The World Without Flags

Norman stands up. “I know it’s hard to hear,” he tells me. “But we already decided what to do.” His eyes are steel. “I’m sorry, but your father is already dead. That isn’t Eric.” He points at Eric with his gun. “Right now, he’s just a disease. And I have to do this.”

I open my mouth to argue, but I can see in how he’s standing, in the iron in his back and the stone in his eyes that Norman has made up his mind. I watch him step forward.

“Don’t make me do this in front of you,” he says. There’s nothing soft in his voice. He’s readying himself and I know there’s nothing more I can say. Nothing more anyone can say. Eric is a dead man.

62

It’s like slow motion. My heart thumping. Norman’s gun raising. Waiting for the gunshot. Then maybe it’s the pressure that does it, but I remember something. It goes off in me like a blast of light.

My gun leaps to my hand. “Stop Norman!” I yell. “Don’t make me shoot you!” Of course, my gun is full of blanks.

But Norman doesn’t know that.

Norman’s hand falters. He looks at me and I can see he’s more sad than afraid. He doesn’t think I’ll do it. I cock back the hammer and place my legs a little farther apart.

“Put the gun down,” I order him. I’m also thinking pretty fast about my next move.

Norman’s gun hasn’t moved. “You wouldn’t,” he says.

I pull the trigger.

The gun jumps in my hand. The sound of it is deafening. Norman throws up his hands as if that would protect him from the bullet. His gun falls to the ground. There’s this frozen instant, his face clenched up like he’s expecting pain or death to come to him at any moment. He’s on the tips of his toes. An instant. Then his eyes open. Just as he realizes he hasn’t been shot, I rush forward and swing the gun at his head. I feel the grotesque impact shudder up my arm. His legs give out like they’re made of water and he falls to the ground, unconscious.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” I say to him as I bend over to make sure he’s okay. It’s a terrible thing to strike people you love. Trembling, I look over him closely. He’s bleeding a little from where I hit him, but he’s breathing. He’s okay.

“Unh,” Eric says into the tree.

“It’s okay,” I tell him, without looking at him. “It’s over now.”

But it’s not really over, not yet. There’s still those other three. I pick up Norman’s gun and release the clip. It’s full of ammo. Somewhere between 10 and 14 rounds, I'm not sure which. I don’t know guns very well and I don’t have time to count. I push the gun into my pants and then pull my shirt over it.

I have to think fast.

Going over to Eric, I open up the backpack, and look for something to tie up Norman with. I can’t find anything, so I do what I think I have to: I untie Eric from the tree and then from the rope itself. I have to use that. I just have to hope with every fiber in my being that Eric doesn’t get in his head to walk back to camp. I push him face first into the tree.

“Stay,” I tell him, like he’s some kind of dog.

Eric doesn’t have anything to say to that.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be back,” I tell him. I pat his back. Again, like he’s a dog.

Then I go to Norman and roll him over and tie his hands behind his back. In case he wakes up, I stuff a clean sock in his mouth from our backpack and tie it with a shirt. Then I roll him back over and tie his legs to his arms. When I stand up and see what I’ve done, for a minute, I think I’m going to be sick. Norman, who was like a grandfather to me, is tied up like a criminal. I did that. My diseased father standing with his face against a tree. What a family.

I feel horrible so I squat down next to Norman. I’ve never really touched him before, but suddenly I kiss the top of his head. “I’m really sorry about this,” I say. I see the lump on his head where I hit him, fast turning a ugly, vicious blue color, and I have to get up and stop thinking about what I’ve done. I need to focus on the future.

I shake my arms and jump up and down a little. Then I close my eyes and try to feel bad. I’m so full of adrenalin that it’s hard to get myself to cry. I jump up and down again and then take a deep breath. Closing my eyes, I see all the people who have died. I see my best friend’s hair begin to curl and then smoke and finally burn. I help carry people I’ve known for years to their funeral pyre. I roll over Eric and see the dark blood roll from his eyes. Then, deep inside me, from some depths I thought I’d forgotten, the image of the man I know now is my father comes to me. My real father. From before the Worm. He’s in bed, holding my hand. His face is round, his brown eyes deep and caring. He’s giving me his ring and he’s telling me in his warm voice that I can do it. I can do it.

I’m crying now, real tears. Once the crying starts, it’s hard to stop. Before I know it, I’ve succeeded far better than I meant to. I’m not just crying, I’m sobbing.

But this is what I need.

I got some acting to do.

63

I stumble out of the woods, sobbing and wiping my face with my arms.