The World Without Flags

After another day’s rest and several more delicious biscuits and jam, Pest and I are sitting at the fire. The sun has set, and I’m feeling better, more calm. Just fed with a thin soup of water and dried meat, Eric is sitting nearby, his face as clean as I could get it. The yellow bandage over his eyes is already almost black. If it wasn’t for Pest, he’d be dead too. Pest is prodding the fire with a stick when I look over to him. Although the kid gives me the creeps, I have to say something. It takes me three tries before I get it out.

“Thank you,” I say to Pest finally.

Pest looks up at me. He stops poking at the fire for a moment. His dark, ruffled hair seems even darker than the night around us. His face reminds me of the moon. The fire reflects in his eyes. I see his intelligence flickering there, his uncanny intelligence that usually makes me shiver. Right now, it doesn’t. He doesn’t seem so strange anymore. But there’s still something in his gaze that makes me uncertain, embarrassed, and I turn away, feeling my face heat up as I blush. “I’m just glad you two are okay,” he says finally, and then I can almost feel as he turns his gaze away from me and back to the fire. Relieved that he’s not looking at me anymore, I start tossing twigs in the fire.

“What now?” I ask without looking away from the fire.

Pest sits back and looks over at Eric. He points a smoking branch toward him. “We got to get him somewhere safe.”

I nod and then smile. That’s another thing we agree on.

103

That night I dream I’m walking. The night is on fire. There are moans around me and shuffling footsteps. I’m tired and hungry and confused. Everyone has left me. Everything is on fire. I look up to the sky, but it’s only smoke and ash and the flashing light of fire.

I hear singing, the singing I know now is my mother, and then I feel a hand in mine. I look up, wanting to tell my mother that I’d be okay, I could do it, she could rest.

The face staring down at me is Eric’s, white worms wriggling from his eyes. He looks down at me and a black tongue snakes out of his mouth. His grip tightens on my hand, and I tug to get away, but I can’t. His grip is painful and I cry out. Eric’s black mouth twists in a perverted grin, and he leans down toward me, the worms in his eyes writhing in the smoky air.

104

I wake up at dawn. The bird’s are singing. For a moment, the darkness of Eric’s eyes seems to stay with me. Like I’m awake but still dreaming. I have to get up and walk it off, walk off his eyes, the feel of his grip on my hand. I tremble and shiver. It takes me a moment to realize that both Pest and Queen are nowhere to be seen. Eric is in the same place as always, sitting with his back to the tree. His jaw is hanging on his chest, his dark mouth agape like a putrid cave. But the disgust of his disease is no longer as strong as it was, and I shrug off the feeling and go to him. By the time I get him to his feet for some exercise, to get some blood pumping through his stiff legs, I’ve mostly forgotten my dream.

“Unh,” Eric groans as I lead him around the little camp.

“Just a little more,” I tell him. He begins to kick out his left leg at a strange angle like he’s trying to shake something off.

“What’re you doing?” I laugh. I wait for him to stop and then lead him forward again. He walks with a strange stiffness on his left side and I start to get a little worried. I bring him back to the tree and ease him down to a sitting position as best I can.

I see the problem right away. It’s the wound in his foot, it’s festering. Well, festering is probably not the right term. There’s dark blood coming out of it, but it’s grayish and stinks like rotten eggs. I stare at it, frowning, not knowing what to do, when suddenly I am pushed down to the ground. I see a flash of white and black fur. A wet tongue rakes across my forehead. I put my hand up.

“Queen!” I cry. “Don’t do that!”

I hear a laugh and then a short whistle and Queen backs away. When I get up and brush myself off, I see Pest standing there with two fat squirrels in his hand, already skinned and ready for the pot.

“It’s not funny,” I mumble. “I didn’t see you guys coming.”

“Yeah, I know,” Pest says with a smile. “But it’s still a little funny.” His dark eyes twinkle at me and I frown.

“I’ll sneak up on you sometime and see how you like it,” I tell him with a scowl.

“Como quieres,” Pest says in Spanish. Lucia’s face shoots across my consciousness, and I feel a lightning bolt of pain.

“Don’t do that,” I tell him, harsher than I mean to.

“Do what?”

“Speak Spanish,” I say. I feel myself glare at him, my eyes like focused lasers.

Pest looks at me for a moment. Then he shrugs. He holds up his dead squirrels and shakes