sarah said, her eyes shining. "A surprise!" She laughed.

  It was then that the Land Rover came squealing to a stop in front of them. It had emerged from a side street as if from nowhere. Carl Doyle leapt out, almost before the engine whirred down.

  He carried an assault rifle.

  One of his legs was torn to shreds. Carl Doyle's eyes were red and bloody. He had the Vaca B.

  "I want my medal back," he hissed pointing at them.

  _

  There was a burst of gunfire.

  John Martin stood, pointing his gun toward Carl Doyle. The rest of them froze, hearts pounding.

  "Calm down," John Martin said, his gun steady. "Put that gun down."

  Carl Doyle licked his lips, but he didn't move. He kept his gun cradled. He shook his head like something annoyed him and he could shake it free. "Excuse me, sir, I don't have a problem with you. I am here to speak to Eric. He and I understand." His eyes lit up. "We understand the island. I don’t have anything to say to you."

  "Just put the gun down," John Martin said. "I don't want to shoot you."

  "Preposterous," said Carl Doyle. "I will do nothing of the kind. I am here to speak to Eric. We have a certain idea in common. A place where we can be civil. Civil, you understand. But without order, there is no civility. And order is what we lack. If I don't get my medal, it means that we fail.” Doyle turned away from John Martin as if he wasn’t there. “In short, I want my medal back, if you please."

  "Mr. Doyle," Eric spoke up. "Please listen to me! We don't have your medal!"

  "Now Eric," Doyle laughed. "You are a solid bloke, I know. I understand, you understand, but he and them and the other savages, no. No, they understand only desire, the pinch of the stomach, savage fornication, how the blood warms at murder. That is not civility, not in the least. You and I, we can go to the island. We can have order. But first I want my medal back. Without that, there is nothing."

  "Time for you to leave," Jo
hn Martin said, his voice, already low, rumbled now.

  "Don’t be absurd," said Carl Doyle.

  "Just shoot him!" exclaimed Brad. "He's got the worm, he's going to die anyway!"

  Carl Doyle's eyes went wide and his head snapped to Brad. "I beg your pardon! I do beg your pardon, sir!" His voice boomed about them. Even John Martin took a step back. "I have contracted no such disease! Yes, my leg is ruined. But I am in no way suffering from that Brazilian filth! Is that clear, sir!"

  Brad swallowed. "Yes," he said.

  "Yes what?"

  "Yes sir," Brad said in a small voice.

  There was another gunshot, and when John Martin lowered his gun again to point at Carl Doyle, he was steady again. "I'm only going to ask this one more time. Leave."

  Carl Doyle leveled his gaze upon John Martin. For a moment, his bloody eyes blazed a fire of red light. Then, without another word, he turned, climbed into the Land Rover, and sped off, shutting his door. As they watched the Rover speed away, Doyle veered to the side to strike a Zombie. It flew ten feet through the air before it hit a telephone pole.

  The Zombie burst apart like a watermelon.

  _

  They were quiet now and anxious as they moved north. Only Brad was vocal.

  "Should have shot that fat fuck," he said to John Martin.

  "I'm not shooting anyone unless I have to," he responded.

  "He's dying of the worm anyway!" Brad exclaimed.

  "I'm not shooting anyone I don't have to shoot." John Martin said nothing else.

  But Brad continued, upset. "Goddamn it, that crazy fuck is going to follow us all the way to Maine! We should shoot him. You fuckers don't have the guts, but I do. If my gun was loaded, I would've shot him. No one talks to me like that! Did you hear him? Excuse me, sir, pardon me, sir. Well excuse me, you fat fuck, but next time I see you, I'm going to blow your fucking head off! How's that for order?"

  Sarah tried to calm him, but he jerked his shoulder away from her touch and glared at her furiously. Eric had never seen him so enraged.

  When, by luck, they came across a little tackle and bait shop, Brad wouldn't go inside. He stayed outside, waiting, and when they returned, he was still fuming. "We need bigger guns," he said, when they had gathered outside the tackle shop. "Who gives a shit for fishing? I want a gun."

  They moved sourly north.

  A Zombie boy sat numbly in a tire swing. His little blonde head was cocked unnaturally to the side. His eyes were entirely coal black.

  _

  When they traveled, Eric noticed, they fell into a certain order. When he played D&D with his friends, marching order was very important. It decided who was strong, who was weak, who protected and who needed protection.

  Up front, John Martin and Brad walked, not side by side, but jointly.

  Behind them were Sergio and Lucia. Lucia walked with her head high, while Sergio had a way of constantly looking around them, and sometimes glancing back behind them.

  Then came Sarah. Sometimes she slowed and walked with Birdie. Often Birdie preferred to walk slightly ahead of Eric. She kept her eyes to the ground, as if deep in thought.

  Eric came last.

  In D&D, he would be the warrior at the rear that kept them from surprise attack. The weakest fighter. The one no one was sure about. The one still trying to establish himself, to grow into who he was.

  _

  They were just outside of Champion Heights when it happened.

  From one of the houses, a cracked Zombie burst out the door. He was a young man or used to be. His short dark hair was half missing, and his eyes had completely turned to black jelly. His right hand was missing. He gurgled and screamed as he ran toward them. John Martin pulled out his gun and fired while the rest of them ducked down at the sound. The Zombie howled but did not halt. John Martin fired three more times. The third time took the Zombie in the neck, and its head fell to one side, held on by a flap of skin and dark, putrid muscle. It stumbled and then fell sideways in the grass. From there, it kicked and thrashed for an impossibly long time.

  "That's what you should have done to Carl Doyle," Brad said, as the sound of the last gunshot still lingered in the still air. His statement throbbed in the air with the last echoes of gunfire.

  _

  They were north of Champion Heights, quiet and pensive, the thought of food still there but distant. At some point, they would have to turn to the east to go to Pymatuning. For now, all they wanted was to find cover so they could fix some food and try to forget about the day.

  They hadn't gone far when they saw a long driveway leading to a farm. Brad stopped by the driveway and gazed at the farm.

  "What're you doing?" John Martin asked.

  "A farm," Brad said.

  "So?"

  "Every farmhouse has guns," he said. "Rifles. Shotguns." His eyes turned back to the farm. "I'm going in."

  "Brad," Sarah pleaded. "Let's just find a place to rest and eat! We can get the guns tomorrow. Okay?"

  "No," said Brad. "You guys can go if you want. I need a gun." He started walking up the driveway.

  "Hey," John Martin said. "Don't just walk off alone."

  Brad turned to him, without pausing. Walking backward, he gave him the finger. "Don't tell me what to do," he said.

  John Martin shook his head, and then turned to them. "Go on ahead," he said. "I'll go with him." They nodded.

  Eric walked behind him and when John Martin noticed, he opened his mouth. "I'm going with you," Eric stated. John Martin looked at him, shook his head again, snapped his tongue against the roof of his mouth in irritation, but nodded in the end. Halfway to the farm, he turned, hoping for some reason to see Birdie there, standing in the field, watching him.

  But she wasn't standing, waving at him. Instead, he stared into the bright yellow sun setting behind them. It burned a deep, dark yellow, like a rotten lemon.

  Then Eric turned back toward the farm. He had to jog to catch up with John Martin. Brad had stopped to wait for them.

  "I don't need your help," he spat when they came close.

  John Martin didn't stop, but passed by him without a word.

  Eventually Brad followed, the three of striding toward the farmhouse.

  _

  The farmhouse probably hadn't been a working farm in half a century. The house was in passable shape, if a little sagged in one corner, but the barn roof was so bent in the middle, it looked like a saddle. The farmhouse was painted a deep cream color that had turned slightly brown with age, while the barn may once have been red, but was now the dark color of aging, rotting wood. Parked in the barn was an old truck. Its back tires were flat and gave the truck the impression of a dog sitting back on its hind legs. Around the house was a large and overgrown lawn, thick with dandelions and a few thorny plants with soft, purple flowers.

  In the heavy sunlight of dusk, the windows of the farmhouse glowed like orange cataracts. It was impossible to see inside.

  The quiet was thick as the light. Now that he stood in front of the house, Brad no longer looked as angry as he had before. They stood there for a moment, eyeing the house and the surroundings. Nothing stirred.

  Then Brad stepped forward like he was breaking through something. He clomped loudly up the steps and onto the reverberating porch. The screen door squeaked as he opened it. The door was unlocked.

  It happened in an instant. First they were outside, looking, studying, appraising, and then, as if it was the body of someone else, Eric was stepping onto the porch, listening to the porch beneath him, reaching the door, and holding the screen door as he stepped across the threshold.

  Before he knew it, he was inside.

  _

  Before they had gone, whoever they were, they had left the house immaculate. Everything was in its place. There were white doilies on the arms of the couch. The dishes were done and the sink was clean but for a fine coat of dust. On the coffee table there were four coasters, each facing a chair or a seat at the couch. In the midd
le was a vase where dead flowers stood. Petals from the flowers littered the coffee table like potpourri. All the pictures on the wall were straightened, and there was a piece of floral cloth draped over the television. It was as if the house was prepared for its own wake.

  Brad walked across the carpet and threw open a closet door. He rummaged through it violently, throwing old coats and boots behind him on the floor. John opened a big wardrobe in the living room and searched inside. Eric walked quietly up the carpet steps to the bedrooms. People sometimes kept guns in their bedroom closets.

  The bedroom was as clean as the one downstairs. There was a full size bed, made and tucked in. On the nightstand next to it was a book with a ribbon lying next to it, as if waiting for a reader. Eric thought about what Birdie had asked him about ghosts. Whoever lived here was neat, ordered, but in a caring way. She did it, and Eric was sure it was a she, not to force the world into order, but to welcome those she loved. To make people feel at ease and comfortable. Eric thought her spirit was still here. Maybe that was what Birdie was talking about, this feeling. Eric worried if he had told her the right thing.

  He opened the closet, but there were only clothes, shoes, and bags of knitting yarn. Eric went to the second bedroom to search when he heard a whoop of triumph downstairs. Feeling relieved, he walked down the steps. He stopped halfway down the steps.

  Brad was in the living room with John and both of them were studying a shotgun. Its dark metal was long and brutal looking and the stock was made of a dark wood. It looked brand new.

  "This is a nice gun," said Brad happily. He turned it in his hands. His evil mood seemed completely dissipated.