A Gathering of Crows

by Brian Keene

  Startled, he tried again. As he did, Stephen coughed, and tasted blood in the back of his throat. Then the dark man pulled his arm back and held up his hand. There was something gray and pink clutched in the stranger’s fist. His hand glistened wetly.

  That looks like . . . raw meat? Where did he get that?

  Stephen became aware that something warm and wet was running down the side of his chin. He smacked his lips together. They felt dry all of a sudden, and the coldness was spreading to his arms and legs.

  “I’m not sure what this is,” the man in black said, frowning as he glanced at the grisly trophy in his hand. Shrugging, he tossed it to the side of the road. It landed in the grass and gravel with a squelch. “You people have too many useless things inside of you. It’s a wonder you ever made it out of the oceans. As a species, you’re so inferiorly designed. Then again, you were made in His image. And our kind has the unfortunate luck of manifesting in your image, rather than our own. We were once you, you see? Now we are something better. But never mind that.”

  He punched Stephen again. Blood flew from Stephen’s mouth, splattering the stranger’s coat. This time, there was pain—a sharp, overpowering agony that seemed to jolt through him as if he’d been shocked. It blazed, and then, as suddenly as it had begun, the pain faded again, replaced by the coldness. Stephen choked as the man held up his hand again, revealing a new item.

  “This is your heart, of course. A bit easier to recognize than that last piece.”

  Stephen toppled backward, barely feeling it as his head cracked on the blacktop. He heard the sound it made, but he couldn’t be bothered to wonder what it was. Dimly, he thought that perhaps someone was cracking eggs on a stove.

  “And these are your intestines. I can divine your future just by looking at them. Hmm. Your future does not look bright. Here, hold this.”

  The attacker slipped something warm and slimy into Stephen’s hand, but he couldn’t see what it was. The last thing Stephen was aware of was the man in black crouching low and leaning over his face. Then the stranger’s terrible, cruel mouth opened wide, and Stephen Poernik died before he could scream.

  FOUR

  “You fucking asshole!”

  Marsha raised her hand to smack Donny, but he grabbed her wrist and squeezed—light enough not to hurt her, but firm enough to make her stop. Her anger was evident in both her expression and tone, loud enough to be heard over the howling dogs.

  “Calm down,” he said calmly, trying to soothe her. Marsha stomped her heel down on the arch of his foot. It hurt, even through the thick leather of his boots. Yelping, Donny let go of her wrist and Marsha pulled away. Before he could react, she punched his chest. Donny shook his head, confused, and seized both of her wrists.

  “Stop it, Marsha. What the hell is wrong with you?”

  “Me?” Her tone changed from angry to flustered. “What’s wrong with you? Were you really going to just leave again without saying anything? Just like before?”

  Donny opened his mouth to respond, but all he could muster was a choked sigh. He released Marsha’s wrists and let his arms hang limp at his sides. Then he stared down at the pavement, unable to meet her wounded, accusatory glare.

  “You’re right,” he muttered. “I’m an asshole, and I’m sorry. I just figured that—”

  “That what? You’d take off again, just like you did after graduation? That you’d mess with my head some more? Is this how it’s going to be from now on, Donny? Just when I get over you and start to move on, you’ll come waltzing back into town again, play me and then leave?”

  “No. I told you, it’s not like that.”

  “Well then, explain it to me.”

  The dogs quit howling, but neither of them noticed.

  “I didn’t mean to hurt you the first time. But this town, Marsha . . . I just couldn’t take it. When we were growing up, I always hated it here. You know that. And you were going away to college, and I couldn’t handle the idea of you going away and leaving me stuck here.”

  “So you decided to do it to me first? You ran off and joined the army and I’m the one who got left behind instead.”

  “That wasn’t supposed to happen. You wanted to be a veterinarian. You were supposed to be going to Morgantown in the fall.”

  “And I was, until you left. And then, instead of college, I got months of therapy and shrinks and drugs. I got Prozac instead of a degree.”

  “I didn’t mean for you to—”

  “To try to kill myself? You can’t even say it, can you?”

  His silence was answer enough.

  “Well, that’s what happened, Donny. Whether you want to acknowledge it or not. I tried to kill myself.”

  “And I’ve told you before that I’m sorry about that, Marsha.” He raised his head and met her eyes. “You don’t know how sorry I am. I loved you.”

  “I loved you too, asshole. And if you’d really fucking loved me, you’d have said good-bye. That’s the worst part. Remember when we were kids, and you and Ricky Gebhart spent all day one summer gathering garter snakes and putting them in a fivegallon bucket?”

  “Yeah, I remember.”

  “And then you assholes dumped the bucket over my head. I was so mad at you, and you followed me around for the rest of the summer, apologizing every single day. Because you cared. But after all those years growing up together—not to mention that we were supposed to be in love—you didn’t care enough to say good-bye when you left.

  “I wrote you letters.”

  Marsha paused. “When?”

  “Once in boot camp. And a couple of times in Iraq. Once while we were on leave in Kuwait. And I tried calling you from Italy, but I wasn’t used to the time-zone change and it was the middle of the night here. I woke your dad up.”

  “He never told me.”

  “That’s because he didn’t know it was me. When he answered, I couldn’t say anything, so I just hung up.”

  “Bullshit. I don’t believe you. And I definitely never got any letters.”

  “That’s because I never mailed them.”

  “Why not?”

  Donny shook his head. “I don’t . . . It’s hard to explain. I know why, but I don’t know how to put it into words. It . . . things were different over there. I mean, we grew up here, and all we knew was Brinkley Springs. That was our whole world.”

  “You make it sound like we never went anywhere else. What about Myrtle Beach and the state fair and that class trip we took to New York City when we were juniors?”

  “Yeah, but that’s still America. The world is more than just America. You see that when you get out there. We’re just a small part of things, and Brinkley Springs . . . hell, it ain’t even on the map. All the stuff that happens here, all the trivial bullshit and drama and gossip in people’s lives? That doesn’t mean shit out there.” He swept his hand toward the horizon.

  “I don’t understand,” Marsha said. “What does any of this have to do with why you never mailed me the letters?”

  Donny took a deep breath and leaned back against the side of his truck. “Like I said, it’s hard to explain. I changed. I saw some shit that . . . well, it wasn’t very pretty. I did things that I ain’t proud of. We all did. It was war, you know? Everything was different, and Brinkley Springs just seemed so far away. It was like you were part of another life. You were somebody that another version of me had known— and that other me was dead. He didn’t exist anymore. He was back here in Brinkley Springs, and that was a million miles away.”

  “You could have told me.”

  “I tried. I told you in every letter. But I never sent them because I figured you’d already moved on, and I didn’t want to make things worse. I didn’t know about the suicide attempt or any of that. Believe me, if I had, things would be different. I just figured you’d gotten over me and gone to college and met somebody and forgotten all about me. It wasn’t until I came back home, after Mom got sick, that I found out the truth.”

  “You m
ust have heard from other people. You must have known.”

  Donny shook his head. “Not really. Mom sent me e-mails and letters, but she didn’t tell me what was going on with you. She never even mentioned you. I reckon she thought it would have upset me. And she’d have been right about that. And I never heard from anyone else. The church sent me Christmas cards, but that’s about it.”

  “And now you’re leaving again.”

  “Yeah.”

  Marsha wiped her eyes, smudging her mascara.

  Donny reached for her, but she pushed him away.

  “Leave me alone. You’ve done enough damage already.”

  “Marsha . . . I didn’t mean to hurt you. I loved you. Hell, I still love you.”

  “Well, you’ve got a funny way of showing it! If you love me, then why are you running away again?”

  “I’m not running away. It’s just this town. This place. I don’t like it here. I never have. Growing up, I couldn’t wait to leave. The only things that ever tied me to this place were my mom and you. And now Mom is gone.”

  “And I’m not enough to keep you here.” Her tone was flat and resigned. “I never was.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “Of course it is.”

  “You could come with me.”

  “I told you before, Donny. I can’t do that. My family is here.”

  “You were gonna leave them for college.”

  “That was then. This is now. They’ve been here for me. You haven’t. I can’t just leave them now.”

  “Well,” Donny sighed, “then I guess that’s—”

  Somebody screamed, a high, warbling shriek that echoed down the street and was then abruptly terminated. Both Donny and Marsha jumped, startled by the sound. They glanced around, peering into the darkness.

  “What was that?” Marsha reached out and clutched his hand, squeezing hard. “Who was that?”

  “I don’t know. Stay here.”

  Marsha squeezed his hand tighter. “What? Where are you going?”

  “To check it out. Somebody is—”

  Another scream ripped through the night. This one came from a different direction. It was joined seconds later by more shrieks. A dog yelped in pain or fright. Then the streets fell silent again. Donny was reminded of the uncanny quiet that often followed a firefight.

  “Jesus Christ,” he whispered. “What the hell is going on? The power, the dogs and now this . . .”

  “I’ll call 911.” Marsha pulled her cell phone out of her pocket, flipped it open and then frowned. “My battery can’t be dead. I just recharged it.”

  Donny reached for his and shook his head. “Mine’s dead, too.”

  “What would make that happen? The lights are out, but what would kill our cell phones?”

  “An EMP.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Electromagnetic pulse. I mean, the cell-phone towers could be down, but even then, the phones would still have power. Only thing I know of that would knock them out completely is an EMP. But that’s—”

  A woman’s voice interrupted, hollering for someone named Brandon. She sounded distraught and panicked.

  “That’s Mrs. Lange,” Marsha whimpered. “Brandon is her little boy.”

  She raised one trembling hand and pointed at their house. Donny glanced in that direction just as the front door banged open. A little boy dashed outside and ran down the porch, followed by a woman.

  “That’s them,” Marsha gasped. “What’s happened?”

  Donny and Marsha started toward the fleeing figures, but skidded to a halt as another figure emerged from the dark house. Neither of them recognized the man. He was tall and thin, and hidden beneath a long, dark coat and a wide-brimmed black hat. They only caught glimpses of his shadowed face as he raced after the fleeing mother and son. The man moved quickly, seeming to almost glide across the porch and down the steps. He caught up to Mrs. Lange and slashed at her legs with one hand. Donny and Marsha noticed that his fingernails were like talons. Mrs. Lange belly flopped onto the lawn. Her son paused and turned around, screaming when he saw what was happening.

  “Run, Brandon,” she hollered as the black figure loomed over her.

  “Stay here,” Donny told Marsha, and then charged across the street.

  The attacker straddled Mrs. Lange’s prone form and grasped her ponytail. Then he placed one foot on her back, right between her shoulder blades, and yanked her head up. Mrs. Lange wailed as her entire scalp was torn away. Brandon, Donny and Marsha howled along with her. As Donny reached the screaming boy, the dark figure grabbed Mrs. Lange’s bare head with both hands and slammed it repeatedly against the ground. She jittered and shook, and then lay still. The man knelt over her body, rolled her over and then placed his mouth over hers.

  “Mommy!”

  Donny grasped the boy’s shoulders, and Brandon screamed.

  “Let me go! My mommy . . .”

  “I’ll help her,” Donny said. “You run over there to my friend Marsha.”

  Brandon stared at his mother’s still form with wide, terrified eyes. Mucous and tears coated his upper lip. He whispered her name one more time and then turned and fled toward Marsha.

  “Hey,” Donny shouted at the killer. “Don’t you fucking move, motherfucker!”

  The man in black raised his hand and waved, beckoning Donny forward. His lips were still pressed to Mrs. Lange’s mouth. Gritting his teeth, Donny ran toward him. As he approached, the killer raised his head. Donny caught a glimpse of something white and glowing—like cigarette smoke with a light inside of it—drifting from Mrs. Lange’s gaping mouth. The man seemed to suck it into himself. Then he stood up and laughed.

  “Donny,” Marsha screamed.

  Donny halted in his tracks and risked a glance over his shoulder. Another similarly dressed figure was racing down the street toward them. The odds were no longer in his favor—especially against an opponent who could rip a woman’s scalp off with his bare hands.

  “Fuck this,” Donny whispered. “I need a gun.”

  He turned and ran back to Marsha and Brandon.

  Behind him, he heard footsteps racing after him. He glanced to his right and was alarmed to see that the second arrival was also closing the distance between them.

  “Run,” Donny hollered.

  Marsha grabbed Brandon’s hand and they ran down the street, but then Brandon twisted out of her grip, turned and ran back toward Donny. Ducking as he fled, Donny reached out to grab the boy, but Brandon darted past him, screaming for his mother.

  “Hey,” Donny yelled. “Get back here!”

  He spun around, pausing long enough to see that their second attacker had been distracted by a man who had emerged from his home, apparently to investigate all of the commotion. Donny knew the man’s face, but not his name. The guy stood on his front lawn, dressed only in a ratty pair of boxer shorts and a white T-shirt. He clutched a shotgun in his trembling hands, but instead of raising it, he simply stood gaping as the black-clad figure bore down on him.

  Marsha shrieked. Donny’s attention went back to Brandon, and he cried out in despair when he saw that it was too late. The boy dangled in the air, his feet kicking ineffectively at the killer’s stomach and crotch. One of the man’s hands encircled the boy’s throat. The other hand was buried deep in Brandon’s guts. The dark man chuckled as he withdrew his fist and pulled out the child’s intestines like a magician producing a stream of scarves. As the glistening strands looped around his feet, he pulled Brandon close and kissed him. Next door, the second killer had taken the shotgun from its owner and was repeatedly skewering him with the barrel.

  Donny struggled with his instincts. Part of him wanted to rush to Brandon and aid the boy, even though he knew it was probably too late. Another part of him wanted to charge the boy’s killer and beat him to a pulp. He knew how unrealistic this was. Both men had displayed uncanny—if not inhuman— strength and speed. He doubted his fists would do much good against such a foe. It wo
uld be smarter to take advantage of this momentary distraction and get Marsha out of here before the strangers turned their combined attention back to them. Weeping, he turned and ran.

  Even after all Donny had seen and experienced overseas, abandoning Brandon and the next-door neighbor was one of the hardest things he’d ever done.

  Marsha was behind the wheel of his truck. The driver’s-side door hung open, and Donny saw that she was repeatedly turning the key with one hand and smacking the steering wheel with the other.

  “It won’t start,” she cried.

  “Come on. Move, damn it.”

  Taking her hand, he pulled her from the cab and led her across a front yard and between two houses. He heard somebody shout inside one of the homes, but he didn’t stop. He guided Marsha through a backyard and onto the next street, and tried to figure out what to do next.

  All around them, Brinkley Springs continued to scream.

  Levi heard the first scream as he darted out the front door. He ignored it, focusing instead on the task at hand. Whatever was happening, whoever was screaming, he wouldn’t be able to help them without first obtaining his tools. The Lord had put him here. That much was certain. Earlier, Brinkley Springs had seemed like nothing more than a good place to stop for the night. He had planned on leaving early the next morning, just after breakfast. Levi had been traveling to the Edgar Cayce Association for Research and Enlightenment headquarters in Virginia Beach. While their library was renowned as one of the largest collections of metaphysical studies and occult reference works in the world, there was a second collection—one not open to the general public—that Levi needed access to. Among the library’s invaluable tomes was an eighteenth-century German copy of King Solomon’s Clavicula Salomonis, which Levi needed to make a copy of for himself. His stop in Brinkley Springs had been intended as nothing more than a brief respite from the long and arduous journey. Both he and Dee had needed the rest. But there would be no rest tonight. No rest for the wicked, and no rest for God’s warriors, either. He’d been placed here on purpose, because only he could combat the threat that the town now faced. This was what he did. This was his calling, his birthright and, quite often, his curse.