The Rover roared to life and then hurtled up the road.
_
"The problem with the Snakes," said Carl Doyle as they drove North, "is that they have no sense of order." Doyle drove with one massive hand, his right, resting upon the top of the wheel. "That has been my experience of all the gangs. The Buckeyes are the same. They fail to understand that strength of leadership is not everything. One needs order. And the gangs care nothing for order." He reached into a bag on the Rover's dashboard, filled with dried strips of deer meat. "You see, the gangs are cowards at heart. They group together not for mutual benefit but because they are frightened. Like cows."
"We're all afraid," said Sarah.
"Do you know what Winston Churchill said?" Doyle asked, glancing in the mirror toward Eric. He didn't seem to have heard Sarah. "He said that courage is the first of human qualities because it is the quality that guarantees all others. That is what the gangs lack. Courage. And that is why they lack everything else. They have no justice, no dignity, no concept of humanity. They have let fear overtake them like savages."
Suddenly the Rover swung to the side, and, squealing tires, came to a stop in the midst of the road. Eric clutched at Birdie, holding her to the back of the seat.
"Bloody hell!" cried Doyle. He looked at them with glittering eyes. "I almost missed the bugger!" Smiling widely, he lunged into the backseat and grabbed his gun. Eric had a momentary smell of sweat, wool, and mud. Then Doyle lunged out of the Rover. Eric and the others looked outside, confused.
On the road was a Zombie. A young woman in a filthy yellow dress. Half of her hair was gone. Some Zombies clawed at their own head, perhaps in an effort to remove the worm that had burrowed in there. One side of her face was mostly gone, and was nothing but a raw mash of red muscle and gleaming white bone. Black drool escaped from her mouth and swung down in front of her as she lurched forward.
"The gangs do have one thing right," Doyle said, leaning on the hood of the Rover, aiming his assault rifle. "They do rid the land of vermin." The assault rifle cracked loudly and jumped in his hand, and Birdie let out a cry. The Zombie stumbled. Doyle shot again. Her head vanished in a red cloud. Her body tumbled to the ground. Doyle smiled and then climbed back into the Rover.
As they drove away, Birdie, clinging to Eric, wept quietly.
_
Carl Doyle grew up in Ohio. After high school, he got a job at a tire factory and lived with his mother, who was sick. He worked in the warehouse. Over the years, he developed a fascination for the British. At night, after he had taken care of his mother, put her to bed, and then locked the door to make sure she could not wander off during the night, he went to his bedroom, the same bedroom he had used as a baby, then a child, then a teenager, and, finally, a man. He read. When the Vaca B hit, his mother had been dead for eight years.
He told them this as they sat about the fire. A haunch of deer roasted on a spit. They looked at it hungrily.
Carl Doyle had stopped short of Cuyahoga Valley, saying that it was dark and they should go in the morning, in the honesty of daylight.
"When the worm came," Carl Doyle said, crouched by the fire with his massive hands dangling down to the ground, "I knew my time had come. What the world needs in times like these is order. Know how. Integrity. And I have that. I can instruct and aid."
"I think what we need is fucking food and shelter," Brad said. "People will be ordered when they're full and warm."
"Like the Snakes have order?" Doyle asked and then gave out a rumbled laugh. Then he eyed Brad and said, "And we don't really need to use that kind of language, do we? It shows a small mind, young man."
"I don't give a--" Brad began hotly but Sarah put her arm on his shoulder.
"What kind of order do you mean?" she asked.
"Churchill said that courage is the bedrock," Carl Doyle said. "We need to fashion that bedrock upon which a new and brighter civilized man can be built. That is what must be done. Bravery and courage and the mind." Carl Doyle tapped the temple of his head with a fat finger. "What do you think about that?" he asked, swatting at Eric's feet.
Eric grimaced, his feet being very sore still. He was glad he didn't cry out. "I like it," he told Carl Doyle.
"Jolly good," Doyle responded with a laugh. He brought out from his back pocket a mirror-bright flask that glittered from the fire. He took a long drink, exposing the roughness of his freckled throat. Then he sat back with a long sigh and held out the flask to Eric who shook his head. Doyle laughed again. "Good show," he said. "Good show."
Doyle drank while the venison cooked. When it was done, Sarah brought out the salt and they passed it around. Then they became engrossed in eating the hot, salty meat. While they ate, Doyle talked about the power of the mind and the importance of order. "That is what they teach in the army," he said. "I would've gone. I could've gone, but mother was. She was too sick. I could've been." He waved his arm to stop himself. "That's what they teach. Order and dignity. That's what we need now. Bloody gangs don't know nothing." Having finished his leg of venison, he dropped the bone into the earth and rose to his substantial height. "My father," he began, "my father was of a metal. A metal, a metal that is rarely seen in this world. He fought in World War Two. He saved a dozen men." Doyle reached into his pants and took out what seemed a golden coin. "He saved a dozen men." He held out the coin and they could see it was a medal. "He was a man of dignity and order. A great man." Doyle looked at the medal. "Great man," he mumbled. Then his voice rose. "And that is what we need now. Great men." He smiled at them and then wiped his mouth of the deer grease that shined on his red lips. "I have to pee," he said suddenly and then turned and stalked off into the bushes.
After a moment, Brad leaned close to them. "We have to get the fuck out of here!" he hissed. "This guy's a lunatic!"
Sarah shook her head. "Not here," she whispered back at him. Afraid they would be heard, the four of them crept away from the fire and walked down to the creek and then some distance, crouching together at last by a small waterfall that gurgled about them. It didn't take much talking among them to agree that none of them trusted Doyle. They would wait until he passed out and then go on to Cuyahoga by themselves.
When they returned to the fire, Doyle was sitting with Eric's map laid out on the ground.
_
"It's brilliant!" Doyle exclaimed, studying the map and the colored lines that traced a route from Ohio to a circle in Maine. He looked at Eric. "An island, of course!" He looked into the distance. "An island." The phrase seemed to have some importance to him. "From the island, order. Like Victoria." He searched the map, smiling and then looked up at Eric. "This is well done. Well done!"
"We aren't sure about it yet," Eric said. He wanted to take the map from him but didn't dare.
"It's brilliant!" Doyle repeated. "Utter brilliance!" Then he stood up tall. "I can help you," he said, wavering slightly on his feet. "I can help you get there. We can start again. We'll establish order on the island, as an example. An example for the whole world!"
"Okay," said Eric after glancing uncertainly about him.
"Jolly good," Carl Doyle muttered. "Excellent. You are fine young chaps." He slumped back down to the ground. He sat wavering. His eyes drooped. After mumbling something into the fire, he lay back and fell asleep, his great bulk splayed out over the ground.
The rest looked at each other with relief and then began packing for their escape. Eric gathered his belongings that Doyle had taken from his backpack and carefully folded the map. He saw Brad reach back into the Rover for Doyle's assault weapon and he spoke up, "Don't," he said. "He hasn't done anything to us. We shouldn't take anything that's not ours." Brad made an annoyed face, but he left the assault rifle where it was.
Eric put more wood on the fire before they set off north again. He held Birdie's hand as they followed Brad and Sarah into the moonlit darkness.
_
When they figured out where they were, they pointed themselves north and east,
moving slowly through the forests and strips of woods, keeping as far from roads as they could. As they walked along a tree line across a field, they heard an engine. Ducking down into the bushes, the four of them huddled down into the grass. They watched the pale green Land Rover careen pass them. They couldn't see Carl Doyle, but they imagined, from the way the Land Rover sped over the road, that he was furious. Even after he had passed, they waited in the trees, silent for some minutes.
"That guy is insane," Brad said. He took out his gun and checked it. Eric took out his own to do the same, though he didn't know what he was checking. "You can see it in his eyes," Brad continued. "What's with that fake accent? The guy thinks he's, I don't know, the king of England or some shit."
Sarah took a long drink from her water and then handed it to Birdie who took it without a word. "He's gone now," she said. "Let's just forget about him."
Birdie handed Eric the water. When he took it, Eric took her hand. There was a long, angry red weal across her palm. Eric groaned unconsciously. "What happened?" he asked. Birdie shrugged. Grabbing his bag, Eric rifled through it for his medical pack. He took a salve and, after washing her hands, he applied it. His hands were shaking. "Birdie," he said to her, holding her shoulders. "You've got to tell me when you hurt yourself, okay? It's very important."
"Ow," said Birdie, and Eric released his clutch on her.
"It's okay, Eric," Sarah said, putting her hand on his shoulder.
Eric shrugged it off. "No, it's not," he said firmly. "Don't you get it? It's not! If she gets an infection, what're we going to do? We have to be mindful. We have to be careful!" Eric shook his head. Then he looked at Brad and Sarah who were studying him, alarmed at his reaction. "It's not okay. It's not."
They left him alone that evening. Eric crawled into his tent with Birdie. Later, he listened to her breathing. A powerful feeling came over him. His eyes watered and he trembled. He put his hand on her shoulder.
Just a year ago, he fantasized about the end of the world. He thought it would be nice to be on his own, away from the terror of school, away from his mother's cloying attention, away from the stupid world and its wars, famines, fears. But the reality was cold and horrifying.
One small mistake and Birdie could die.
Eric did not sleep that night.
4
__________
Cuyahoga Valley National Park
WHEN THEY ARRIVED at Cuyahoga Valley National Park, it rained over the valley. It was a sharp, cold rain, that snapped against the new leaves, turning them glistening emerald. The valley was lush and verdant. The gentle hills made it look a sea of green. Brad led the way through the forest with his walking stick. Sarah came behind and Eric and Birdie, the slowest, were last.
Eric was in pain with every step. Since Brad came, the pace had quickened. He was so tired, he kept dragging his feet. He stumbled several times a day and fell more often than he wanted to admit. It was humiliating. His body failed him, as it always had. Though every part of his lower body shined with pain and his shoulders felt like knots of rocky pain, Eric refused to complain or ask Brad to slow down.
Brad came running down a hill then, his walking stick in his hand. His face was red and flushed, making his freckles disappear. "People," he said breathlessly. He waved them forward.
They came to the crest of the hill and looked over. There, in a long river valley was a farmhouse and fields newly sprouted. On the lawn of the farmhouse were three picnic tables. In the middle of the field were one, two, three, four. . .eight men and women. They were playing volleyball. The rubbery smack of the volleyball was a dream of some forgotten past. When the ball finally fell, the people burst out laughing.
"We should go around the north," said Brad. "We can't stay here. Where's the next stop, Eric?"
"Pymatuning State Park," Eric breathed, staring at the people.
"What?" hissed Sarah. "We need food, supplies, and rest. We should talk to these people."
"No," said Brad, shaking his head. "They look fine, but who knows what's in that barn, huh? Who knows what these fuckers are really up to?”
"Don't be so paranoid," Sarah snapped. "And you don't get to say no and that's it. You're not the leader here."
"Oh yeah? Who is then?" Brad poked Eric painfully in the shoulder. "This fat fuck?" Eric looked down at the ground.
"Yes," said Sarah defiantly. "It was his idea to go to Maine. It's his map. He's in charge."
They both looked at him angrily. Eric glared at Brad for a second and then sighed. He looked down at Birdie. "What do you think, Birdie?"
"I like them," she said, watching the figures.
"That's all I need," Eric said, rolling to his knees and then lifting himself up. He looked at Brad. "Sarah's right. We need help. We're going to have to trust someone, some time."
Brad hissed and stood up. Then a smile came on his face and he shrugged. "Okay," he said. He patted Eric on the back. "If that's what you guys want to do." He sighed and clapped Eric on the back. "Sorry I called you a fat fuck," he said. "I can be an asshole. Can't I, Sarah?"
"Yes you can," Sarah grumbled. Brad helped her to her feet, smiling. He seemed to be happy that they had all defied him.
"I'm not a bad guy though," Brad said to Eric. "You'll know that when you get to know me." Brad sighed and looked down at the people. "All right, then," he said. "But I'm telling you right now, first sign of weirdness and we're out of there."
_
There were four men and four women.
Their names: Sharif, Katie, David, Mary, Cecile, Van, Mark, and Sharon. They were wary of the newcomers at first. Then, seeing they were mostly children, they became more welcoming as they approached. None of them had guns. One man with curly brown hair stepped forward. His name was Sharif. He shook Brad's hand and then Sarah's and finally, Eric's. Two of the women, Mary and Cecile, descended on Birdie with cries of pleasure. Soon they were ushered lavishly inside the barn and out of the faint, misting rain. They were all soaked, but it was warm and dry in the barn.
Within minutes, they were eating. Hot vegetable stew with a rough, whole grain toast, smeared with goat cheese. The four of them ate rapaciously while the group looked over them. After the soup, they were brought thick slices of crumbling apple pie with cups of hot cider. When they were done, the man named Sharif stood up at the head of the table and formally welcomed them.
"We are happy you've found us," he said. "It is a dangerous world." The party became subdued at that statement. "Please accept our hospitality and stay as long as you wish. All we ask in return is your aid in maintaining the farm. Everyone works here. That is our way. As long as you help the community to produce what we need, you are welcome to stay."
Eric noticed that Mark and Sharon glanced at each other. They did not look happy at Sharif's statement. But Eric was too tired to think of it.
Brad rose to his feet and said, "We're happy to work. Thanks for the food and everything. And the welcome." Then he grinned toothily at everyone. Eric felt like he should say something as well, but he was too exhausted.
There were other statements then, ones that he could hardly follow. Finally, he felt an arm at his shoulder and he was led away from the barn and into the large farmhouse. His feet were suddenly upon worn, wooden steps, and he felt his wet clothes stripped from him. Before he knew it, he was between clean, smooth sheets, in a bed that seemed the softest he ever felt. The warm weight of blankets over him, the feel of quilting against his face, Eric fell into a deep sleep before his head was fully rested on the pillow.
_
Birdie. . .
Birdie!
Eric sat up in a panic. For a terrifying moment, he did not know where he was. The first thing he saw was a large window, the only in the room, that overlooked a bright green field, with forests beyond. The sun was low on the horizon and shined directly into his eyes, dazzling him. He leapt out of bed and saw that his clothes were gone. He looked around desperately and found a pair of sweat pants, a f
lannel shirt, and new cotton socks all folded on a dresser. He pulled them on. His heart thundered in him. How could he fall asleep like that without making sure Birdie was all right? He felt sick. Bending over, he found his muddy hiking boots and pulled them on before he rushed out the door and down the steps into an unfamiliar room.
When he heard talking and the clattering of dishes, he turned left, trying to keep himself from crying out. He came into the kitchen and saw a group of them, sitting to eat. "Where's Birdie?" he blurted out.
"Eric, good morning," said Sharif, standing up. "We thought--"
"Where's Birdie? Where'd you take her?" he asked, glaring at them.
The woman named Cecile, a short, round-faced women with dark hair, stood up and walked to him. "She's okay," she said. She took his hand. "Birdie is upstairs sleeping. She's very tired."
"I know," said Eric. "I know she's tired." He swallowed. He felt confused and defensive. "We've been hiking for a long time. She never complains though. She's a good girl. She's tough." He felt tears sting his eyes and he wiped them away angrily. "I know she's tired."
"Here," Cecile said, guiding him to a seat. "Sit, eat some breakfast."
Eric sat and his heart slowly calmed its frenetic pace. Soon he had a plate of pancakes in front of him with butter and maple syrup. At first, he had no appetite. He only picked at the meal while the people around him continued their discussion. However, the discussion was so innocuous, it soothed him. The four at the table, Sharif, Cecile, David, and Katie, talked about their day, what they planned to accomplish and the help they might need from others. All of it had to do with the management of the farm: taking care of goats, cows, and chickens; fixing fences, walking the fields, repairing a hole in the coop to keep foxes out. Eric calmed and began to eat.
The World Without Crows Page 5