Eric wondered what he would do on the island when he got there. Would he spend his life alone? Would he exist day by day, waiting for some sickness to kill him? Was that a life worth living?
Eric watched the warm, orange flames dance in the fire. He took out his pistol and placed it on his lap. He leaned back and looked up through the trees at the twisting sky, filled with flashing stars.
Stars didn't care that they were alone in the darkness.
Somewhere an owl hooted.
Eric had never known such silence or calm.
He felt the pain in his body. It was his body shining like a star. It was living.
Eric put the gun to the side, in the green grass.
_
Eric brought a calendar with him. It was a small, pocket calendar of the year 1990. He had marked down the day he left: Monday, May 14th. He crossed off the days as he went. It was nice to know what day it was. Eric suspected it didn't matter anymore, but it was nice.
For example, today was Thursday.
2
__________
WOODBURY WILDERNESS AREA
ERIC HAD LIVED IN OHIO most of his life. His mother had moved there with him when she divorced his father, who, she said, was lazy and had no ambition. Now, hiking north from Wolf Creek Wilderness Area, over hills and through forest, following as close to roads as he dared, Ohio was unfamiliar.
He had never noticed how hilly it was or how green the leaves shined as they first sprouted. He had never noticed the sound of water or the welcome sight of the sun as it peered occasionally through the clouds. He had never noticed how wild it was.
He had also never known how difficult hiking could be. The forest was not made for humans. After being pricked and scratched by many thorns, he learned to avoid plants as best he could. It was best to disturb nothing. But it was tiresome and painful. He wondered if it would be better to take the road and hide when he heard any motorized vehicle. But all it would take was one mistake. It was far too risky.
By day, he moved north and avoided cities, towns, even houses, though this could not last forever. He would need food.
Moving north, Eric crossed route 37. There were deer there, browsing by the road. Wrecked cars were overturned to the side of the road where the military had plowed them aside in the last weeks before they too vanished. Eric crawled inside a car or two to search for food, but he found nothing.
At night, he boiled beans over his fire. He listened to the forest. His mother had said there were preachers in the hills who still charmed snakes and ate squirrels. Eric supposed they were all dead now. The beans were hard, but he was too hungry to care.
This was not Ohio to him anymore. What did it mean anymore to be Ohio? There was nothing but forest and lakes and empty roads lined with wrecks. In school, Eric learned Ohio was an Iroquois word. It meant "big river."
Maybe it was that again, a land of forests and meadows, cut through by rivers.
Wild.
_
Eric sat in the woods and listened to the silence. It was evening. His feet pounded with pain. Somewhere there was a crashing sound and then a high-pitched yowl. Like a cat, maybe. The silence came back then. Eric watched the last light of the sun, and felt his heart fall with it. There would be that silence soon, and the darkness that flooded the world.
Night was terrible.
_
His legs were ligaments of bright pain. His shoulders burned. Blood still seeped from his blistered feet. He thought it would get better over the days, but he was wrong.
Many times he had to stop, breathing very hard, wiping sweat from his face, and gritting his teeth to keep from crying. When the pain was worse, when his whole body seemed to throb with fatigue and pain, his goal seemed impossible. Maine seemed another planet.
He remembered climbing onto the plane when he was a child. Sitting in comfortable seats. Soaring a mile over brambles and thorns and fallen trees. Eating peanuts. Then, mere hours later, landing with a soft thump in Portland.
Eric had never felt his body so acutely. He hated it.
It was difficult, moving through the forest, climbing hills, scrabbling down again, moving slow to avoid the roads, and crouching in nervous silence whenever he heard a sound. He never thought it would be this hard.
His plan was ridiculous. He could never make it to Maine. He was too fat and weak. It was so far away. It was over one thousand miles.
1,000 miles.
He was lucky to hike 8 in one day.
_
Eric needed to avoid Zanesville. Fearing the gangs that were sure to be there, he studied his map. Eric moved his finger up the Muskingum River as it curved around the forests. At first, he planned to cross the river far south of Zanesville, at a town called Duncan Falls. He wasn't looking forward to crossing the bridge there. He would be exposed. Then he saw that if he crossed there, he would only have to cross again to get to Woodbury. Instead, he decided to pass Zanesville far to the west. He would still have to cross the Licking. To do that, he would be forced to enter Zanesville.
Eric folded his map and put it in a plastic bag. He remembered the day he had found the map. His mother was still alive then. He went to the local gas station as he normally did. There was hardly anything left that day. No more candy, no more bread, no more rice, no more chips. A few cans of soup and a pack or two of noodles. He had cried because he didn't know what to do. He had sat down and cried. When he finally looked up and wiped his eyes, the first thing he saw was fluttering paper. Maps. He took them home with the noodles. That night his mother began wandering the house, and he had to lock her inside her room. It was only a matter of time then. He spent his days planning, studying maps.
Now Eric groaned as he lifted himself to his feet. It had seemed simple then, tracing lines on a map. Now, if he was not careful, he would be lost in a dead world. His vision blurred and his heart sped up. The world was gone and none of the lines on his map mattered anymore. He was nobody in a land of nowhere.
There was no map for that.
_
The days were cold and gusty. The rain came in quick, frigid showers. Eric tramped north, his backpack heavy on him.
In late afternoon, when he could walk no more, when the pain won, he found a high place, dry and out of sight. He built a fire and boiled water to drink. He wouldn't drink any water that hadn't been boiled for thirty minutes. He ate cold beans from the previous day. Then he lay down and watched the gray sky. He listened to the birds.
If there was enough light, he read.
Sometimes, he took out a little leather pouch. From it he poured crystalline dice, in all of the Pythagorean shapes. There were pyramids and diamonds and cubes and dodecahedrons. He separated them. He rolled them on the surface of his book.
At night, he often woke up clutching at the cramps in his legs and crying out. He hated the sound of his own voice. He seemed to hear it aching out over the distances, alerting everything and everyone that he was here.
He was weak and cowardly.
_
Zanesville seemed huge to him. The southern end was smoking. Sometimes he heard distant engines, roaring, or a crack of gunfire. The gangs were there, as he feared. He had planned to follow the 70 over the bridge and then follow the Licking River north until he was far enough away from Zanesville, and then turn northeast again. Now that he was close to the city, he didn't want to get any closer. Even if the gangs didn't shoot him outright, Eric would not survive among them. He knew it.
At school, they had called him Porko, Chubs, Tits, Fag, and Dump Truck, among others. He was pinched, slapped, pushed, and punched with impunity. The worse were the ones in groups, who had people to impress. Eric knew what he could expect from gangs. Except now they would be in control. Now he would have nowhere to hide.
Eric crossed the 70. A military jeep was on its side. A dog was there, chewing on a bone. When it saw him, it growled but then grabbed the bone and trotted away toward the city. Eric looked toward Zanesville and
the gray ribbon of the Licking River and thought how quickly he could cross. If he could only summon the courage. But he could not. He continued north.
He hadn't gone far when he heard the engines. He ducked down in the wet grass and looked back to the 70. Several cars roared past. Eric swallowed. If he had tried to cross, they would have caught him. Maybe they would've shot him, thinking he was a Zombie. Maybe they would have taken him alive.
Either way.
When he reached the Licking, Eric followed it upstream until he found a boat. It was an old aluminum canoe. He pushed it into the cold river, and then carefully climbed in. He had only been in a canoe a few times before in his life, all with his father. Being exposed on the river was unpleasant, so he crossed as quickly as he could, although he loved the feeling of gliding on the water.
He hiked as quickly as he could north, away from the smoking city and into the woods.
_
Eric had no more food. He came to a town named Dresden. He sat by the side of the road and listened carefully, but he could hear no evidence that anyone was there. He wanted to keep moving. He wanted to keep in the forests. But his stomach hurt now. All he could think about was food. Somewhere in the town, there was a house that had food in it. Beef stew, chicken noodle soup, spaghetti. The possibilities made him shake with anticipation.
He was about to climb up to his feet and go into town when he heard a clicking sound. Eric looked up to see an old man with a shotgun pointed at him.
"Don't shoot!" Eric cried. "Don't shoot!" He put his hands up like he'd seen in the movies.
The old man studied him and then lowered his shotgun. "Well, you're not a Zombie," he said.
"I'm not a Zombie," Eric asserted.
"That's what I said," the man said. He reached out a hand and smiled. "Name's Charlie."
"Eric.” He got to his feet with effort and then shook the man's hand.
"You look about as dirty as a Zombie though," he said. "You hungry?"
"Yeah," said Eric. It made him ashamed somehow.
"Come on then."
Charlie was a short, grizzly man with gray hair and beard. He wore a bright red, plaid hunting jacket and jeans. He had a round, happy face, and long wrinkles at the corner of his eyes. He also wore rectangular glasses. He looked like Santa Claus on a hunting trip.
Charlie led him away from the town. He went down to the forest. There was an old cabin there. Smoke came from the chimney. Charlie led him inside. The cabin walls were lined with shelves of books. The cabin was warmed by a flickering fireplace. Eric had been frightened, but the warmth, the promise of food, and the sight of so many books comforted him. Charlie motioned him to sit at a table. Eric put down his backpack and sat down. It was the first time he had sat in a chair for days. It felt wonderful.
"I've got some stew on," Charlie said. "Wash up first." He motioned him toward the back of the cabin where there was a large steel basin of water. Nearby was a bar of soap. Eric washed his face and hands and then rinsed his hair. When he came back to the table, the stew was ready. Potatoes and corn and beef. Eric sat down and slurped it up hungrily, though he kept an eye on the man, who sat by the fire with a book and pretended to ignore him.
Eric ate, feeling the comforting cold of the pistol stuck in his pants.
_
After Eric ate, he sat by the fire. Charlie put his book on his knee and started talking.
Charlie told him he had once been the town librarian. "I was an expert on Zane Grey," he said. "Always thought I'd write a book on him." After the Vaca B struck, he moved out of the town. He said this old shack had been his grandfather's, and he never knew what to do with it until now. "Sure came in handy, though," he said. "I stayed in town as long I could to help, but it got bad. At first, there was just people helping people, but then most everyone died. There weren't no one to help anymore but ourselves. The gangs went bad."
"I seen it too," Eric said. "They shoot people."
"They do worse than that," Charlie said.
Eric swallowed, but didn't say anything. Charlie studied him, so Eric knew it was his turn. "My Mom died of the worm," he said.
"She crack?" he asked.
"No," Eric answered. "She just died after a while. When she died, I knew I had to do something. I decided to move somewhere far away from the cities. Far away from gangs."
"So you came here?" Charlie laughed. He had a deep, kind laugh.
"No," Eric said. "I'm only passing through. I'm going to Maine."
"Maine?"
Eric told him about his plan. He spread out his map and showed Charlie the route he would take. The island. The lake that would freeze over during the winter and the frigid nights that would freeze any Zombies solid. How there were no cities near there. How the gangs would ignore them and stay in the cities. Charlie listened and then studied him for a moment, quietly.
"You're not a fool, are you, Eric?"
“I hope not.”
Charlie thought in silence for a while. The fire popped and snapped. "There'll be a lot of work to do when you get there. You'll only have a couple months before winter." Charlie paused again. "It's a good idea," he said finally. "The Snakes get more active here all the time." He studied Eric.
"You should come with me," Eric said suddenly. The offer surprised him. It was a risk, but being alone was as bad as the fear and pain.
"I just might," Charlie responded. "I just might. In the meantime, how about some apple pie?"
Eric smiled.
_
Eric was getting water when the gang came. He had been thinking of how nice it was to talk to someone and hoping that Charlie would come with him when he heard the growling and barking of their engines. He dropped the bucket of water and huffed to the top of a hill where he dove to the ground. His heart beat so loud he could hardly hear the voices coming from Charlie's shack.
He took out his gun and crawled slowly to the top of the hill through the leaves. Below him, in front of the shack, he could see three men and a woman climb out of a truck. There was a crude red snake painted on the truck. Charlie stood at the door of his shack with his shotgun. One of the men laughed and pointed, and then the others laughed too.
"This is my place," Charlie said. "What's here is mine."
The woman threw up her hands and turned around, but one man stepped forward.
He might have said something. Eric couldn't hear. He only heard the gun shot. Charlie stumbled back. His shotgun fell out of his hands. The woman screamed, "Don't!" But the other men lifted pistols and shot. There were a dozen shots, maybe more.
Charlie collapsed. One of the men and the woman went to him, but the others ran into the shack, jumping or stepping over his body. They came out later with bags of food. The woman was crying over Charlie. They had to tug her to her feet. The other man, who had shot Charlie, he had to be pulled away too.
Then they left. The sound of their truck engine receded into the distance.
Eric waited. His hand shook. What if they were coming back for more of Charlie's food? If they found him, he'd be shot too. Eric gripped the pistol. He'd never shot a gun before, he wouldn't be able to defend himself. He should just leave, he decided.
But his backpack was there, in the house. His map. His calendar. His book on wilderness survival.
Eric reluctantly crept down to the shack. He didn't look at Charlie as he stepped over him to get in the shack. He found his backpack and then looked around. He saw a can of beans on the floor, and he took that. He was on his way out when he grabbed a book from the shelf, not knowing why he did it. When he got back to the porch, he heard a rattling sound and froze, his hand on his gun.
It was Charlie, breathing through blood. Eric looked at him. One of the bullets had hit his cheekbone and took half his face off. Blood ran from his face and mouth, and over his exposed white bones where it looked like wine. Blood pooled underneath him, turning dark and thick.
Charlie wasn't dead though. He was tough. He couldn't say anything,
but his eyes were blinking and moving. Eric waited. He bent over and put a hand on Charlie's shoulder.
"I'm sorry," Eric said. He waited until Charlie didn't breathe anymore.
After Charlie died, Eric threw on his backpack. He had to keep moving.
That night, miles north from Charlie's body, Eric sat by his fire. He quietly opened the book he had taken from Charlie's private library. It was David Copperfield by Charles Dickens.
He read the opening sentence. He broke down into sobs for a long while.
_
He dreamt he was young again. He was in his basement, at the table that teetered annoyingly. Bill and Andy were arguing about vorpal weapons. Glenn listened with an enigmatic, wide smile on his face.
"Having a sword that sharp is retarded!" Bill argued. "What's to keep it from cutting off your own arm?"
"Presumably," Andy said, arching his eyebrows, "you're a fighter, and, as a trained fighter, you have undergone extensive martial training in all weapons. A very sharp sword could only be a boon for such a highly trained warrior. Chefs have very sharp knives, but they rarely cut off their own finger."
"Cutting up potatoes is not like the chaos of battle, dumbass!"
"Accidents are unavoidable in the horror of war," Andy conceded. "But I would rather suffer minor lacerations by my fellow warrior than be torn apart by zombies or burnt to a cinder by an ancient red dragon."
The World Without Crows Page 2