Eric turned back to the stars. Birdie, who had been sleeping next to him, suddenly sat up, and then lay back down, this time with her head in his lap.
"He's just scared," Lucia said, apologizing for her brother.
"I know," Eric said.
They were too tired to say anything more, but they watched the stars silently for a long while.
_
In the morning, as they hiked down the mountain, Lucia told Eric about a dream she had the night before.
She was flying over a lake. It was night and the dark water reflected the sky. Stars shivered from the disturbance of her passage over the water. She came to an island of tall pine trees, so tall they seemed to pin their tops to the sky. She circled the island again and again, feeling the wind through her hair and smelling the pine trees. Then she saw Birdie and Sergio down at the shore of the island, waving at her. Eric wasn't there. She flew through the trees and searched the entire island, but he wasn't there. He never made it.
When she finished telling him, she gazed at him with deep, serious eyes. "Please be careful, Eric. I don't want to lose you." She put her hand on his arm.
Eric smiled awkwardly. "I'll be careful," he said.
But all that morning, he thought of it. The island without him. It seemed right to him, somehow. He would be their guide, but he would not reach it with them. The feeling was strong and painful inside him. The island was for a new beginning, and he was old, with most of his life still back before the Vaca B, a world of movies and junk food and schools crowded with clean, well-dressed children and expansive malls.
Maybe the island was not for him. Maybe the things he would have to do to get there would make him unsuitable for it. Maybe it was reserved for new fresh beginnings with pure hearts, for people like Birdie and Lucia. Not him. He would be forced to do things.
He would have to kill Carl Doyle before the end.
_
Across the Pemigewasset River was a town full of block-shaped clapboard houses. Each house had a large, overgrown lawn. Sergio scanned the town and the bridge leading to it with the binoculars, but he saw nothing. No Zombies, no gangs, nothing. But the empty town made Eric nervous. He drew out his .22 and checked to see if it was loaded. A second later he checked again.
They had little choice but take the bridge. Swimming across was too dangerous, especially because the water could be infected with the Vaca B. All it took was a single gulp of water to kill them. They had survived that danger once, but it was no guarantee they would survive again.
As they moved down toward the bridge, Eric up front with Lucia, and Sergio and Birdie hanging back, Eric felt the same sense of doom he had earlier. He felt that all the time now. Walking across the bridge, Eric's heart thumped in his chest, but all he heard was the wind over the river. The bridge was a simple, short overpass, but it seemed to take forever to pass over the bridge. Eric felt he could see them moving over the bridge from some great height. Four specks in a haunted world. From that height, it seemed ridiculous and dangerous to be so exposed. For a moment, his heart pattered in him dangerously fast. His face flushed. He had the urge to run, but he didn't. Somehow he kept himself together until they reached the other side. His heart calmed from its furious pace.
While he stood there, with some portion of relief, he watched as a cat with bright yellow fur walked lazily to the middle of the road and sit down. The cat watched them with false indifference, licking its paws. When they approached, the cat rolled over on its back and Birdie stroked it, laughing. When Sergio approached, the cat rolled to its feet and dashed away.
"Oh," whined Birdie. "Why'd you scare it, Sergio?"
"I didn't do nothing," said Sergio.
They all watched the cat vanish under a house. Birdie looked at Sergio angrily.
Sergio shrugged. "I didn't do nothing," he repeated.
"Well I wish you hadn't done nothing," said Birdie angrily. "Nothing scared it."
_
While they were in the town, they agreed to search it. They always needed food. Eric and Birdie went to one side of the street, Lucia and Sergio to the other. The town had no Zombies in it, they were fairly sure. At least they had seen none, and Eric doubted any cracked ones would have been able to resist the lovely blue waters running just west of the town. They were careful all the same, moving through the houses quietly and checking all the doors and closets before they rummaged through the kitchen and basement.
In the first house, as Birdie crawled inside the bottom cupboards to look for cans of food lost in the shadows, Eric stared at the refrigerator. It was covered with photographs. There were children dancing in absurd costumes. There were old people sitting on deck chairs. There was a picture of a boat and several people waiting to board it, lit by yellow Tiki lights stuck in the sand of a beach. There was a postcard from Las Vegas and another from Los Angeles. Stuck to the fridge by a round green magnet was an American History quiz about the Civil War with a 98 written and circled with red ink. The answer to the first question, written carefully, was FORT SUMTER. Eric reached out to touch a picture when he heard an engine.
Grabbing Birdie by the legs, he pulled her out of the cupboard.
"Don't Eric!" she cried.
But then she heard it too, the sound of screeching tires and then a door slamming. Eric ran to the window facing the street, dragging Birdie behind him.
It was Carl Doyle. He had a rifle pointed at Lucia and Sergio, who had their arms up, cans of food rolling around their feet.
"Where is my boy!" boomed Doyle. "What did you traitors do to him?"
Carl Doyle tensed his rifle to his shoulder, and, before he had time to think, Eric flew out the door, waving his arms, and shouting, "Doyle, I'm right here! Don't shoot!"
Doyle turned to him and then let his rifle drop. "Eric, my boy! I knew you'd make it, by God!"
_
Doyle’s eyes were almost black now, dripping with thick, mud-like tears. His head was nearly bald and dark with dried blood, except for disturbing patches, shining like pearl, where his skin had been itched away to the skull. His clothes were ripped and covered with gore and filth. His leg was now bound in a wooden splint. The slats of wood were tied together with oily rope. It made him walk in a rolling movement with his leg out to one side. Still, he moved surprisingly fast toward Eric. For a second, he thought Doyle was going to catch him up in an embrace. His heart pattered in him like a mouse scampering to hide from a cat. But Doyle stopped a few feet from him and grinned. His teeth were dark as molasses.
"There you are, my boy, there you are," he said, his fake accent even thicker than usual, as if it were a symptom of the Vaca B. He cradled his assault rifle in his arms. "I knew you'd make it through the jungle." He looked around, blinking away a dark tear from his eye. Eric watched it roll down his face like snot. "Look at this place," Doyle mumbled. "Nothing but darkies and savages and traitors. No civilization, no order. Nothing." He looked back up at Eric. "But it's a gift," he said to him seriously. "It's our chance to start again, to do it right. We can build something pure and good, something orderly. A blinding whiteness, my boy," Carl Doyle said. "Like dawn. A new. A new. New. . ." Carl Doyle bit his upper lip and then smacked his lips. His tongue was swollen and the purple color of a deep bruise. "My boy," he said confidentially. "Can you spare me some water?"
Eric nodded, his mouth dry. He pulled out his canteen and handed it to Doyle. After leaning his gun against his leg, Doyle upturned it and swallowed noisily. The water swirled and sucked and gurgled down his throat. When Doyle handed it back, his lips had left dark blood on the mouth of the canteen. The sight of it made Eric's stomach turn.
"Water!" Doyle said. "That is an apt metaphor for what we need. Water, Eric. Pure, clean, necessary." His small eyes glittered dangerously as they slid toward Lucia and Sergio. His accent dropped suddenly when he growled, "We don't need any fucking mud in the waters." When he turned back to Eric, the glittering anger was finished. His smile returned. Eric saw Sergio's ha
nd drift down toward his gun. It was supposed to be cunning, but it looked clumsy and obvious. Eric felt like choking, but instead, he locked eyes with Sergio and shook his head almost imperceptibly. Sergio scowled, but his hand stopped.
"Come now, my boy," said Doyle. He clapped Eric on the shoulder with such unthinking violence, Eric stumbled to the side and almost fell. Doyle didn't seem to notice. "Let's go," he said.
"Go where?" asked Eric, his face going pale with fear.
"Why, the island, old chap." Doyle smiled. "It's close! We shall be there before sundown!"
Eric looked at Lucia and Sergio. He turned his head on his shoulder and saw Birdie standing on the porch of the house, one hand grasping the railing.
"What're you looking at?" asked Carl Doyle, his accent crumbling. "We don't need these savages," he said. Doyle's body grew tense. Eric watched as he adjusted his rifle and put his finger to the trigger. His heart thundered in him so forcefully, it was hard to hear. His arm was moving. His hand was reaching for his gun. He wouldn't leave Birdie. Over Doyle's shoulder, Eric saw Sergio reaching for his gun. It was happening. It was really happening.
Then the gunshots crashed through the air, and Eric wondered who had shot. Was he shot? Eric looked around, confused. Only Doyle seemed to move, loping toward the Land Rover. There were more shots. Eric blinked. Nothing made sense. He felt his heart, but everything else in him was still. He might have been a Zombie himself, he felt so utterly devoid of control over his body. He felt his hand clasp the cold grip of his .22. Then the gun, in his hand, swung around his body. All he could see was Doyle's retreating back.
There was more gunfire, but not from him or Doyle. Eric felt confusion seep into his body as the .22 came up level to Doyle's back. But his finger froze. Then Doyle was in the Rover and it leapt away. Eric's arm with the gun fell.
It was then he noticed the other trucks, and the men and women pouring out of them, firing toward the Land Rover. Others pointed their weapons at him. They were yelling something and Eric took a moment to hear them.
"Put the gun down! We will shoot you! Put the gun down!"
Finally the roar in his head vanished. Eric dropped the gun and put his hands in the air.
It was only then that he noticed that Sergio had fallen, and Lucia was over him, screaming.
17
__________
Crawford Notch
SERGIO SLUMPED BETWEEN LUCIA and Eric, bleeding over the seat. Lucia sobbed, her hands pressed on the gunshot wound. The blood oozed around her fingers. One man kept a gun on them during the drive.
"Please help!" Eric cried. "He's bleeding to death!"
"Good," the man said.
Sergio was dead before they arrived, his pale face pressed limply against his sister's chest.
Lucia let out a wail.
Birdie pressed her hands on her ears, her eyes squeezed shut.
_
When the trucks stopped, they were tugged out of their seats. The men had to pull Lucia out of the truck by her hair, screaming and kicking. When they dragged out Sergio, they let his body collapse limply on the lawn. A woman leaned forward and spat on him. Lucia let out a howl and sprang toward her, but a man, laughing, gripped her in his arms while another began to tie her legs and arms. Eric stood motionless.
They were on the lawn of a church, a great, steepled clapboard structure. Over the double doors was written in red, GRANITES. Lucia screamed and wailed until they finally gagged her. When they were done tying up Lucia, they turned to Eric who held out his hands numbly.
Eric couldn't keep his eyes from Sergio. His body was face up, his face pale, his eyes open to the sky. He looked surprised. The sight of him made Eric's head go fuzzy, as if he was on the verge of fainting.
When they were trussed up tightly, they were dragged into the church.
"Keep your fucking mouths shut," they were told.
_
The church was crowded with people. Standing at the head, where the priest would usually stand, was a tall, thin man. His face was long like a horse. His hair was dark and very short. His eyes shined toxic green. They glittered when he saw them, but the man's face was as emotionless as a blank piece of paper. Behind the man were two closed caskets.
"It is another sad day for us Granites," he said in a voice as strong and cold as stone. The crowd muttered in agreement. "Here lie Leo Jackson and Jane King," he continued. "Excellent people, the both of them. I could tell you all about these two, but we know them, don't we? There ain't a one of us here who don't know these two. And we known a lot more, haven't we?" There were nods and choking sounds. "Cause these two are only the latest. Weren't too long ago and there were more of us, Lord knows that's true. We were just simple folk, trying to lead decent lives, trying to mind our business. But the outside world came anyway, didn't it?" Someone let out a guttural bark, inarticulate and furious. "It struck us down!" cried the man with new, terrifying energy. The whole crowd seemed to hold their grief and rage in the same hand where it became confused and horrific.
The man stared at them with his ruthless green eyes. "Do you know where the Vaca B came from? Where the worm came from? The scientists told us it came from Brazil, before they too were struck down. The worm lived in the Brazilian jungles. They cleared the land for ranches so that McDonalds could make a profit. Somehow the cattle got the worm down there. Then the cattle ranchers got the worm. Then the cities got the worm. Then everyone started dying or going crazy. The whole world fell because of a worm in Brazil. Everyone knows that. But do you know that no feather falls on this earth without the assent of God?" He looked at them sternly. "Not a single feather, ladies and gentlemen. Nothing happens in this world unless God approves it. Nothing. Not so much as a particle of sand is out of place in the universe."
Silence.
"The worm might have been the agency, but it was not the REASON, folks. The parasite they named the Vaca Beber was only the physical manifestation of God's displeasure! Think of the world that was so recently destroyed. Think of it! We were destroying what God gave us to care for. We were supposed to be the caretakers of this planet, but instead, we were killing it. We were living in vice and filth! The rich kept all their money while the poor died like animals. What kind of Christians were we? What kind of people would live like that? Is it any wonder that God should look down upon us in His terrible wrath? Is it any wonder that we were judged? And that judgment was terrible. He struck us hard!"
The man's voice had fallen to a tortured whisper. "It fell to us, the survivors of that judgment, to build another world, a just world. Oh, my fellows, my friends and neighbors, how that weighs on me!" He shook his head. "How often I think, like all of us do, why was I spared, Lord? Why am I standing here while good people like Leo and Jane here, they are not?"
The congregation held its breath in anticipation.
"No one can know the answer to that question, folks." The man shook his long, severe head. "We do not have access to the mind of God. We cannot know what He knows." He paused for a long time, his gaze falling over the whole crowd. "But we do know this. Folks, we do know something."
No one moved.
"Today we live another day because people like Jane and Leo here fought to protect us. They died trying to keep us whole and safe. We don't want no more of the world outside." He shook his head. "No. We want to be left to ourselves. No Minutemen, no United States of blah blah blah. Just ourselves, taking care of each other like we were always supposed to do. Love your neighbors, not some damn jungle in Brazil! That's what God wants. He wants us to be here, HERE, in this place, taking care of our own. That's what Leo and Jane were doing out there on the bridge when they were gunned down and their bodies were horribly mutilated. That's what they died to protect! For you. And me. And God's plan. That's why we're all here today. That's why I'm thanking God for my life, for all you folk, and for Leo and Jane. I intend to repay them with full obedience to the ideas they died to protect. We won't be moved. No sir. Our resolve will n
ot be diluted. We will stand independent. We will live free or we will die. And I swear to each of you this," the man said, his voice dropping to a hiss.
"There will be vengeance," he said. Then his voice rose high and terrible, shaking the church. "There will be Almighty Vengeance for those who seek to destroy us!"
The crowd leapt to their feet, screaming, cheering, and weeping.
Through the crowd of people, between the aisles, Eric watched the man walk toward them. He eyed Eric for a moment and then turned to the man who held them.
"Take him to the Cave," he ordered. "Bring the females to Becky."
_
Grief is more various than death. Death is simple. The heart stops, the brain ceases to function. It is the same with each human being and most animals. But the experience of death never stays the same. Grief moves, transforms, and is always unexpected. Eric was learning this in the Cave. He had seen so many people die. He had lost nearly everyone he had ever cared about. His life was surrounded by death. Eric thought he would become used to it by now.
But slumped down in his chains in the Cave, Eric could not rid his mind of Sergio's eyes, the surprised, wide-open look he gave to the sky. Was he surprised to find himself dying? Had he seen something in those last moments to surprise him? Or was it just meaningless contortions of the face at death and it meant nothing?
He had lived with Sergio for weeks, but what did he know of him? Not much. They had rarely spoken, and when they had, it had often been practical. Did you bring the water? Do you see anything on the road? Help me with my tent. The more he thought of him, the more it seemed to Eric that Sergio had somehow become more important to him than he knew. Sergio had been a part of his life so completely, he had been nearly invisible. Now Sergio would never speak to him again. Never help him up. Never smile his way. Never scramble up a tree to scan the horizon with his binoculars. Eric would never know him any better than he did right now.
The World Without Crows Page 23
