The World Without Flags

I turn away from Randy to face the President of the Stars, a man I’ve never met who now holds our fate in his hands.

156

President Ramon Barber is a short man, dressed in clean, perfectly fitting military fatigues. You would never know looking at him that the world had ended ten years ago. His combat boots are black and impeccably polished. His buzz-cut hair is black as night with no sign of gray. What I notice is his deeply-pocked face, his skin as rough and uneven as a battlefield. His brown eyes search me with interest, but his eyes aren’t exactly friendly. I can see that he’s a man who makes important decisions, decisions of life and death, and he never questions them, even if he is wrong. He’s a man without regret, pointing forward. That’s not good. To him, I’m a member of the Gearheads who’s been poisoning innocent people with a terribly contagious disease. There’s no good decision from his point of view that ends up with me alive. I’m much safer to him dead. I’ve still got enough sense to be afraid, enough sense to keep my mouth shut until he asks his questions. I’ve got to think. Over Barber’s shoulders, I see Randy watching us, looking uncomfortable, his gun hanging at his side.

“What’s your name, girl?” Barber asks me. His breath smells like coffee.

“Birdie,” I answer.

Barber looks me up and down, pauses at my broken and bound wrist, bright red with fresh blood, and then looks me in the eyes again. “How old are you?”

I shrug. He frowns and I can see by the indignant little flicker in his eye that I better respond with words. “I don’t know,” I say. “Sixteen or seventeen, I guess. Maybe more.”

He seems satisfied with that answer, but the indignation hasn’t left his eyes. “You going to do something with that?” He nods down at my hand, and, confused, I follow his gaze. I’m surprised to see that I’m still holding my knife. Instantly, I let it drop from my hand.

“She didn’t do anything!” cries Pest suddenly. He steps forward, but falls suddenly from a blow to the back of his head. He collapses to the ground, groaning. Randy shrugs at Barber, still holding the gun that knocked him down. Barber turns back to me, and I see it doesn’t bother him to see a defenseless boy struck down. He’s seen worse. He’s done worse. I have to be careful with him, and no matter how careful I am, it might not save me. I glance over to where Boston and Sydney are standing, watching, and I can tell from their hard eyes that I won’t find any help from them. The both of them have the attitude of people witnessing harsh but fair justice. There isn’t a spark of sympathy from either of them. It’s not just my life they’re judging, but Eric’s and Pest’s too. If I can’t find a way to convince them I didn’t try to spread the Worm for the Gears, we are all dead. I feel a horrible electric spasm of fear pulse through me. It’s so strong that I have to close my eyes to keep from sprinting away out of fear. I don’t want Eric to die. I don’t want Pest to die. I don’t want to die.

For the first time in my life, I feel it. I mean, my own life. Not in terms of the life I have lived, my memories, my dreams, people I’ve known and loved. Instead, I think of my life as this thing ahead of me, this space of time that hasn’t arrived yet, and I see that it could be, it should be, much, much longer than what has come before. I see my life as this tiny thing waiting to happen, like I haven’t even had a chance to do anything. I feel that I haven’t even begun living and I’m going to die. I begin to tremble. I’m trying to hold it together, but it’s hard. It’s so hard.

“You ought to shoot her and get it over with,” Randy says suddenly, and I open my eyes. It’s the hate I feel for him that drives away the weakness in me. I feel myself steady.

President Barber holds up his hand, still looking at me. “I’ll decide what I ought to do,” he says. The grit in his voice is startlingly, but he doesn’t turn away from me. I’m ready to beg if it will help us, but the grit in his voice tells me that it’s not the way to go. Begging would make me look guilty in his eyes. He’s that kind of man. Begging would make him shoot me quicker. I focus my attention on him. I struggle to keep myself steady, even, strong. I’m not any of these things, but I can appear to be. I need to think, be calm and think.

The President of the Stars steps forward, his shining black boots glistening in the pine needles. His eyes are intense, almost crackling with energy as he studies me. He’s about ready to speak. I can see the time is coming.

I will either make my case or we will all die.

157

“Well, Birdie,” President Barber says, “You seem like a smart girl. I don’t have to tell you why you need to answer my questions truthfully, do I?”

“No,” I say, then I quickly add, “sir.”

“Randy here tells me that you’ve been working for the Gearheads, dragging this zombie around the whole country, infecting town after town.”