The World Without Flags

I hear it then, a different cry, high-pitched, inhuman. I turn away to see the thing coming down the street. It’s a pig, or it used to be. Now it’s black eyes are covered with wriggling worms, and from its snout pours a black foam that drips maggots. One of its tusks is shattered and broken and the other is black. It’s once-pink hide is now gray and cracked. As it charges toward me, it lets out another inhuman squeal, so loud and terrifying that I stagger backward and trip over the infected old man. I feel myself fall, and, as if time slows, I see Pest leap forward, his gun raised. He begins shooting. I crash backwards, feeling the concussion of the gun shots in my chest.

Everything rolls and spins and blurs. I hear more shots and the pig wailing. I roll backward, and try to come to my feet, but I can’t keep my balance and fall backward, sprawling to a stop. I hear yet another shot as I rise to my feet and spin around, my knife ready to confront the cracked animal.

Instead, I see Pest standing over the corpse of the pig, his gun held to the side, still smoking. The smell of corpses and death mixes with gun powder. The pig’s head has three dark holes in it, one right below the eye socket. Black blood and long tendrils of thin worms pour from it like liquid from a bottle. Shakily, I step forward. Pest turns toward me.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

That’s when I notice his left arm, torn and bleeding where the pig managed to gore him.

108

By the time we get back to camp, I’m practically carrying Pest. He’s lost a lot of blood. My heart racing, I drag him next to the smoldering camp fire. I try not to think of the infection pumping through him, try not to think about what that means. Pest struggles into a sitting position, his back against a fallen tree. He looks up at me and smiles, but his smile is weak and it flitters across his face, fragile as a butterfly.

“Don’t worry,” he says and then takes a deep breath. “Don’t worry about me.”

“Of course I’m going to worry, you idiot,” I hiss. I get down on my knees and open up his shirt. There’s a long, red gash down his left arm. I grimace when I see his wound is smeared with gray foam. I can almost see the tiny, microscopic little worms wriggling their way into his bloodstream, pumping through his body, reaching up into the temple of his brain. I shudder and turn away. I have to wash it. I have to clean it.

Pest looks down at his arm and his face turns sickly pale. “Oh man,” he breathes. He turns away, but I see it’s too late. He blinks several times and then his eyes roll up in his head. His shoulders twitch as he passes out. I’m relieved that he won’t be awake while I wash his wound. I can’t afford to be gentle.

It takes a long time for the water to boil. My mind is thinking about what to do now that Pest is infected. Will we go on? Will we wait here while he gets sick? Will I have to take care of him too like I take care of Eric? The thought of leading the two of them to the Good Prince fills me with fatigue. I struggle just to take care of Eric, I think. How can I take care of both? And I’m thinking too that it could go an entirely different way. Pest could crack. The disease could be too much for him to take and he’ll crack. Then I’ll have to shoot him. I’ll have to shoot him and the man who saved me. Not once, not twice, but three times!

Did I just think of Pest as a man? He’s just a boy, I tell myself. Just a kid.

But the way he looks. The way his eyes flash with intelligence. His patience. How he always thinks before he acts. How I trust and respect him. It makes me think of him as much older. It’s easy to make that mistake.

But it’s a mistake. He’s just a little boy, years younger than me.

Years, I tell myself.

I’m so upset that I sit back, overwhelmed. I grab my legs and hug them close to my body. Why is all this happening to me? Why does it all have to go wrong all the time? I feel myself shaking, trembling, and I hug myself harder to keep steady.

“Keep it together,” I say out loud. “Keep it together, Birdie.”

Think.

I take a few deep breaths.

“All right,” I say. “All right.” I sniff loudly and realize I’ve been crying again. Tears of pure frustration. I wipe my eyes clean with my shirt. “All right.”

“Unh,” Eric says, his face still pressed into the tree where I left him.

“Not now,” I mutter. “I got things to do.”

109

Halfway through cleaning Pest’s wound, Queen comes back. She whines and paces, worried. She tries to reach in with her snout and lick at his wound, but I push her away. Then she starts to circle the camp. Her circles grow and then, at some point, I don’t see her anymore.