At first they tried to hike in the woods, to keep away from the roads. But Eric wasn’t capable of it. It was too strenuous. Even he had to admit he was risking ripping open his wounds. When they came to Bemis Road, they stood silent, breathing hard in the hot, late summer sun. Then, instead of crossing into the forest, Eric stepped on the road. They would have to risk it.
Eric remembered the sweet smell of pine needles. He remembered the sound of wind through the tall pines and the chirping of chickadees as they flew down to investigate the newcomers. He remembered the moist wind, with its promise of cool waters. They were so close.
But Eric no longer cared to remember his father. That was in a different world, long ago and unreal. Now when he thought of it, he saw himself as if from a height, sitting in an aluminum boat, a child, frightened by the thought that his father did not love him, and a spiteful, shallow man who wanted nothing to do with his own son. He saw little connection to himself in that child or that man. They were phantoms. It was as if he had lived fifty years time since the Vaca B began. Life was not the same. He was not the same. Neither was the world.
Crows were the proof of it. There were no more crows. It was something that struck Eric suddenly, a silence he suddenly noticed. He had not seen crows since, well, he couldn’t remember when. The crows, unlike most birds, fed on corpses. Perhaps they too suffered from the Vaca B. It had wiped them out.
Some things would not survive. Parts of his past, whole regions of his heart, all were gone now. They still had to discover what kind of people lived afterward, in this new land, in his new skin.
In a world without crows.
When it happened, it was sudden. There was no warning. One moment the three of them were walking along the curving road, forests on both sides. Then, as they came to a winding curve, the forest dropped away, and they saw it below them. Mooselookmeguntic Lake.
And in the middle of it, an island, shining emerald green in the sun. Breathless, stunned, the three of them stared down soundlessly. It was Birdie who spoke first.
“The island,” she said, pointing. She looked up at Eric. “It looks like an eye.”
It did. The island seemed the pupil of a great eye staring up at the sky.
They were silent. There were no words for the sight. It was the end. Their hearts grew and spilled over. Lucia trembled. Eric took a numb step forward to the edge of the road.
The island.
How far he had come. Over hills and bridges, through death and fear, down a long road of grief and suffering. He thought he would be ecstatic when he saw it. He thought they would cheer and embrace each other. He thought there would be some revelation, some feeling of wholeness, security. Righteousness. But the island was silent, unseemly in its reality. And instead of the people standing next to him, the people he would have died to save, Eric thought of the people who had not made it.
Poor Brad, angry and foolish, but loyal and strong. Burned to smoking bones on the shore of a lake. Sarah who had taught them how to fish and cook, who had held them together through disaster until she too was burnt to ashes, the first woman he had ever kissed. John Martin, tall and steadfast as rock, who had saved Lucia and Sergio, who had shown him it was no sign of manhood to kill. Shot down for no reason but his strength and the fear Doyle had in his heart. Sergio, poor Sergio, fearful but gentle, killed for nothing. Charlie who died at his feet. The men and women of the Slow Society, so brave and kind, dead only because they had dared to be hopeful. His mother in her burning bed and Jessica in her ditch. His friends. The herds of men and women, minds eaten by the Vaca B, shambling toward water, drowning, dying, or living on, meaningless and vacant. The cracked ones, furious to continue in the world of beauty and pleasure, minds bent and broken by their proximity to the cold darkness of death, killing and dying with equal ferocity.
And for what?
Eric’s eyes fluttered with tears.
For this.
A green island set in the blue of a lake, staring up at the azure sky. The brilliance of living. The beauty of it standing against the darkness. The wonder.
Eric covered his face with his hands. As the sobs came to him, he felt Lucia and Birdie grasp him. The three survivors cried in each other’s arms and could not let go.
They were the ones who lived and they did not know why.
From the shore of Mooselookmeguntic, the island looked flat, like a green plate floating upon the water. The sun was setting and turned the lake to fiery gold. They had already set up camp and Lucia had set a pan of water on the fire to boil. Eric’s heart felt tight in his chest, like cold stone. Birdie, tired from the day’s hike, had crawled underneath the ragged canvas tent they found in the Bethel farmhouse.
Eric stood at the shore.
They had made it. It was impossible to believe. The wind coming off the lake seemed as soft as cotton. There was no sign of humans. No smoke from another fire. No floating corpses. There was only the lake, waving gently against the shore. Standing there, he heard the ghostly call of a loon. It echoed off the lake with mysterious poignancy.
“It’s hard to believe, isn’t it?” Lucia asked, suddenly next to him.
Eric turned to her. “I’m sorry about Sergio,” he said. “I haven’t said so yet. I’m sorry.”
Lucia looked away, over the lake, then down at her feet, then back at him. Tears swelled in her eyes. She looked about to say something, but the look just hung there until she shook her head and swallowed.
“You know,” said Eric, “I didn’t think I’d make it here. I was sure of it sometimes. Now that I’m here, I don’t understand. I don’t understand why we made it. How are we here when so many other people aren’t?” Eric choked up, but continued. “It was all so random. Brad was just trying to protect us, Sarah died cooking for us. I don’t know why John Martin had to die. It was so…” Eric struggled for the words. “Meaningless,” he finished. “Meaningless.” He looked out over the lake.
“Don’t say that,” Lucia answered. She took his arm and jerked it until he looked at her again. “Don’t say that again, Eric.” Her eyes were fierce. “Sergio died for us to get here. So did John. They died for us. They died so we could be here and live in peace.” She felt suddenly enraged. “What did you think you would find? The meaning of life?” She gave out a painful laugh. “Why do you have to think like that? From that distance? Life is here. It’s there. It’s all around us. It’s not in here!” She stabbed at her head ferociously. “You don’t find meaning in there. It’s out there!” She started to cry, but when Eric touched her arm, she calmed.
“I didn’t mean it,” he said to her softly. “I’m sorry. I won’t say it again. I won’t think it. You’re right.” Eric pulled her into his arms. “You’re right,” he repeated, smelling her hair. “I won’t say it again.”
They were both quiet then, absorbed in each other’s embrace. They had never been so intimate with each other, so close. Eric closed his eyes, smelling her hair. He found the coldness of his heart loosening, easing, like a knot slowly being undone. With it came a softness that was almost painful. Eric squeezed his eyes shut against the violence of the feeling. But he could escape it no longer. He loved her. He loved her with all that remained in him to love.
“Eric, my boy!” a voice boomed, causing Eric and Lucia to leap away from each other. “We made it!”
The top of Carl Doyle’s head was entirely gone. There was only bone left. A flap of scalp and hair hung off to one side of his head like a toupee that had blown off. His eyes were filled with dark blood so that they were dark as ebony. His putrid leg was stank like death and a cloud of flies buzzed around him. A new gunshot wound in his shoulder oozed black blood. His clothes, once neat and perfect, were now torn, ripped, and stained with blood. His upper lip was half-chewed away. When he opened his mouth to speak, Eric could see white specks of worms writhing inside his mouth and gums. The smell from him was sickening and sweet.