The World Without Flags

by Ben Lyle Bedard

  He’s back!

  3

  By the time I get to the foot of the hill, there’s already a crowd. Diane is there with Franky at her side. Anthony and Wanda are right behind them, Wanda waddling as fast as she can and Anthony trying to get her to slow down, saying a woman in her condition should be careful. Peter and Lissa are there and Becky, their little 2-year-old, is looking wide-eyed at everything and everyone. Luna, Glenda, Ash, and Brian are already here too, crowded around Tangerine, who is tossing her head anxiously while Randal the Vandal, who’s hopped off the cart, pats her neck to calm her. Tangerine is a good horse, but she gets spooked when there are more than a couple people around her. She doesn’t trust anyone except Randy. Tangerine is steaming in the air and I can tell that Randal has been driving her harder than he should.

  “Ho there, girl,” Randy says to her. “Ho there now, it’s just family, is all.” I’m always surprised at just how low his voice is. He’s such a thin guy, just bones clattering around. But if you heard his voice, you’d think it came from a big work horse of a man. It’s so low, so cavernous. It doesn’t match his face either. I don’t know what happened to him, but one side of his head is crooked like he got stepped on by a giant. Randy the Vandal, or Vandy, we call him that sometimes, or some of us do, he’s also got strange hair. He cuts it himself, but he’s got so many cow licks that his hair is just as lopsided as his face. It sticks out every which way like a messy bird’s nest. He has big teeth too. They’re straight and white and everything, but just a bit big. If I were being cruel, I’d say Randal the Vandal has the teeth of a horse. If I were being real cruel, I’d say mule. His eyes are deep green, though, like emeralds, is how Artemis describes them. He might be kind of ugly, but those eyes make all the girls smile. Randy’s our scavenger. He travels all around and meets new people and trades with them and brings stuff back. So he’s exotic and all the girls love that. My best friend, Artemis, says she’s going to let him kiss her next time he comes, so that will be something new to hear about. Anything new around her is pretty exciting.

  I haven’t seen Vandy in like, I don’t know, six, seven months? I mean, I like everyone here at the Homestead, they’re all my family, basically, but NEW people. That’s really something! Not only that, but Randal the Vandal—did I mention that was what he named himself?—Randal is one of those genuinely nice people. I’m sure he can be real mean if he has to, but most of the time, he’s all smiles and jokes and winks and handshakes. He’s one of those people that say, “Glad to see you!” and you believe it. I guess you need to be that way out there. Otherwise how could you trade with anyone? Who would trust you? It’s always so nice to see Randal. Usually, he comes for a couple days and then he’s gone for months. You never know when Randal the Vandal is going to show up. Not only that, but it’s not a safe job he does. There’s a lot of bad people out there, a lot of wild ones. I don’t want to get morbid, but every time he leaves, there’s always a part of me that thinks, well, nice knowing you, Randy.

  “Where’s Eric?” he asks. He’s looking around and then I notice there’s something different. He’s not smiling.

  “He’s up at the lake,” Franky says. He’s taken Tangerine’s halter. He seems to notice something is wrong too. “What’s going on?”

  Randal turns away from him and then he’s looking right at me with those green eyes. “Go get your father for me, will you?”

  I frown. Any other time, I would say something, but I can sense something is seriously wrong. I’ve never seen Randy so serious. I feel a chill down my back that runs all the way to my legs.

  I don’t look back as I turn around and begin to run.

  4

  While I’m running up to the lake, let’s make something clear.

  Eric is not my father. I already told you my parents are dead, remember? They died a long time ago. The Worm took them like so many other people. My parents were born in one of the cities that are now just rusting, burned skeletons scattered across the landscape. I don’t even remember my father. Not a single image. Not even a feeling. But Eric is NOT my Dad. Everyone knows that. It’s obvious.

  For one, I’m black and he’s white. I’ve got kinky, springy hair that is a pain and he has easy, straight black hair. He’s got blue eyes, I’ve got brown eyes. He tells people what they should do and I don’t hardly talk. We are not alike.

  Also, he’s too young to be my father. He’s not even thirty yet and I’m eighteen. Or nineteen. Or seventeen. We’re not sure because I don’t exactly remember my birthday and Eric tells me that when we first met, I didn’t always give the same number when he asked me how old I was. So we’re not sure.

  Ever since we first met, Eric and I have been friends. We’re friends. He might be older than me, but that doesn’t make him my father. I might have lived with him my whole life since I was a girl and he has taught me most everything I know and Eric and I have a long history together, but he is my friend.

  He is not my father.

  That is something that has to be said.

  5

  Something is wrong. Randal has brought bad news. My heart is beating so fast as I run, and not from the running. I could probably run for two hours before my heart started beating like this. No. It’s the excitement and the fear. Usually, Randal the Vandal comes back and he makes a big show of it, throwing up his arms, telling jokes, hugging people, kissing all the girls, even Beth, who’s so old, she has a hard time walking. To see him come in and without so much as a smile ask for Eric is really strange. Something is wrong and Eric has to know.

  I go shooting through the pine trees and decide to take a shortcut through the forest. I leap off the path and go cutting through the forest, ducking under branches and jumping over logs. I’m nimble enough to avoid the patches of snow that remain from winter. I shoot through the forest like an arrow. It’s easy for me. I’m like this. Super fast. Eric says that I move like a deer in the forest. I call myself Kestrel because it’s a tiny little hawk that survives by being faster than the little birds that it catches. I’m like that. I’m small but so quick, you won’t even know I’m there before it’s too late. It’s no problem for me to run like this. Seriously, I could do this all day. All. Day.

  I jump back on the path as it curves around and then head uphill where it levels off on the final approach to the lake. Eric went up there this morning to scout for logs. He likes to go back up to the lake, I don’t know why. Maybe because we used to live up there. Before we moved to the Homestead. For the first couple years we lived on the island. I don’t remember much about that time. It’s like my life started at the Homestead. But I do remember long, cold nights. I remember being hungry, but refusing to cry. And I remember Lucia.

  That was a long time ago.

  I come out of the woods and suddenly there’s the lake with the little island in the middle where we used to live. I stutter to a stop and look over the waters, lead gray on this cloudy, cold spring day. The island is like a green emerald on a pewter dish. Sometimes in the summer I swim out to it, go back to the hut that we built that first year. I look at the dirt floor, the cast iron stove that Eric had to build a wooden raft to float to the island. Back then there were still zombies. Back then you couldn’t sleep without worrying one might find you and you’d wake up screaming as it ripped you apart. Living on the island was very difficult but we slept well knowing the zombies couldn’t get to us, huddled together like puppies for warmth. I remember the smell of Lucia next to me and how sometimes Eric would reach out to touch my arm, gently, just to be sure I was still there.

  But I should focus. Something is wrong and Eric should know about it as soon as possible. I look around and listen. There’s a chickadee somewhere going chick a dee dee dee. I smell the pine needles and the air is heavy with the humidity from the lake. The water is lapping softly against the bank, driven by the slight breeze in the air. I listen. I hear my own breathing. My heart beats, still thumping from the run and the excitement. The quiet and stillnes
s extends like it’s laying down over the landscape, a phantasm.

  Then far off, up a slope to my right, I hear it. Thump. My eyes fly open and I smile. I dart off to my right, following the sound, bounding over fallen trees. I know where he is. There’s another thump. He’s testing the trees, giving them a hit with the butt end of the axe, to ascertain the health of it. Such a waste of time to fell a tree and find it’s hollow or the upper half is rotting. Eric is careful with that. He must be looking for ridgepoles for new houses.

  I cover the distance in just a minute, maybe less. When I jump out in front of him, he’s about to swing his axe gently with one hand, and he’s surprised enough to see me that he fumbles the axe, hits the pine tree off center, causing the axe to fall to the ground. His blue eyes fly open at the sight of me and his whole body goes rigid in fear for a second before he sees it’s just me.

  “Holy crap, Birdie!” he exclaims. Birdie is my real name, as far as I know, but Eric is the absolute only person allowed to call me Birdie. Eric blows out a big breath, shaking his head. “Don’t do that! I’m going to have a heart attack one of these days!” He reaches for the axe.

  Eric is tall and strong. Over the years, his arms have grown very thick, like the trees he cuts down. Ever since Lucia died, he’s grown a beard. It’s not very long, but it’s bushy. I trim it when he lets me. His hair is very dark and longer than I would like. It goes down to his shoulders. People that see him now wouldn’t recognize the Eric that I first met. He was a lot weaker then and much more fragile. Now I think he’s the strongest person I’ve ever known. I don’t think there’s anything that Eric can’t do if he wants to do it. But like all the older ones, he’s haunted. There are days when his eyes go blank as if a terrible veil dropped over them. I can tell he’s remembering people he’s lost. He’s lost inside himself, in his pain, in his past. Those are the days I leave him alone.

  “You have to come back,” I tell him.

  Eric loses him smile. “What is it?”

  “Randal is back and he needs to see you.” I give him a serious look. “Something’s wrong.”

  Eric’s smile collapses into a frown.

  “Okay,” he says, swinging his axe to his shoulder. “Run back and let everyone know I’ll talk with him in the Lodge.” The Lodge is what we call our biggest house. We built it for gatherings. Eric steps forward. “Have you got it?”

  I pull out my knife and show it to him.

  “Is it sharp?”

  I nod.

  “Good,” Eric says. “Be careful, Birdie.”

  I just nod and turn away. As I run through the forest, I hear Eric following behind at a trot. I can’t really explain it, but just by the way he sounds moving through the forest, I can feel him thinking. Eric is always thinking. He thinks more than anyone I know.

  But there’s no time for thinking about that. I need to focus. Running through a forest is no simple thing. It requires concentration and reflexes sharp as a razor. I duck under a fir bough and then turn around a white birch before I bound up to the path. It’s way easier now. I don’t have to worry about hitting a stone, maybe turning my ankle. That happened to me once before, and it’s no picnic. I’m running as fast as I can now, although as it turns downhill, I miscalculate and have to readjust, my arms flailing. I hit the ground hard enough to jar my poor bones to slow down. Running downhill is the pits. I burst out of the forest and to level ground and speed up approaching the Village.

  When I reach the Village, people are gathered. Everyone is talking and shouting at once. When they see me, they all go quiet. I hold up my hand while I catch my breath. “The Lodge,” I tell them finally. Only Artemis stays, with her hand on my shoulder. “You all right?” she asks.

  I nod quickly and shrug her hand off my shoulder. I don’t like to be touched.

  Artemis knows me well enough not to be offended. She’s practically my best friend. “What’s happening?” she asks. I shrug. “You don’t know anything?” She looks at me doubtfully. “Well,” she continues, “we’ll know soon enough, I guess.”

  She stands there, waiting, and I realize that she’s waiting for me to come with her. I take a deep breath and then another. I feel happy that she’s waiting, but at the same time, it annoys me. I don’t like when people expect me to do things. But Artemis waits because she likes me and I appreciate that. I don’t have many friends, not really. It worries Eric, I can tell, but there’s no reason to worry. I’m just not much of a people person.

  But I do appreciate Artemis. Her real name is Patty. You can see why she’d want to change that. Who’s scared of Patty? She got her new name out of a book from the second floor of the farmhouse. Eric calls it the library. Once it was the name of a goddess, a goddess of hunting, she explained, really good with a bow. The ironic thing is Artemis can’t use a bow. She tried to learn, but she couldn’t. Her arms would shake so much, the arrow would go flying in the wrong direction. She’s always been better at cooking and chatting. Also, unlike the goddess of hunting, she doesn’t really like to go out into the forest. She just likes to think she does.

  Artemis crosses her arms over her breasts while she waits for me. She has much bigger breasts than I do. Not that that’s difficult, I’m like a beanpole, but it’s weird. I mean just a few years ago, we weren’t that different, and now she’s like, I don’t know, a woman, and I haven’t changed. If anything, I’ve become more wiry. I’m all bone and muscle. I don’t mind though. I know it sounds like I do, but I don’t. You should see all the trouble those breasts cause her. Sometimes I think Artemis and I are like opposites: she’s white with blonde hair and everyone likes her. I’m skinny and my hair is like steel wool, my eyes are brown as dirt, and not many people pay me much attention. She smells like candy and I, well, I just stink. Artemis steps forward and puts her hand on my shoulder. “Come on, Kestrel,” she says. “Rest inside.” She takes her hand and ruffles my hair.

  That’s the one thing I really hate. Everyone wants to touch my hair.

  “Quit it,” I tell her, jerking my head away. Artemis laughs. She likes to tease me.

  Just then Randal comes around the corner. He’s about ready to go into the Lodge, but he sees us. Both Artemis and I stop and look at him and he looks back. It’s like he’s not the same guy we knew. He looks worried. He looks sad. He’s full of feelings I’ve never seen in him before. Randal doesn’t even try to smile at us. This is really weird because Randal likes to flirt and Artemis thinks he likes her. He just turns away and follows people inside.

  “Shit,” Artemis whispers to me. “That isn’t good.” No, it’s not, I think. But I don’t say anything. We walk inside and take the first seats we can, in the back.

  As we settle into our seats on the wooden benches, I have a strong feeling. It’s like today was the last day of something. Right up until now my life had been one thing and it’s about to be something else. I feel afraid. I feel sad. Life is pretty good here. I mean, it’s boring sometimes, but we’re safe, we’re together. I have a terrible feeling it’s all over, and I wish Eric was beside me. I wish I could make it stop. I don’t want this to end.

  But in my heart I know it has. It’s gone already.

  6

  There are three rows of benches in the Lodge that face each other across a wooden stage. On the stage is a table and four chairs. Sitting at the table is Randal. When Eric comes in, everyone stands, their clothes rustling like anxious whispers. Eric hates when people do this. He puts his head down and walks to the table while everyone watches, and then Eric shakes Randal’s hand. Eric looks over us all.

  “Is everyone here?”

  Finally, Franky speaks up. “I think Fiona and Patrick went out to check on the fiddleheads. But other than that, yeah.” Just as he says it, I see Fiona and Patrick come in the door, looking concerned. Everyone watches them as they find a seat.

  Eric looks around and then nods and sits down. Everyone else sits down too. Even the children are quiet. You could hear a dust mite scratch its
ear. Eric looks around and then turns toward Randal. “Go ahead,” he tells Randal. Randal looks around nervously. I can tell, probably all of us can, that he would rather do this in private, but Eric doesn't do things like that.

  Eric doesn’t do anything in private meetings. He makes all the decisions right in front of everyone, and if anyone has objections, they can make their point immediately. Eric changes his mind sometimes. If enough people want him to, he always does. People say he thinks too much, like I already said. But then again, Eric is still here and they stand when he comes in and when he tries not to be the one to make decisions, people come to our house and practically beg him to keep doing it.

  “Well,” Randal says. He clears his throat. “You remember the groups I was telling you about?”

  “Which ones?” asks Eric.

  “The ones down south that say they’re the United States of America, what’s left of it.”

  “The Gearheads and the Stars?”

  Randal nods. “Like I told you, they both claim to be the rightful government of the United States. Each of them say they want to start it up again. With voting and Presidents and Congress and all that.” Randal licks his lips and then rubs at his nose with his sleeve and looks around at us. “They say it’s time to rebuild the country.”

  “I remember,” Eric answers. “They aren’t the first.”

  Randal looks back at Eric like he’s embarrassed. I notice one of his legs is jumpy. “Well, there can’t be but one United States.” He smiles, like he’s made a joke, but no one’s laughing, so the smile falls. “It’s war,” he says finally. “There’s a war down there.” Eric sits back in his chair. He’s thinking. So are all of us. The idea doesn’t seem to land, just teeters among us: war? Randal continues. “It started about two weeks ago, down around Boston. Little place called Danvers. There was a group of Gearheads that went down there to try to talk this community into joining them instead of the Stars, but they were already with the Stars. I guess there was an argument or something. I don’t really know. There are conflicting stories. Anyway, someone shot.” Randal shrugs. “They haven’t stopped shooting since.” Eric still doesn’t say anything. He’s thinking. Randal’s leg us still jumping around. The rest of us just watch, like this is one of our plays.