The World Without Flags

“I’ll lose my shit if I think my shit needs losing!” I cry out. “If I need someone to tell me when and when not to lose my shit, I’ll let you know. You can be my official finder of shit, how’s that? If I lose my shit, you’ll be the first shit sniffer I call. How’s that?”

“Someone’s moody,” Pest says. “Okay, then, good night, Birdie.”

“What did you call—!?” I stride toward the door in anger, but I’m so loaded up with clothes that I immediately fall forward on the floor. I’m wearing so many clothes, nothing is hurt except my pride. I flail on the floor, intending to jump to my feet and tell Pest what a perfect name he was given, and to warn him what would happen if he ever dared to call me Birdie again, but I have to say the whole effort was unsuccessful. I was like a turtle flipped on its shell. A very angry turtle.

By the time I get up, Pest is long gone. I have the insane idea of throwing open the door, running him down and giving him a swift kick in the smartass, when I realize how truly idiotic that would be. Pest irritates me so much! I growl out loud and then realize that all in all, it was a very good thing. Now they will all think I am sleeping, exhausted, while they eat at the Lodge. When, in fact, I’ll be long gone by morning.

Even pests can be useful.

42

Eric is in the Land Rover where I left him. Somehow he’s crawled face first into the front passenger seat. His legs are up over the seat, his back twisted in what should be a very painful angle, and his head is jammed into the floor under the dashboard. It takes me a while to get him out. Finally, I slide him out of the Land Rover and he collapses on the forest floor and says “Unh” right into the ground. His eyes are leaking blood.

I’m breathing hard, but I answer him. “Yeah, sucks,” I agree.

Then I heave him to his feet and try to dress him in the clothes I brought. This is way harder than I thought it would be and I didn’t think it would be easy. Every time I get one arm in a shirt, for example, and I’m trying to get the other in, all the while, being very careful of Eric’s hands and fingernails, Eric makes some move or groans or jerks weird and I have to start over. When I try to get a pair of overalls on him, I practically have to wrestle him into the ground. Then I have to hold up his legs like he’s an infant and pull the clothes over his legs. Then I roll him over and start tugging. It’s exhausting. Keep in mind that Eric is a big guy, a big guy who got that way by swinging an axe all damn day. When he moves, I can’t really stop him.

Then I find out he has lost all concept of backpack. He doesn’t like it. Every time I get one strap on and move to put the other one on, he goes “Unh” and jerks it off. I tell him it’s for his own good, but it’s like talking to a rock. I tell him anyway. Finally, after like eight tries, I get the backpack on and I clip in the chest straps so he can’t jerk it off. At first he goes “Unh, unh” and moves around in a circle, but then he stops and just stands there again, so I guess he gets use to it. Or whatever the hell is going on in his head.

Then I tie a rope around his waist and tie a couple pair of gloves to his hands. That was the weirdest part for me. He must have touched me with those hands a million times, but when I touch them now…I get the most horrible feeling. Everything is both wrong and right. I recognize the shape, the size, all the callouses and fingernails, but they aren’t right. They move very weirdly, like just the pinky finger will move and the others will stay still. Or the fingers will move in opposite directions or just a little behind the other. It’s gross. It’s the Worm. To think that a disease is moving Eric makes me sick. I almost vomit once, it’s so weird. Or it might have been the smell of the Worm coming out of his mouth, I don’t know.

I didn’t find a muzzle, but I did find a dust guard. I put it on, and I have to say, Eric looks a lot better when I don’t have to see his jaw hanging down and black drool coming out of his mouth. He looks more like himself.

Finally I give him a pair of sunglasses, trying to look away, so I won’t have to see the white worms at the corner of his eyes.

When I’m done, Eric looks almost normal. He stands weird though, kind of slumped forward and to one side. No human stands like that, with his arms hanging like meat at his side. I put on his wool hat now, which used to be forest green but is now almost black, and the effect is complete.

“Unh,” Eric says as I step back.

“You look fine,” I say.

“Unh,” Eric says.

“Nope,” I answer. “You don’t look stupid in those overalls at all.” He does though. A little.

43