The World Without Flags

Pest and I move quietly through the open gates to the village and slowly up the street. I notice Pest has a gun out and just as quickly notice that it’s Eric’s old gun, in other words, my gun, but I’m not going to say anything now, of course. But it still irritates me.

“That’s my gun,” I hiss at Pest. Immediately I regret it. Didn’t I just tell myself I would wait until a more appropriate time? Didn’t I just finish saying that to myself? It’s Pest’s fault, I think. He makes me act this way.

Pest looks at me, and I could swear he was going to roll his eyes at me. My blood boils just to think of it. But he doesn’t, he stops himself. “I’ll give it back later,” he whispers.

I have three or four smartass responses, but this time I keep them to myself. I just nod. I have other things to worry about, and I breathe in deeply to try to focus on the job at hand. It’s so stupid to be thinking about Pest right now as we move through this village of the dead.

We fall into a pattern. With my knife out and ready, I watch outside while Pest goes into a house to look for supplies. I listen to him while he’s gone. He seems so loud, clomping around in the house, opening drawers, looking under beds. When he comes out, he usually shakes his head. Nothing. Then we move to the next house on the street. Outside the next house, there’s a little girl, no older than I was when the Worm first brought civilization down. While Pest is gone, I study her blonde hair and the raspberry barrette in her hair. She stands soundlessly, the tip of her tongue poking from her mouth. The tongue has been hanging out for so long, it’s dry and swollen black. I can see long, thin, almost transparent worms snaking from her ear. I try to keep an eye out like I’m supposed to, but I keep going back to the little girl.

It’s while Pest is searching the fourth house, when we’re almost in the center of the village, that I see him, a balding old man with a red hunting jacket on. He’s trudging forward, dragging one leg behind him. It looks as if dogs have attacked him. His clothes are all ripped and his jeans are shredded. But what really grabs my attention are his boots: they are perfect for Eric: good, solid, black leather and what looks like steel toes. I turn to call for Pest, but I hear him rummaging around and stop. I don’t want to make any more noise than is necessary. I can do this myself.

I move forward cautiously, and as I get closer, I can see that his leg is nearly torn completely off. It’s only held together by a shard of born and some yellow tendons. Approaching him carefully, I put out my hand and place it on his chest. He comes to a sudden stop. His head picks up a little and he makes a long sound. “Errrrrrrrrrr.” Black blood dribbles from his mouth, pocked by white worms. I shudder and then move behind him.

“Sorry,” I whisper. I push my knee into the back of his one good knee and try to ease him to the ground like I do with Eric, but he just collapses immediately.

“Ahrg! Ahrg!” he cries loudly. Black blood spits from his mouth. He begins to struggle on the ground, scraping the damp earth with his hands. With the loss of his leg, he doesn’t seem to know how to get up. “AAAHRG!” he shouts and then, shuddering, hacks up a massive blob of wriggling worms and black bile. It lands in a pile on the ground in front of him, and the smell of it makes me take a step backwards, putting my hand to my mouth.

Pest bursts from the shack he has been searching and begins to point his gun everywhere, frantically. Then he levels his gun at the infected man and looks at me with confusion. “What’s happening?” he asks.

“AAAHRG!” the man cries, even louder than before.

“His boots!” I say. “I was just getting his boots!”

“You should’ve waited for me!” Pest exclaims, stepping toward the man. He points his gun at him.

“No!” I say. “Don’t shoot him!”

“He’s making too much noise!”

“AAAAHRG!” the man calls out, as if to punctuate his point.

“Oh yeah and a gunshot is real tranquil,” I say to him.

Pest doesn’t respond. He just looks around the village nervously.

I move to the man and crouch down. While the man moves and cries, I unlace his boots and tug them free. Then I tie the laces together and sling the boots over my shoulder. I stand up and watch as the old man struggles on the ground, scraping and howling and shuddering. I wonder if we should shoot him, put him out of his misery. But what’s the difference between killing him and killing Eric? Doesn’t this poor man deserve a chance to get better too? I stare down at him as he cries, fixed by my own thoughts.