The World Without Flags

“Bullshit,” Franky says, putting his gun down on the table before he sits. “Rhonda and Sam were dead, even if they were still standing. All they could do infect other people before they died.” This makes me nervous to hear. I think of Eric back in the truck. Maybe he’s right. Maybe Eric is nothing now but a risk to other people. To me.

Then I notice that the house smells like the Worm. Likely the other two don’t notice it because they’re still in the same clothes I saw they had on when we burned Rhonda and Sam. Probably slept in them. They’re accustomed to the smell, at least for now, wrapped in it. But any minute they could get a nose full. If they do, the next thing they’ll do is check the loft, and I can only imagine what the state of Eric’s bed is like. They’ll know Eric has the Worm and they’ll find him.

I open up the stove loudly and begin poking at the ashes. A few glowing embers emerges from last night’s fire. I reach into the wood box and pull out twigs and leaves from the bottom and throw them on the embers.

“Well, it might be so,” says Norman, “but who’s to say that one of them might’ve come through in the end? Eric said that it happened.”

“Maybe, maybe,” Franky acknowledges with a slow nod, “but maybe we can’t risk the lives of the people left. God knows there aren’t many of us.”

Norman huffs at that, his way of agreeing to a disagreeable truth. This is the solid argument that I couldn’t win. This is why I have to leave with Eric. Maybe it’s true, maybe the right thing to do is kill him, but that’s not going to happen. No one touches Eric while I still breathe.

I blow at the embers until there’s a lot of smoke. Then, as the flames start to lick at the back of the stove, I throw in some more leaves and pine needles and twigs. The smoke starts to billow out into the room. It should mask the smell.

“Well, what’re we going to do then?” asks Norman. “People will be looking to Eric for some kind of leadership.”

Franky makes a disgusted sound. “Eric’s never been the kind of leader we need.” I feel my back stiffen a little. I’ve never heard Franky speak like that against Eric. It sounds like he’s been repressing that sentence for a long time. I have to re-evaluate Franky. He’s been too good at hiding his true thoughts about Eric. It makes me angry and sad and uneasy. I take it out on the fire and blow at the embers with my eyes closed as the smoke pours from the open door. “What we need,” Franky continues, “is to organize and take care of this as a group. We should get everyone to gather at the Lodge. Let everyone know that the worst has passed. Have Crystal make us something to eat.”

I want to ask how he knows the worst is passed, but I’m good at keeping my mouth shut. Instead I throw more pine needles on the fire. I’m rewarded by acrid puffs of lead gray smoke.

“What’ll we tell them about Eric?” Norman asks.

Franky shrugs. “The truth. We say he left last night to go think.” Franky makes thinking sound way worse than dragging two sick people out and shooting their brains out, which is what we did to Sam and Rhonda. I keep my back to them to hide my anger. I feel like I’m getting to know Franky for the first time and it’s not pleasant.

“Christ sakes!” Norman coughs. “What’re you doing over there, Kestrel?”

I turn my head around innocent as apple pie. “It’s cold,” I say.

Franky coughs too. “I can’t hardly breathe,” he says and coughs again.

“Don’t exaggerate,” I respond. “It’s just a little smoke.” I throw on a piece of wood and then shut the stove door with a hearty clang.

The two get up from the table and walk to the door, holding their guns. I follow them outside in the air. The men’s eyes are watering from the smoke.

“Jesus H. Christ,” Norman says, blinking.

“Where’d Eric go, anyway?” Franky asks me. I feel his gaze before I see it. Cold and hard and calculating. Here’s a man I got totally wrong. He’s studying me and my response. This is the part of the plan that I haven’t gotten to yet. Think, Birdie.

I shrug. “He didn’t really say.” Franky’s eyes flash a little, and I realize he wants more. “He said something about an old friend.”

“You seem to be taking this well,” he says to me, with the same uncomfortable focus.

“Well, he’s not dead,” I say and hold his eyes.

There’s a moment when I’m not sure it’s working. His eyes are like points of fire on me, and my hearts speeds up when I think that I’m not sure if I have my knife or if I left it in the Land Rover.

Then Franky smiles and puts a hand on my shoulder. “No, he’s not dead,” he says. He sounds more like the man I called my friend. He squeezes my shoulder a little, like comforting me. I know I’ve won, at least for now, but I feel horrible. “Come down to the Lodge when you’re ready,” he tells me. “We have things to do.”

I nod and watch as they turn their backs. When their gaze is off me, I put my hand on my knife. It’s there, cool and certain, and I feel a little relief.