The World Without Flags

I have to admit that he’s right. Doctor Bragg didn’t seem to me the kind of guy who leads people. Someone must have set up that rat nest of bandits. For all we know, it could be the Stars. Or the Gearheads. “I guess spreading the Worm isn’t something they’d want to wave a flag about.”

Pest takes a deep breath. “When it comes to war, people will do almost anything.”

I look at Pest with his ruffled dark hair, his face turned toward the ground where he’s picking at grass, and I can see him thinking. I know he’s older than he looks, but it’s still jarring to see it. I move closer to him and nudge him with my shoulder. When he looks up, I smile at him. I want to say that I’m glad that he’s with me, that it’s been so lonely trying to understand all of this myself. But all that comes out is that smile. Pest smiles back. It’s so little, but it seems to be enough for us right now. I have the feeling that it’s us against whatever is happening, and it’s a great feeling. It’s the best feeling I’ve had since this all began.

Maybe we would have said more if the gate didn’t open. Randy comes out with a hop in his step and walks over to Tangerine. He looks at us and winks. “The Good Prince will see us,” he says. As he comes up next to us, he gives us a more serious look. “Don’t expect a party though. Welcoming the Worm into Cairo is not exactly a popular decision.” As we pass through the open doors of the gate, and they shut it quickly behind us, I see there’s a big, black horse painted on the inside of the gate. The word MUSTANGS makes an arc over the rearing horse.

Cairo is a bunch of old, clapboard houses surrounded by a wooden fence. All the windows have bars on them and the doors are all reinforced with steel. It looks like a place that’s been under siege for about a decade, which, I guess, maybe it has. Lining the road as we walk through are more than two dozen men and women, all holding guns. None of them look very welcoming. They all stare at Eric in open hatred. One old man, mostly bald and toothless, leans out and squirts out a thin line of spit in front of us.

Once again I’m grateful for Randy. There’s no way we would have gotten this far into town without him. I watch him up ahead, smiling at the people who hate us. He’s got a talent, all right. He doesn’t seem to be bothered at all by them. He looks at them all like they were the best of friends. As for myself, I seem to feel every gun pointed my way, and it makes me nervous as hell to think of how any one of these people could shoot Eric down right now and no one would blame them. I don’t have very many warm feelings for these people. All I care about is getting Eric somewhere safe as fast as I can. I look around for the Good Prince, but I don’t see anyone.

Randy leads us to an old church, with its little block of a steeple topped by a brass cross. Once the church must have been bright yellow, but now it’s faded and chipped. The windows are all completely barred with steel. The double doors in front are also made of steel, inexpertly welded, patchworked together from whatever they could scavenge. Above the door is a strange wooden bear, seemingly carved with a  chainsaw from a single block of wood, and painted deep black, except its eyes which are disturbingly white. Under the bear and just over the double steel doors, GOOD PRINCE BILLY is written in garish, bright pink letters.

There’s a man waiting for us outside the church. He’s dressed like many of the others, in faded and ripped blue jeans with a worn plaid shirt. He’s got a long beard and cradles a shotgun in his folded arms. His thin face studies us as we approach.

“This is Jim,” Randy whispers over to us. “He’s been in charge of the Mustangs for a while now.”

“Where’s the Good Prince?” I ask Randy nervously. “I don’t like this.”

“Me either,” agrees Pest.

Jim chimes in before Randy can answer. “Let me see Eric,” he says.

Feeling nervous, I step ahead and give Eric a little tug forward. Eric shambles forward toward the church. I put out my hand and stop him at the base of the steps. Jim looks down at us for a second and then comes down the steps to look closer. He eyes me for a second.

“He bite?” he asks.

I shake my head.

Jim comes forward and studies Eric up close. Then he steps back and looks him up and down. “Shit,” he says. “Hey there, amigo.” Jim smiles weakly and pats Eric on the shoulder. He turns toward me. “He came through here a long while back. He was just a kid then.” He looks at Eric again. “It was a memorable day.” His eyes seem to drift off and then he turns away and strides up the steps. He turns back and waves us forward. “Billy will want to see him.”