The World Without Crows

by Ben Lyle Bedard

  Eric couldn’t look at her, but his heart thumped painfully. “I failed her again,” he said to her finally, with effort. Lucia looked at him with soft eyes, filled with pity for him. It filled him with anger that he fought to control. “I don’t want to talk about it,” he said.

  “Eric, you didn’t fail Birdie,” Lucia said gently. “This is not your fault.”

  Eric couldn’t bear it any longer. “Yes it is!” he exclaimed. He jerked his arm away and glared at her. “She was right there, in that goddamn Land Rover. She was right there! And I chose you! I jumped off that bridge to save you and I left Birdie behind!”

  Lucia blinked at him with surprise. “But you saved Sergio,” she said quietly.

  “He might’ve lived,” Eric said, still seething with anger. “You might’ve saved him. Then we’d all be together now. Instead I dove into those poisonous waters and left Birdie behind!”

  “Eric. . .”

  But Eric had enough. “No,” he said. “It is my fault. It is. She needed me. She’s just a little girl, Lucia.” Eric clenched his jaw and trembled. “Just a little girl,” he hissed between his teeth.

  _

  Not far from the Catskills, as the land began to fold once more into hills, the three hiked to the top of a rise only to drop to the ground immediately at the sound of gun fire.

  Down below them, they saw the Land Rover sitting in the middle of a field. Doyle was running toward it. Emerging from the forests came several people, running toward him. Two trucks roared into the field from the south, cutting off Doyle's path to the Land Rover. When the men caught up with him, Doyle roared and attacked them. But they seemed used to such attacks, and they only backed away. Soon coils of rope fell down around Doyle's body, and he was tugged off his feet and trussed up. It took four men to lift him and throw him in the back of a truck as Doyle struggled and screamed. Then they sped away, leaving the Land Rover in the field.

  After several minutes of tense waiting, they sprinted down to the Rover.

  Eric threw open the doors. He covered his mouth at the stench. Flies escaped in dark clouds. Eric held his breath and climbed inside.

  "Birdie?" he called, holding his hand to his mouth. "Birdie?"

  Lucia and Sergio opened the back, letting out another cloud of flies. Lucia retched for a moment before going back to search.

  Birdie was not there. There was no sign of her.

  Eric staggered away from the smell finally. He collapsed on the ground, tears welling up in his eyes. "She's gone," he said. "And we'll never find her without Doyle."

  Lucia and Sergio sat next to him. Sergio put his head down. Lucia put her arm around his waist and her head upon his shoulder. The sobs came finally as despair clutched him. Birdie was gone, and there was nothing he could do about it anymore.

  "I'm so sorry, Birdie," Eric sobbed. "I'm so sorry.”

  _

  When they finally reached Catskill Park, Eric sat silently as Lucia and Sergio started the fire.

  Eric took out his map and the calendar.

  They had finally left Pennsylvania. When they had climbed out of the river at Port Jervis, nearly drowned, they had reached New York. It had been long enough now. None of them had the Vaca B from the river. They gradually stopped studying each other’s every move.

  It was July 30, 1990.

  13

  __________

  Good Prince Billy

  THE SIGN SAID SOUTH LAKE CAMPGROUND. Looking up at it, Eric felt the sign was a reminder of a day when hot water poured from faucets and showerheads, when, clean and glowing with heat, people had tucked themselves into dry, warm beds. It was a time when the world of rain and damp earth and sleepless nights and blistered feet were fiction, and reality was soda pop, pizza, and late night television’s ghostly flash on the vacuumed carpet. It was a time, just a year ago, though it seemed a lifetime in the past, when nature was an aesthetic experience. Once he had lived that life. Once he had lived in a world of campgrounds. That was not the world anymore.

  They didn't stay in Catskills for long. Eric needed to move. He hadn't said a word since he had cried back at the Rover. Lucia kept glancing at him with concern. He hated that. If she had to feel sorry for someone, she should feel sorry for Birdie.

  Eric couldn't think of what was happening to Birdie. Or what had happened. His imagination was detailed, cruel and violent.

  Without Birdie, the island was unimportant. Once the thought of it had soothed him. Now it left him feeling empty. As he walked, step after step, he struggled to find some kind of reason to keep moving. He could not imagine the island without Birdie. Sitting on the island without her, brooding over his loss and guilt, seemed to him an acute torture. Birdie had trusted him and he had failed her.

  When they came to a road, Route 32, Eric felt immeasurably tired. He felt as if any moment, he might just stop. He felt it in him. Just stop and never move again. What was the point? Everything was gone. Why not him?

  Suddenly Sergio grabbed him, and the three flung themselves to the ground at the side of the road. A moment later, a car flew by and then a truck. In the back of the truck, men and women, rifles pointed in the air, were laughing. They sped past, leaving silence and a few fluttering leaves in the air. One of the trucks Eric recognized as belonging to the group who had abducted Carl Doyle.

  It was the laughter that did it. Eric stood up, kicked at the ground, and then strode swiftly up the road. He stuck his head in the nearest vehicle. There were no keys.

  "What're you doing?" Sergio called.

  Eric threw open the door to the next car and looked inside. There were keys, but when he slid inside and turned it, nothing.

  "Eric, please, stop it," Lucia said, right behind him.

  "Stop it, man!" Sergio pleaded. "You're going to get us killed! Every gang around will notice us driving around!"

  Without a word, Eric got out of the car and then walked to the next one, a burnt out pick-up. But the steering wheel was melted and bent, so he continued down Route 32, car by car.

  "Stop it, Eric!" Lucia exclaimed. "Sergio's right, you're going to get us killed!"

  Eric whirled around to face them. "So what?" He glared at them. "I told Birdie I would protect her! And that's what I'm going to do!"

  "Eric," Lucia said gently.

  "Carl Doyle knows where she is," Eric said. "I'm going to find him and he's going to tell me. I'm not giving up on her!"

  Lucia tried to stop him. "Eric, please--"

  "You don't have to come," Eric said. "I can't live with myself if I leave her. I'd rather die than abandon Birdie. Don’t you understand? I'd rather die!" Eric turned away from them. He heard them follow him, but didn't turn. Up the road, he found a car that started. Lucia sat in the front while Sergio slipped in the backseat.

  Eric had never driven before. He put the car in gear and hit the gas. The tires squealed in response, the car slid gently to one side, and then straightened out.

  He would find out what happened to Birdie or he would die doing it.

  _

  The car was a 1989 Ford Probe, sleek and silver and responsive. Eric had seen commercials for the car as it drove around corners to the tune of electric guitars. He had wanted one so badly. It would make him cool. He would be someone other than the fat kid. Now he cared little for anything but Birdie. Still the music of the commercial echoed meaninglessly in his head as he swerved the car around wrecks.

  Have you driven a Ford lately?

  _

  The Probe slid past a sign that said Cairo. Underneath it, painted on a piece of plywood in garish, bloody red, were the words: NO MINUTEMEN ALLOWED.

  "I don't like this," Sergio said as they swung around three overturned vehicles and then into the town itself.

  Up ahead, there was a crowd of vehicles parked haphazardly in the street and on lawns. Eric pulled out his .22 and set it on his lap.

  The vehicles, mostly trucks, were parked in front of a plain, block-style church, with only the faintest hint
of a steeple, a mere box crouched upon the church like a gargoyle. Wide double doors were propped open. Above the door, like the masthead of a ship, was a wooden black bear, with one paw forward, as if it was trying to say hello. Directly over the door and under the bear was a sign, painted in blue. It read GOOD PRINCE BILLY.

  Crowded around the church were about two dozen people. Above a pit dug on the lawn a deer slowly roasted over an open fire, and two other carcasses waited, skinned.

  Nearly every one of those dozen people had a rifle. And they were pointed at them.

  _

  Eric shook off Lucia's arm and stepped out of the car with the pistol in his hand.

  "Who are you?" one of them called.

  "You one of them Minutemen?" another added.

  Eric walked toward them. "I'm looking for a man in a pith helmet," he said.

  "What the hell is a piss helmet?" The crowd laughed.

  "I think you picked him up this morning," Eric continued. "I just need to talk to him."

  A dozen rifles tensed toward him.

  Eric thought about Birdie. He could see her in his mind. It was the only thing that kept him from dropping his pistol and holding up his hands.

  "Kid," said one of them. "I think you best get in that car of yours and keep moving." Before he could respond, a figure emerged from the church, a stocky old woman with bold hair, curled and silver.

  "Hold on," she said. "Put your guns down, for crissakes. Jim, Rudy, Beth. Come on now, these are just kids."

  They lowered their guns. "That's a kid with a gun, Billy," one said defensively.

  "I'd have a gun too if I were them," the woman said. "Wouldn't you, Jim? World ain't exactly welcoming these days." She walked up to Eric and extended her hand. "My name's Billy," she said. "They call me Good Prince Billy around here. Welcome to Cairo."

  _

  Good Prince Billy had rough, dry hands.

  She was short, even shorter than Eric. She wore jeans and a denim shirt over a plain, pink t-shirt. Her face was wrinkled, and a crease that made her seem constantly reflective dominated the bridge of her sharp nose. Cunning eyes seemed to cut into him as she appraised him. Eric felt small and embarrassed under her gaze. Despite himself, he handed over his pistol.

  "That's for the best," she said, taking the gun and winking at him. "Don't want no misunderstandings."

  Eric shook his head. "I didn't mean to, you know," he stammered. "You know, scare anyone."

  "I know you didn't, honey," Good Prince Billy said. She slipped the gun into her pocket and turned toward the crowd. "All right," she said, waving at them. "Get back to whatever it was you were doing. I'll take care of our guests." She motioned at them with a round wave of a hand and a thin, somehow humorous smile. "Follow me," she said.

  And they did.

  _

  The pews had been removed from the inside of the church. At each end were rows of bunk beds. "We all sleep in here," Billy said. "People need each other, especially in times like these." She looked them over. "That's what happened to your friend," she said. "Too much solitude will sour a man, drive him crazy."

  "He's not our friend," Lucia said.

  "Well," Billy said, "friend or not, he's not right in the head. Don't help he's got the Vaca B neither."

  "Can we see him?" Eric asked.

  Billy sized them up. "Why?"

  Eric swallowed. "He took one of our friends, a little girl named Birdie. We want to know what he did with her."

  Billy stared at them. Her eyes softened. "Sorry to hear that," she said. "It's a hell of a world, ain't it?" She walked to the back of the church and then opened a door.

  They followed her down steps lit by a fluorescent light. It was the first time Eric had seen artificial light in some time. Billy noticed him looking up at it. "We got a generator down in the cellar," she explained. "Let's us have light, powers the kitchen upstairs. Keeps us sane."

  "Who are the Minutemen?" asked Lucia.

  Billy looked at her and smiled. "No time for that story now, honey," she said, starting back down the stairs. "Let's just say there's folk who want to be left alone and folks who want to meddle in other people's lives."

  "And you just want to be left alone?" asked Eric.

  Billy laughed. "Well, we ain't interested in no war, that's for sure."

  "War?" Sergio asked.

  "Like I said," Billy continued, going down a hall at the base of the stairs. "No time for that story now. Tell me what you know about this man." Good Prince Billy turned, opened a door and led them down a hallway.

  "His name is Carl Doyle," Eric said. Their footsteps echoed. "We met him back in Ohio. We told him where we were going before we realized he wasn't right in the head. He's been following us ever since."

  "He killed our friend," Sergio added. "Just shot him down in the street."

  "Where are you headed?" asked Billy. "And why does he care?"

  Eric stopped as they came to another door, this one thick metal. Billy turned to him, waiting for his answer. "We're going to Maine," he said. "We're going to live on an island."

  "Escaping?" Good Prince Billy laughed. "I don't know, honey. I think you'll find the world has a way of following you. Ain't no man an island." She winked at him. "I read that somewhere."

  Eric wanted to explain to her about the winter, about being surrounded by water, about being far from urban centers, but Billy had a way about her. She was right. He felt silly and naive. "Who are you?" he asked.

  "I wasn't no one," she said. "Now I'm the Good Prince. Life is a strange thing."

  She opened the door.

  There was another set of stairs, this time lit only by a light bulb swinging from a wire. It was an old basement. It hadn't been used in years, maybe decades. It still smelled of moist earth, but beneath the cold and the damp, Eric smelled the stench of rot.

  "I know it looks harsh," Good Prince Billy warned them before they descended. "But there ain't no help for it. We make them as comfortable as we can, but they're dangerous."

  "Who?" asked Sergio.

  "The cracked ones," she said. "Most of the time they wither away and die, but sometimes they live. Sometimes the crazy bastards beat the Vaca B. We leave them down here to fight it through, one way or the other. We wish them the best. We give them a chance. It’s all we can do."

  When they reached the bottom of the stairs, they saw a large, empty room with a moist, cement floor. In one corner huddled Carl Doyle, chained to an iron bar that ran the length of the back wall. He wasn't moving, and they couldn't see his face, but it was Doyle.

  "He might live?" asked Eric, turning to Billy.

  At the sound, Carl Doyle turned to them, his face dark with blood. "Eric? Is that you, my boy?" His chains rattled coldly as he rose to his knees. "I knew you'd come!" His pith helmet gone, his ravaged skull lay open, a gleaming white scar. Wisps of ragged hair grew on the side of his head. His square jaw still looked strong, but his face was caked with dark, dried blood. His leg had a small splint on it, but even from where Eric stood, he could smell it, rotting.

  "It's me," Eric said, his mouth dry. He couldn't help but think of Doyle as a wounded bear, chained to a cage.

  "Good show!" he said. "I'm proud of you, my boy! Now we can continue. We can reach the island, Eric, I feel it deep inside me. It's like another heart in me, beating. I hear it sometimes at night. It's like." Doyle licked his chapped and ragged lips. "It's the origin. It's where we can make a stand, dear boy. We can rebuild from there. They say the sun never set again. No. That's not right." Carl Doyle scratched his head, his fingers coming away wet and red. "Anyhow," he continued. "You and I, we understand, even if no one else does. Churchill said that success consists of going from failure to failure without loss of enthusiasm." He looked up at them and grinned. Half of his teeth were missing. "I have lost no enthusiasm for this, our venture."

  "This is the first time he's talked," Good Prince Billy whispered to them.

  "Doyle," said Eric. He crouched
down in front of him, but careful to stay out of reach. "Please listen to me very carefully. We can all go to the island, but we need to go together."

  "Of course!" Doyle exclaimed. "Solidarity and what not! We all need to do our part to rid the world of these Huns!"

  "Doyle, listen," Eric said. "Please, god, make him listen." He put his hands in his face, took a deep breath, and then started again. "We need to go to the island as a group. All of us." He took another breath. "Doyle, where is Birdie?"

  "What? Who?"

  "The little girl," Eric said, grinding his teeth in frustration. "The little black girl," he added reluctantly.

  "What? Her?" His chains rattled as he heaved his bulk to his full height. He towered over them and Eric, despite himself, stepped away. "What do we need of savages!" he bellowed. "There is no room on the island for savages!"

  Eric stood up, enraged. "She's not a savage!" he yelled. "She's just a little girl!"

  "Savages!" cried Doyle. "We will build a world without them! All they do is spread chaos! They suck the life from us! And we, the two of us, you and me, we are the ones to create order! Order!"

  "Fuck order!" Eric shouted. "Tell me what you did with Birdie, you son of a bitch! Tell me right now!" He stepped toward him. "Right now!"

  "That's how it is, huh?" Carl Doyle's voice dropped low and his English accent vanished. "You turning into some foul-mouth little punk, huh? Just a little fucking punk."

  "What did you do with her Doyle?" Eric growled. "Did you kill her? I swear to god, Doyle, if you killed Birdie, I'll bury you. Do you understand that? I'll fucking bury you!"

  "Okay, that's enough." Good Prince Billy took Eric by the shoulders. When he went to move out of her grasp, her strong hands tugged him back. "I said enough." Eric looked down at his feet. He saw a tear fall from his face. The clear drop of salty liquid hit the cold cement without a sound.