The World Without Crows

by Ben Lyle Bedard

  _

  Birdie was not speaking to him. At night, she slept close as usual, but when she looked at him, her eyes were conflicted. It broke Eric's heart. He wanted to explain to her that trust had died long ago inside him. He wanted to say that Remember wasn't what he seemed to be, that he was just as much an illusion as the movies he watched. But he was not sure of this. Many times he had wondered if Remember had actually been looking for aspirin. He wanted to explain all this to Birdie, but how could you explain to a child that sometimes you had to do bad things because there was nothing certain in life. No trust. No faith. No ability to be sure of anyone or anything. Why would you say that to a child? It was better that she be angry with him than to hear such terrible cynicism.

  Lucia too was silent with him. The siblings switched to Spanish, as they always did when the group suffered stress. Eric saw that now. He seemed to see much more than he ever had. Things were clear to him, clear as Birdie's soft and solid hand in his. That was real. That was certain.

  They had moved through the town of North Tunbridge and had camped in within sight of route 91, when, after they had set up camp and eaten, and Birdie had drifted into sleep, Lucia approached him. The wild, womanish scream of foxes were sounding around them.

  "Are you okay, Eric?" she asked.

  "I am, yes," he said. She frowned, as if this was not the answer she wanted to hear. She would prefer it, Eric realized, if he was tortured by what he had done.

  "Why did you do that to Remember?" she asked.

  "I did it because he might’ve been stealing from us," he said.

  "You can't treat people like that. It was cruel."

  "It was," Eric agreed. "And I would do it again."

  "Eric," Lucia sighed, disappointed.

  "What I did was only cruel if he wasn't stealing from us," Eric said. "What if he was? What if that's his thing? He lures people up to his cabin and steals from them. Maybe he kills them too, who knows?" Eric shrugged. "He shouldn't have been in our bags. He broke the trust, not me. If he would do that, what else would he do?"

  Lucia shrugged, but Eric could see she was unconvinced.

  "I don't take chances. Not anymore." Eric looked away, into the darkness that hovered over the fields.

  "Okay," Lucia said, but her voice was strained with irritation, sadness, even anger.

  They sat together anyway, watching the clouds pass over the moon and listening to the screaming of foxes.

  _

  The next day they came to the Connecticut River and began following it north. It was too dangerous to swim. They would have to find a bridge. The weather was beautiful and warm and the landscape was green, cut through by the flashing, dark river. At around noon, Sergio asked to stop. He took out his fishing gear and walked down to the river.

  Eric and Birdie sat by the river and watched him fish. He had become a good fisherman. Perhaps he was a natural, a gift he would never have found if the world had not ended. He stood at the bank and flicked his wrist, sending the line over the water. Then he waded into the water, holding the line in one hand, watching as his line pulled down the river.

  "Do you want to draw, Birdie?" Eric asked.

  "I don't have any crayons left," she answered. She put her chin on her knees stoically.

  "Why didn't you say something?"

  Birdie shrugged heavily. Eric put his hand on her head.

  "I'll get you more, okay?"

  Birdie nodded her head, but she wouldn't look at him.

  For lunch, Lucia and Eric cooked the fish Sergio caught. As they ate, Eric watched Sergio. He sat back at ease, watching the river. Eric had never seen him as relaxed. He was becoming who he was meant to be.

  _

  Lucia tried to talk Eric out of it. She said that it was dangerous and foolish to risk cracked Zombies for crayons. But Eric would not be dissuaded. He couldn't explain to Birdie why he had treated Remember the way he did, but he could find crayons.

  The house they found was up on a bank overlooking the river. It was a two-story Victorian with peeling blue paint and white trim. It had a vast wooden deck and a barbecue rusting upon it. Eric imagined a large family had once gathered there to eat hamburgers and watch the river. A large family with children, grandchildren. Crayons. Now, like all houses, it carried with it a lugubrious silence, like grief solidified. Despite their pleas, Eric insisted that Sergio and Lucia stay with Birdie while he went inside. Eric wouldn't risk anyone but himself. Birdie was strangely quiet, as if she understood that Eric did this for her, to make up for Remember, as if this was justice and Eric deserved it.

  Leaving them at the forest line by the river, Eric pulled on his empty backpack, pulled out his .22, and walked into the open. Beneath his feet, his steps resounded hollowly on the wooden deck. He had a feeling then of utter foolishness, that he was risking his life for nothing. It was the reason Brad had died, in his obsessive need of a gun. Eric would die for crayons.

  But he didn't stop. He didn't turn around. It was dumb, he knew it, but he owed Birdie something. His heart beat inside a great feeling of foreboding. As he neared the house, the feeling of doom increased. When he touched the sliding glass door to the house, he thought to himself, this is it. There is something here. There is something here and I am going to die.

  He pulled the sliding door open.

  Inside was a quiet plush carpet, the color of robin eggs. Eric stepped inside, listening for any sound of a Zombie, scratching a wall or shuffling in their mindless way. There was nothing, only the carpet beneath his feet. There was a couch at one end of the room and a television on the other. In the middle was a glass coffee table. Everything was covered with dust. Eric stepped forward, his gun ready. Through the living room was the kitchen, where he would find food. Maybe. He stepped quickly across the room and then winced as his hiking boots clomped on the linoleum.

  Then, turning, he saw him: a man with a gun. Eric froze, staring at the man, who likewise didn't move but kept his gun trained on him. His dark hair was knotted and long. He had a lean dirty face and cold eyes. The man was ruthless, he could tell. Tough, relentless. He was like a haggard, starving dog, vicious and merciless. He could see it in his coldly burning eyes, measuring him, searching for weakness. Cruel, unsympathetic eyes. His clothes hung off him in tatters. He still had the gun pointed at him, and his hands did not shake. He was a killer, he could see it plainly, a man who had done things and would do more. It was in his eyes. Oh god, Eric thought, he’s going to kill me. Eric had to make a decision. When he pulled the trigger, the blast roared in his ears. The man shattered to pieces and fell to the floor. Where he had stood, there was only shards of glass.

  Eric stood in shock and then felt ill. His mind buzzed as he slowly understood. He fell to his knees, sick. When the rest of them burst into the room, they saw Eric kneeling on the floor amidst broken glass.

  “What happened?” Lucia asked, her face pale.

  "It was a mirror," he said to them blankly.

  “But who did you shoot?” Sergio asked.

  “Myself.”

  _

  The house was empty of Zombies. While the rest of them looted all they could find, Eric stepped quietly into the bathroom, locked the door behind him, and looked at himself in the mirror. Again, he felt as if a stranger were looking at him. Eric had lost all his extra weight. His arms were strong and his face, lean and hawkish. He moved his face first one way and then the other, searching for something to recognize. But his cheekbones were strong and tall, his chin came to a rounded point, like a hammer, and there was even a darkish growth on his face, uneven. It was difficult to see the Eric in his own image.

  He was filthy. He reminded himself of a stray dog, dangerous and starving, like the ones he had seen devouring the putrid remains of Zombies. Eric searched and found a razor and a bar of soap. In a bedroom, he found a new pair of clean jeans and underwear and a long-sleeved but light shirt that advertised the Tunbridge World's Fair. Since 1867, it said.

  With
a pair of scissors he found in a drawer, Eric sheared his long hair. Then he shaved his face, painfully, in the mirror. When he was done, he walked down to the river with soap and shampoo and scrubbed himself, the soapy water running dark and gray from his body. He scrubbed until his skin was raw and sore.

  The others didn't bother him during the process, although Lucia came to him after he was done with a pair of scissors. Wordlessly, Eric allowed her to trim his hair, fix the garish cuts he had made. Her lithe fingers were tender as they worked. After she finished, Eric said thank you and gave her an abashed smile. She smiled back, a look of pity on her face, Eric thought.

  Later that night, after they had eaten fresh fish caught by Sergio with a side of beans and rice, Eric sat down next to Birdie who was breaking in a new box of crayons.

  "I'm sorry, Birdie," he said.

  "I know," she said, without looking at him.

  "I'll be more careful," he said.

  "Okay."

  Eric sat down and looked at the campfire. The reflection of the flames in the river stretched across the water in long, red lines. Eric stared at it for a long time.

  _

  The next day they came to Samuel Morey Bridge.

  It was a simple steel frame bridge, an arc of green across the river.

  There were guards on their side of the bridge, a man and a woman, each holding dark assault rifles.

  From a distance, they took turns watching the guards with the binoculars. The guards paced back and forth, sometimes sitting on the hood of a red truck, sometimes talking, sometimes pointing their guns playfully over the river.

  "We'll have to find another way across the river," Lucia said. Sergio said something in Spanish, but Lucia shook her head. "We have to get across."

  They were in the midst of making plans when the Land Rover sped up to the bridge.

  _

  Doyle came to a screeching halt. The two guards had their assault rifles pointed at him. They were shouting for him to stop and get out of the truck. Carl Doyle, looking immense, even from this distance, pulled himself out of the Land Rover.

  The shooting began almost immediately.

  The first guard died instantly. Doyle shot him in the face. The other guard, the woman, cried out in pain, shot in the stomach. She lurched over and fell face down. Doyle walked over and shot her in the back of the head. Twice.

  When he got back in the Land Rover and drove over the bridge, he ran over both bodies, mangling them, and leaving long, red tire tracks on the bridge.

  _

  "How did he survive?" Sergio cried. "How does he keep surviving? Why doesn't he die and leave us alone?"

  "I don't know," Eric said.

  "It's because he's crazy," Lucia said. They looked at her. "That's what they say. God protects crazy people and drunks."

  They were silent, walking north along the river. After the gunfight, the bridge was clear, but Eric insisted they avoid it. "They were guards for someone," he explained. "If we're found anywhere near that massacre, they'll blame us for it. We need to get away from this bridge." They had been walking for a while now, and were tired and upset. It was horrible to think of Doyle still out there, still following them.

  They came then to a bend in the river. There was a tiny shack there, and, as Eric had hoped, it was a boathouse. Creeping inside quietly, they found several aluminum canoes. They put them in the water, and, after careful testing, they climbed inside two: Eric and Birdie in one, Sergio and Lucia in another.

  Side by side, they paddled the canoes into the river.

  It was late afternoon. The sun was hot and orange on the horizon. The air over the water was cool, and, as they paddled to the other side, Eric saw a kingfisher skimming over the water, hunting. In the midst of the river, there was a feeling of safety mixed with the danger of exposure. It was easy to spot canoes on the river. But they continued north all the same, and did not land until it was getting too dark to see. They landed at a park where a bridge had once been. Only the stone piers were left. They climbed up the bank, dragging the canoes behind them. The four of them stood watching the river.

  "I've never been in a canoe before," Sergio said. He smiled. "It was cool."

  For some reason, that made Eric laugh. Lucia soon joined him, and Sergio himself a second later. Only Birdie didn't laugh.

  "I don't see what's so funny," she said. "It was cool."

  That really made them laugh.

  _

  After consulting Eric's tattered map, they decided it was time to stop moving north. Now they turned east, with the goal of the White Mountain National Forest in mind. Thinking of the dead guards, they hit route 25, also called the Moosilauke Highway, and stayed well away from it. But it was difficult. The terrain had swelled around them and soon mountains rose up steep where hills had been. Not great blue and white monsters like they saw on the horizon, but big, green furry ones, with rocks bursting from them like earthy muscles.

  Near Benton State Forest, Sergio, with his binoculars, called down from the tree he had climbed, "It's Doyle! He's behind us!" He pointed toward the highway and Eric strained his eyes. He saw a glint of sunshine light like fire from Doyle's windshield, and then the unmistakable square shape of the Rover coming toward them.

  "Damn it," Eric swore as the four of them huddled together. Eric looked at them, these three faces that were so important to him now. Lucia's sharp, beautiful face; Sergio's round face with his anxious eyes; Birdie's calm, mysterious face. For an instant, he was filled with love for them all, a hot feeling that he could feel blush his face. He swallowed it down and cleared his throat.

  "What're we going to do about this guy?" asked Sergio. Eric could see on his face that he wanted to set up an ambush, and rid themselves of Carl Doyle forever. A part of him felt that way too. It felt like something that had to be done, that he would have to do eventually. But he also remembered John Martin word’s: “I’m not going to shoot anyone unless I have to.”

  "We're going to keep away from him," Lucia said. "That's what we're going to do." She shot her brother an angry look, and Eric knew they had talked about this before, that Sergio was trying to pull him on to his side.

  "We can't outrun a guy in a truck!" Sergio exclaimed.

  "We’re not trying to outrun him," Eric said to him. “We’re trying to avoid him.” He stood up and motioned behind them. “We go over the mountain. He can't follow us there.”

  _

  There were no real trails where they hiked now. They struggled up steep hillsides, rocks and leaves slipping under their feet. At times, they had to circle, looking for a way around a rock outcropping. At other times, they scrambled up as best they could. When they reached the summit, the green carpet of forest beneath them, they collapsed, breathing hard as the sun set, red and orange in the west.

  Eric and Birdie built a fire in a pit, under a tree, to keep the light from Doyle's eyes. After a scant meal of rice, the four of them sat, fatigued and sore, around the crackling fire.

  "We can't keep running from this guy," said Sergio. "He knows where we're going. We're going to have to face him sometime."

  "He's sick," said Lucia. "He's got the Vaca B. He can't survive forever. Every time we see him, he's worse than he was." It was an argument they had before. They were having it again, this time for Eric's benefit.

  "He might not die," argued Sergio. "You heard what Prince Billy said. Some of them survive. He's dangerous! Look at what he did to those guards! He killed them just to get across a bridge. We should set a trap and kill him."

  "Why are you so sure we can do that?" asked Eric. "Doyle seems to survive everything. He's fought Zombie bears, for crying out loud. What makes you think he's afraid of a couple of pistols?"

  "We could get something stronger. A shotgun," Sergio suggested.

  Eric shook his head. "He's too dangerous for us to handle. If he can fight off the Minutemen, what chance do we have?" Eric poked at the fire. Sparks burst up from the fire. "Besides," he added after
a pause. "He's trying to help us."

  "Help us?" Sergio asked incredulously. "Help us? You've got to be kidding me! Have you forgotten John Martin already?"

  "No," Eric said quickly. He blushed. "Of course not."

  "How can you say that bastard is helping us?" Sergio was red with anger.

  "If it wasn't for Doyle, we'd either be dead or in some jail in Boston by now," Eric reminded him. "You're right, he's dangerous, he's a murderer, but we need to avoid him, not kill him. John Martin wouldn't murder him either, remember?"

  "It's not murder," Sergio spat.

  "It is."

  "It is," Lucia agreed.

  Sergio kicked a stump and crossed his arms in irritation. They said nothing for a long while. They watched the water boil and listened to the fire. Eric turned his attention to the stars. There were no clouds and the sky was awash with starlight. Eric could only pick out one constellation for certain. The Big Dipper. He was somewhat sure he could find the North Star too, but not sure enough to guide them if he had to.

  "We need to learn some astronomy," said Lucia suddenly.

  "I was just thinking the same thing," Eric said, keeping his head up.

  "You two," Sergio said venomously. "The stars aren't our problem now. Our problem is down here, but you just keep looking up. Look away." He hissed and stood up, striding away, kicking up dirt into the fire.