The World Without Crows

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When it became obvious the world was ending, Eric thought the worst part would be the people in the streets, screaming or laughing or crying, or how it was impossible to be sure which ones were infected. He thought the worst part would be the sight of great dump trucks full of corpses going down the road. Or the military who showed up toward the end and started shooting people. Or the fires in the distance or the gangs roaming the streets with guns. But it wasn’t any of those things.

“Eric,” his mother said, her lips dry and flaky. Her eyes dripped blood. “Come here.” He did. Her sweaty hand took him by the collar. “I never loved your father,” she told him. “Sometimes I don’t love you either. You’re so much like him, Eric.” She began to cry. “I’m so sorry.”

Everyone thought that the end was the time to tell the truth. As if lies were what brought on the worm. As if lies had doomed them all. The things people said to each other in those last days.

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