The World Without Flags

by Ben Lyle Bedard

  “Yes, ma’am,” I answer. I’ve never used the word “ma’am” before, but it seems appropriate for the Good Prince.

  “When that’s over,” she says, “we’ll get him a clean robe.”

  “Then what?”

  “Then we wait.”

  My lips are quivering. I never would have thought of salt water. “Thank you,” I say.

  “Okay, Birdie,” she says to me. “Better get to it. I know it ain’t pleasant, but the longer you wait, the worse off you’ll be.” She sits back. Her eyes palely glow in the light from the kerosene lamp. For a moment, I don’t want to do any of this. I don’t want to strip Eric naked, I don’t want to scrub him clean, I don’t want to make him drink salt water. I wish someone else could do it. But I know they can’t. I know I’m the one who has to risk it. No one else should have to put themselves in danger of a scratch or a bite or even just a bit of black bile flying in their mouth. I’m the only one here who will do this for him.

  Eric needs me.

  Taking a deep breath, my heart pumping, I push myself up from the chair and walk toward the jail cell.

  119

  I start with the bandana around his eyes. The cloth peels off his eyes, bringing some long, pale worms with it. I fling the bandana to the corner of the jail cell with shivering disgust. In the flickering lamp light, Eric’s eyes seem impossibly dark. Immediately his eyes begin to leak a black, stinking fluid. They trace horrid lines down his face like black tears.

  “Unh,” Eric says and his black tongue snakes out to lick at the liquid as it passes. I turn away in disgust. I feel my stomach clench, and I step back and breathe.

  “You can do it,” I hear the Good Prince tell me. “Keep going.”

  I take a deep breath to steady myself.

  Next I try to take off his shirt, but Eric won’t keep his arms up. Even after I unbutton it, he won’t let me pull the shirt away. Finally I give up trying to do it gently. There’s a long ripping sound as I tear the shirt away from him. When I see Eric’s bare chest, I turn away with a gasp. His skin is gray and rough and stretched impossibly thin over his rib cage. He looks more like a skeleton than a human being. His skin is covered in tiny red blotches, some them of leaking a gray, thick liquid. I begin to cry quietly. There’s hardly anything left of him. I’m shaking and trembling as I toss the shirt into the corner with the bandana. I take a few gasping breaths and then turn back to Eric.

  Eric’s slouched forward, his mouth open and dark. His pants are hanging on his hips, his tightened belt the only thing keeping them up. I shudder thinking of touching his bare skin. But I have to do it. I have to do it. I step forward and grasp his belt. Quickly I unclasp it and pull it loose. When his pants fall, the smell is so horrific that I step back, stumble, and fall to the hard ground. I get one look of him standing there with his pants around his ankles, his legs covered in filth and squirming with worms, his dark pubic area horribly recessed, and I turn on my stomach and begin to crawl away, heaving. I’m sobbing and gagging at the same time. For a long time, I sit in the corner, hugging my legs, my head down so I don’t have to look at what Eric has become.

  “I know it’s hard, honey,” the Good Prince says, “but you got to keep going.”

  “Yeah,” I breathe. “Yeah.” I want to say more, but I’m afraid if I keep talking, I’ll break down. I’ll just start crying and won’t be able to stop. I would rather do anything and be anywhere than where I am. I don’t want to see what he’s become. But there’s no choice. Eric wouldn’t give up on me.

  I take a deep breath and pull myself up, feeling weak. Stepping forward, I gently pull Eric toward me. He stumbles a little, but finally walks out of his pants. With his clothes off, his stench is overpowering. He’s surrounded by a sphere of putrescence that I have to step inside. Recoiling at the feel of his dry, cold skin, I gently push Eric to a stop and then back away, kicking his pants into the corner with the other clothes. Without looking at him, I walk to the mop, wanting to wash him.

  The Good Prince hears me grab the mop. “Not yet, honey,” she says. “The salt water first.”

  “Why?” I ask her. I want to wash Eric badly, to get rid of the stinking filth, to make it easier.

  “Salt water first,” she repeats gently.

  I want to argue, but I don’t. She knows better. I know the right thing to do is what she says, but I also don’t want to approach Eric again. I try not to look at him as I pour the salt water into the mug and then walk back into the cell. Finally I have to look. Eric is standing naked in the cell, his jaw open, his eyes oozing dark liquid over his face. His hair is tangled and crazy on his head, like a bird’s nest. With his gray skin, he looks like some troll or goblin out of a nightmare. His tongue hangs indecently out of his mouth. I step forward, holding my breath against his stench. Usually when you approach a living person, you can feel their heat, but with Eric it’s the opposite. He seems to radiate cold. I step forward without wanting to, and, putting a hand on his chest to steady him, I begin to pour the salt water on his tongue.

  Immediately, Eric lunges toward the liquid. “Unh!” he cries. “Unh!” I make a face at his disgusting black tongue, and pour the salt water into his mouth. He swallows eagerly, making horrible gurgling sounds. When the can is empty, I go back to refill it. Eric stays where he is, his head pointed upward as if expecting water to drop from the ceiling. “Unh! Unh!”

  He takes three cups of salt water before I begin to hear the deep, gurgling sound rising from Eric’s stomach. Eric turns his head away suddenly and then takes a step back. I watch with concern. Eric’s head jerks back and then I see the muscles in his stomach constrict. He coughs for a moment and then there’s another gurgling sound. I step back in disgust just as he leans forward and hacks up a massive ball of dark liquid, pocked with white balls of worms. They aren’t wriggling as usual. They’re coiled on themselves. The ball hits the floor and lands like a dropped scoop of demented ice cream. Eric hacks up another, this one even larger. It lands with a sickening splat on the cement floor. Eric picks his head up toward me, black bile running from his nose and mouth and even the corner of his eyes. He hacks up a third ball, this time it rolls gruesomely down his chest before it oozes onto the floor. I stumble back, and start vomiting in the corner, all over the clothes I took from him. The both of us are hacking and vomiting for a while then. When I turn back, Eric is covered with black bile and dead worms from his mouth all the way to his legs. My stomach painfully clenches, but there’s nothing left to come up.

  “More salt water, honey,” the Good Prince says.

  Without answering, I stumble to the salt water and fill the mug. Three times he drinks and three more times he hacks up the worms. The whole basement is filled with the stench of them. My eyes are stinging with ammonia. When I dry heave, little flecks of blood are in my spittle.

  “Okay, that’s good for now,” the Good Prince says. “You can wash him.”

  The mop water is warm and very soapy, smelling of flowers. When I approach Eric with the mop, he just stands there in his filth with his jaw open. I start at the top, washing the black bile from his face. Eric licks at the mop as I wash him. Soon I have to return to the bucket, but Eric is excited by the water and tries to follow me. I push him away, but he keeps coming.

  “Unh,” he says, striving against me. “Unh.”

  I feel his cold, soapy skin against my fingers. It’s like touching waxy leather. Turning back to the bucket, I quickly rinse out the mop, keeping Eric at bay with one hand. Then I pull him back toward the middle of the cell and begin to mop at him again. He keeps his head up, waiting. With his crazy eyes wide open and his dark tongue searching the empty air, he reminds me of a baby bird squawking in the nest to be fed. I walk around, scrubbing him with the mop. When I see him from behind, my stomach clenches painfully. I gasp and take a step back. A black, scab-like material is encrusted all over his backside. I never realized that all this time, he’d been going to the bathroom in his pants. I’m sobbin
g and gagging as I wash his buttocks and legs with the mop. The black, sudsy water gathers at his feet, emptying out through a drain in the floor of the cell.

  I keep washing him until there’s no more soapy water left in the bucket. Eric stands in the center of the cell, no longer stinking, but horribly clear to my eyes. His cold skin gleams wetly as he stands naked in front of me. I’m trembling so hard I can hardly take the robe when the Good Prince hands it to me through the bars of the cell.

  “You did good, honey,” she says.

  After I throw the robe back on Eric, I walk shakily to the table and sit down heavily on the chair. Good Prince Billy shuts the jail cell and then walks over to me, her cane tapping on the floor. “Come on, now,” she says gently. “Eric will be okay. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

  It’s then that I look down at myself. I’m covered with dark gore and specks of worms. That’s when the Good Prince lights the lamp inside a second jail cell that I hadn’t seen in the darkness. Inside there’s a cot with wool blankets and a thick, white cotton robe. In the corner, there’s another bucket of soapy water sitting next to a washcloth and towel.

  “Now the same for you,” she says. She turns her back to me as I strip out of my clothes and begin washing, trembling, my lower lip quivering. “He’s lucky to have you,” she tells me over her shoulder. “He’s lucky he made it this far. You’ve done a good job. A real fine job.” I keep scrubbing as I listen to her walk away and struggle up the steps.

  When I’m done, I sit down on the floor and begin to cry. I’ve never cried as long or as hard in all my life.

  120

  In the fire, I hear screams. There is a darkness at the edges of the fire, waving, undulating. Like water. I move toward the fire. I’m so thirsty. Waving flames and shadows and undulating water. I move close. I am surrounded in flames, but I feel cold and dying of thirst.

  Birdie.

  I reach out for the flames and watch as they wrap around my hand. My flesh is burning. But I’m so cold.

  Birdie.

  So cold.

  121

  “Birdie,” I hear. I realize I fell asleep after I cleaned myself. I’m on the floor wearing the thick cotton robe. When I look up, I see Pest gazing down at me with his expressive, dark eyes. He gives me a small smile when he sees that I’m awake. “Come on,” he says. “Let’s get breakfast.”

  I groan as I rise. My stomach and throat hurts from the night before. “I don’t know if I can eat.”

  Pest doesn’t say anything as he helps me to his feet. He’s brought clothes with him too, new, clean clothes. Nothing fancy, just a pair of jeans, a t-shirt that has LAS VEGAS written on it in gold letters, a long-sleeved plaid shirt, and a pair of fresh socks. I take them gratefully, and walk into the shadows to dress myself. When I walk out of the cell, Pest is standing in front of Eric’s cell, looking at him. Eric’s kneeling in the corner, leaning forward so that his face is smooshed into the corner. I go to stand next to Pest and for a while we say nothing.

  “He looks different,” Pest says finally. “Smaller.” I look over at Eric, and I struggle not to cry. I’m tired of crying. “You cleaned him?”

  “I did,” I say. “And no, I don’t want to talk about it.” I swallow. “I don’t ever want to talk about it.”

  Pest nods, and I see a flash of sympathy cross his face before he turns away. That’s all I need. Just that little sympathy. I couldn’t take more than that.

  When we go upstairs, there’s a table with four chairs around it. It’s set at the head of the room, right where once the priest would’ve given his sermon, I guess. But there’s no sermon. There’s food! The table is practically groaning with the weight of all the plates. Although I said just a second I didn’t know if I could eat, just the sight of all that food banishes all the bad memories from my head. There’s eggs and fruit and pancakes and even. . .

  “Is that bacon!” I cry, leaping toward the table.

  Pest doesn’t respond, but goes to the table himself, and lifts a piece of delicious, brown, crispy, salty bacon in his hand like a scepter. He marvels at it like a scientist who’s just found the cure for death. I can tell that he didn’t know about this table before he came for me. Someone set it up for us while Pest went down to get me. My mouth is full of bacon before I even sit. There’s a jar of sweet and smoky maple syrup, warm to the touch. I can’t help but to take a drink of it before I even get a pancake. Pest laughs at me as some of it spills down my chin, but I don’t care. I laugh too. There’s a whole pitcher of milk too, and I pour out a whole glass and drink half of it. Then there’s plates full of eggs and pancakes and crispy fried potatoes with onions. The both of us eat until it hurts and then a little more. Finally breathing with difficulty, we sit back, smiling and chuckling. I am filled with gratitude and love and if the Good Prince appeared just then, I’d’ve probably got down on my knees and kissed her feet.

  But there’s so much food in our stomachs that the both of us can’t help but collapse on the floor of the church where there’s a pile of blankets. Pest lays down beside me. We’re smiling and still half-laughing when I feel a wet tongue against my cheek. An instant later, Queen curls up next to me and puts her head on my hip. I close my eyes in contentment and fall into a deep sleep almost immediately.

  122

  Over the next few days, Pest and I fall into a routine. First I take care of Eric. I strip down into a gown and make him drink more salt water. After he vomits up his dark balls of dead and dying worms, I feed him as best I can with a wet mixture of oatmeal, ground venison, and maple sugar. After that, I clean myself of whatever disgusting stuff I got from Eric, put on my clothes and go up to the church to meet Pest for breakfast.

  For our own safety, the Good Prince tells us, we’re not allowed to leave the church, which doesn’t surprise me. We’re not very popular with the people of Cairo. They’re not exactly thrilled to welcome the Worm into their community. I don’t blame them. There are no visitors except for the Good Prince, who comes at least once a day to see how we’re getting along. Pest and I are both tired anyway, and we spend a lot of time sleeping, so I don’t think of it too much. When we’re not sleeping, we’re eating whatever they give to us. The Good Prince also gave us a deck of cards, my drawing materials, and an old board game with so many missing pieces, Pest and I have to make up our own rules to play the game.

  At night, Pest and I go down into the basement to play cards and keep Eric company. We try to get Queen to come down with us, but the smell is too much for her, and she won’t come. Pest looks great in new clothes and combed hair, and his arm is freshly bandaged with bleach white gauze. He looks better every day, and I imagine that I do too. Even though we can’t leave the church and we’re basically in prison, I feel fine. I feel safe and stronger every day. For the first time in a long time, I feel safe, but I’m not stupid.

  I know it can’t last.

  123

  We are dealing out another hand of cards when we hear the slow, careful steps of the Good Prince as she comes down to the basement. I want to get up and help her, but I get the feeling she wouldn’t like that. She has that kind of untouchable dignity about her that I don’t dare challenge. Pest must feel the same because he doesn’t move to help her either, but he does stand up when she approaches us. Not knowing exactly why, I do too.

  “Sit down, sit down,” the Good Prince says, waving her cane at us. “I’m not the damn queen.” She gives out a coughing laugh as we sit down. She stands at the table and then pokes Pest gently in the leg with her cane. “Go fetch a chair upstairs,” she says gently.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Pest says and the chair screeches out from under him as he jumps to his feet. I’ve never seen Pest act like that. As soon as I see him disappear up the stairs, I laugh a little. Then the Good Prince settles into his chair with a groan. She takes a deep breath, and then leans forward, both hands resting palm down on her cane. She seems to be looking at Eric, but I don’t think she can see through those cloudy
eyes.

  “You’ve done a good job with him,” she says to me without turning away from Eric. “It’s funny how these things work. Last time Eric was here, he came to help you.”

  “Help me?” Eric and I never talked much about how we got to the Homestead, and I don’t remember too much anymore.

  The Good Prince turns toward me. Her face is serious, reflective. “Last time, he was looking for you.” She takes a deep breath. “I told him he could stay, he and his friends. I tried to talk him into staying, but he left. He couldn’t give up on you.”

  I don’t know what to say. I haven’t heard this story.

  The Good Prince sighs and then looks toward me. “When Lucia died, he wrote to me. I was sorry to hear it.”

  I look down at the table. I don’t like to think about Lucia. “Ma’am,” I say. “Do you think Eric will make it?” I need to change the subject.

  “I don’t know,” she answers me. “We never knew who would make it. It took us a long time to learn how best to treat someone. A lot of people died down here. The Worm is a terrible thing. It don’t affect everyone the same. Even if they did survive, they weren’t the same. They all reacted to the Worm differently. There were some people who said the Worm was sent by God as a test of character.”

  “A test of character?” I ask. The thought disturbs me.

  “I don’t believe it myself,” the Good Prince says. “That’s what some said because it seemed so random, who made it, who didn’t. I guess they wanted it to have some reason, so some people said the good ones were able to fight it out, and the real bad ones, they were the ones who cracked completely. People need to have reasons for things.” She looks straight at me then, and I don’t doubt she sees me. Sees right into me. “They’ll do anything to find a reason.”

  Pest comes clattering down the steps then, carrying a chair awkwardly as it bumps against the walls and the stairs. He seems apologetic of the noise as he comes over to the table, puts the chair down and then sits. I have the sudden urge to reach out and touch him, but I don’t. It seems absurd. But then I do it anyway. I reach out my arm even while I’m thinking it might be weird and I give his arm a little touch with my finger. He shoots me a smile and I feel my heart thump heavily in me. It’s funny. Ever since I learned his true age, I don’t really see him as young anymore. I mean he looks real young, but I don’t see him that way. Now when I look at Pest, he doesn’t give me that spooky feeling that he used to. I understand him. He makes sense now.