The World Without Flags

As he half-falls to the ground, he reaches out and brushes against me with the palm of his hand. The glove has fallen off. For a minute, I recognize the hand. It’s the same one that use to reach out to me in the night, just to make sure I was safe. It’s the same one that took my hand so many times when I was young. And I remember for an instant, like a flash, long, long ago, when it was just him and I on the road, before the Homestead, before Lucia. His hand in mine, leading me away from danger. Protecting me.

I’m crying before I can stop myself. I put my hand on Eric’s head as I cry. I don’t dare to touch him nearer to the mouth than that, in case he bites. I’m trembling then as I cry. I can’t let myself be weak.

I sniff and straighten my back. I take my hand from Eric’s head and step back.

“Good night, squirrel,” I say.

“Unh,” he says.

It takes everything I have left in me not to collapse in grief.

52

I dream someone takes my hand in theirs. It’s not Eric’s hand. It’s much larger. I don’t have to look around to know the world is on fire. I can smell the smoke. I look at the hand in mine. It’s large and black and is wearing the ring. The hand is warm and smooth. I tighten my grip on it.

“You can do it, Birdie, I know you can.” It’s the same voice, deep and beautiful as honey.

I look up to see my father, but his face is in shadows. I smell it then. The stench of old urine and dead things. White worms writhe in the darkness. My father’s mouth yawns open and black bile begins to spew out over me and I can do nothing but feel the worms wriggle on my skin.

53

I wake up shaking and sweating. I’m trembling so hard that it’s hard to breathe. I take deep, deep breaths to calm myself. I can still feel the dream, lingering like a stench. I slide out of my sleeping bag and let the cool night air take some of my sweat. I shake my head and walk down the road, away from the fire that’s burned down to weak, orange coals. As I walk, reality comes back to me. The dream fades.

The moon is bright. Trees whisper in the cool breeze. The sound of my footsteps crunching on pine needles and leaves comforts me. The dream tatters in the breeze. My breathing calms. I even start feeling a little cold. I turn around and walk back toward the fire. I see the little campfire ahead of me, a tired, brick-colored, ancient thing, gloaming in the coals and ashes. I pick up some fallen wood for the fire. When I return to the fire and feed it, little yellow flames licking at the dry wood, I wish that everything could be solved so easily.

But it can’t. Boston and Sidney are taking us back to the Homestead, and I don’t know how I can get Eric away. At the Homestead, they will certainly kill him, walk him out solemnly to the fields and give speeches. They’ll be sad and solemn when they do it, but they’ll put a bullet through his brain all the same. Even if they don’t, Eric is dying. He won’t eat. He’s just going to turn to skin and bones and then shrivel up and die. That is, if the Worm doesn’t kill him first, if he doesn’t crack and then I have to do something I don’t think I can do. Nothing is simple. I feel like I’m failing Eric. I sit by the fire, poking at it, prodding it back to life. If Eric could run, there’s a chance we could vanish into the forest. We could get somewhere alone and then I could deal with the other problems. But he can’t run. Sometimes he can hardly walk. If we disappear tonight, I feel sure Boston and Sydney would hunt for us. They would want to know why. They are spies after all. At least that’s what I think they are.

I look up from the fire. Boston is fast asleep in his sleeping bag near the fire. Sidney is on watch, I guess, his back against the tree, snoring. Snoring?

I stand up quietly to investigate. Walking silently as a cat, I go over to Sidney. Yes. He snores lightly through his huge nose. He’s fallen asleep with his gun on his lap. They’re both asleep.

I reach back and take out my gun.

I probably won’t have a better time than this.

Think, Birdie. Think.

I could do it. One shot in Sidney’s head and then, twirling around fast, another in Boston’s before he even realizes what has happened. Two rapid shots and then we’d be gone. Bang. Turn. Bang. Easy as feeding the fire.

My heart starts beating rapidly.

The gun is warm and real and heavy in my hand. If I don’t do this, Eric could die. I can’t let that happen. I swore I wouldn’t let that happen. I put my finger on the trigger and add pressure. What do I know of these guys? Who knows how many people they’ve killed? Women and children both probably. Who knows? I lift up the gun in the darkness and point it at Sidney. I’m just a few steps away. I won’t miss. Just two shots. Bang. Turn. Bang.

I take a deep breath.

Squeeze the trigger.