A Gathering of Crows

by Brian Keene

  “What is it?” he asked again.

  “Didn’t you hear me knocking? Or all the noise outside?”

  “No,” he admitted. “I don’t hear so good these days. I came inside after the dogs started barking. Was going to fix myself a bite to eat, but with the power out, I decided to just go to sleep instead. I was laying down when I finally heard you. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay.” Jean turned around and locked the door behind her.

  “Did you say there’s trouble? What kind of trouble?” “I don’t know.” She turned back to him. “People screaming and shouting. Gunshots. Something exploded on the other side of town. I think there are a couple of fires, too.”

  Axel gaped. “Good Lord . . .”

  “Bobby, I need to put you down, sweetie. Mommy’s arms need a break.”

  Shaking his head, the boy buried his face in her hair and clung tighter.

  “Bobby . . .”

  “No, Mommy. Bad things are out there.”

  “We’re safe now. Mr. Perry won’t let anything happen to us.”

  “Your mother’s right,” Axel said, not understanding any of this, but trying to sound brave for the boy.

  “Whatever’s going on, it can’t get you in here.”

  Bobby peered doubtfully at the old man from between his mother’s hair.

  Grinning, Axel raised the walking stick. “If it does, I’ll whack it with this.”

  “That’s just an old stick.”

  “Oh no, it’s much more than an old stick. You see, this walking stick has magic.”

  “No it doesn’t.”

  “Bobby,” Jean chided, “be polite.”

  “But Mommy, there’s no such thing as magic. It’s just make-believe, like in the cartoons and Harry Potter.”

  Axel winked at the boy. “Magic is more than just stories, Bobby. Where do you think the lady who made up those Harry Potter books got the idea from? I reckon magic has been around as long as human beings have, and that’s a long, long time.”

  He paused. Axel couldn’t be sure, but he thought he heard somebody screaming outside. He wondered if he should go out and check, but then decided that Jean and Bobby were his primary responsibility now.

  “So what can it do?” Bobby asked, pointing at the walking stick.

  “I cut this branch off a magic tree a long, long time ago when I was just a little older than you. We lived way down in a hollow on the other side of Frankford, back near where the quarry is today. There was a cave at the far end of the hollow—more of a sinkhole, really. My daddy filled it up over the years because our cows kept falling into it. But next to the hole was a big old willow tree, just as gnarled and ugly as I am now. The tree’s name—”

  “Trees don’t have names, Mr. Perry.”

  Jean frowned. “Bobby, manners!”

  The boy stuck his bottom lip out and pouted. “But I called him mister.”

  “It’s okay,” Axel soothed. “Everything has a name, Bobby. Not just people, but animals and trees and even rocks. God gives everything a secret name. This old willow tree’s name was Mrs. Chickbaum.”

  “That’s a funny name.”

  “Aye, I reckon it is. But that was what my mother said its name was, and she knew about these things.”

  “Was your mommy magic?”

  Axel was surprised to find himself tearing up as he answered. “Yeah, she was. My mommy was magic. And so was old Mrs. Chickbaum. Not in a way that you’d probably understand. The tree couldn’t fly or turn people into salamanders. But you felt better in its shade. You rested easy underneath its branches. There was a little spring to the left of her trunk, and that water was just about the best I’ve ever tasted— clear and fresh and ice cold.”

  “So Mrs. Chickenbaum made things better?”

  “That’s right. Nothing bad happened around her. And this walking stick came from Mrs. Chickbaum and I’ve had it ever since, and it’s always brought me nothing but good luck, for the most part. So I reckon we’ll be safe enough here. Okay?”

  Bobby smiled, and then slowly relaxed. “Okay, Mr. Perry.”

  Jean lowered him to the floor and sighed. Axel heard her back crack and her joints pop as she straightened up again.

  “He’s not as light as he used to be,” she said, stretching.

  “No,” Axel agreed. “He’s growing quick. Gonna be a fine boy, Jean. You do good with him.”

  “Thank you, Axel. You’re good with kids.”

  He shrugged, blushing. She smiled then, and Axel saw some of the fear ease from her face. He motioned toward the couch.

  “Why don’t you two sit down?”

  “We’d better not,” Jean said, glancing back to the door. “It’s really bad out there.”

  “And you don’t know anymore than what you told me?”

  She shook her head. “Not really. But with the power and the phones out, and the dogs, and now all this screaming and such—I’m scared.”

  “Well, I don’t suppose we should be standing around here talking about it in the living room. I reckon we’re sort of exposed up here. Maybe we should head down into my basement for a while? I hunker down there when there’s a tornado warning or a really bad storm. We’ll be safe enough. It’s not finished—not much on the eyes. Just a concrete floor and cement block walls, but it’s dry. I’ve got a kerosene heater I can turn on to keep us warm. And the stairs are the only way in or out, so we’ll have plenty of warning if somebody breaks in or anything.”

  “That’s a good idea.”

  “I’ll get a few bottles of water and such from the kitchen. Can you help me carry it? This danged arthritis makes it harder for me to do things like that these days.”

  “Sure,” Jean said, and then turned to her son. “Bobby, come on. We’re going downstairs with Mr. Perry.”

  The boy was standing in front of the mantel, staring up at a picture of Axel and Diane in happier days.

  “Who is that?” he asked, pointing at the picture.

  “That’s my wife,” Axel explained. “Mrs. Perry.”

  “How come she doesn’t live here with you?”

  Jean hissed. Her hand fluttered to her mouth.

  “Bobby . . .”

  “It’s okay,” Axel said. He knelt in front of the boy. His knees groaned at the effort. “Mrs. Perry passed on some time ago.”

  “Do you miss her?”

  “Oh, yes. Not a day goes by that I don’t. She was magic, too, you know. A different kind of magic, maybe. Not the type like that old willow tree, but magic all the same.”

  “How?”

  “She made my life better just for being in it.”

  He made his way to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. Jean and Bobby followed along behind him. Axel was dismayed to notice that the appliance was already warming inside. He pulled out a few bottles of water and three apples, and then quickly shut the door again. Jean took some of the items from him and handed one of each to her son.

  “I’m not so scared anymore,” Bobby said.

  Jean patted his head with one free hand and ruffledhis hair. “Good. See? I told you Mr. Perry would know what to do.”

  “Yeah.”

  Somebody screamed in Axel’s front yard. Jean heard it first, then Axel. It was a woman, judging by the sound, though they couldn’t be sure. The sound warbled without pause and then ceased abruptly.

  “I reckon we’d better head downstairs,” Axel whispered. “And we should probably be quiet from this point on. I’ll snuff the candles out up here and relight them once we’re in the basement.”

  He beckoned for them to follow him and then tiptoed to the basement door. He juggled his walking stick and the items in his hand, and finally managed to open the door. The staircase and the handrail both disappeared into blackness halfway down. Cold air drifted up from below. Axel wondered if he’d left one of the cellar windows open.

  “Careful now.” He said it so quietly that Jean and Bobby both had to lean forward to hear him. Then he st
arted forward, using his walking stick to guide him in the dark. Bobby followed along close behind him, timidly holding onto Axel’s pants leg with one hand. Jean brought up the rear and shut the door behind them.

  The darkness became absolute.

  ***

  Ron Branson and Joe Dickie hid behind the post office, wondering what to do. The evening had started out like normal. The two of them had been polishing off a case of Golden Monkey Ale, playing cards and talking about various women in town who they’d never have a chance to sleep with. Then the power had gone out and the shouts and screams had started, followed by gunfire and explosions. They’d gone outside to see what all the fuss was about and had ended up walking through the neighborhood in dazed, abject horror. Their pleasant, warming buzzes had evaporated, leaving them cold and sweaty. Both men shivered, more from fear than the night air. They clung to one another and listened to the town dying.

  “Wish I owned a gun,” Joe whispered. “I’m not allowed to on account of my prick parole officer. He comes around and checks my place like clockwork.”

  Ron nodded. “We should get some. One for each of us. Who do we know that owns a gun?”

  “Are you serious? This is America. Ninety percent of the fucking town has a gun. Listen. That ain’t firecrackers we’re hearing.”

  “But what are they shooting at? I don’t see anything except dead folks.”

  “Maybe they’re shooting each other,” Joe suggested.

  “Maybe somebody put something in the water that made everyone go crazy.”

  “That don’t make sense. Half the people in town are on well water. And did you see Vern Southard lying back there? He wasn’t shot. It looked like something had tore him apart. His face and arms were ripped plumb off.”

  Joe was about to respond when something large and black swooped down out of the night sky and collided with his face. With some disbelief, he saw that it was a crow. He caught a whiff of a bad odor, like spoiled milk. He had time to utter a surprised, muffled squeal, and then pain lanced through him as sharp talons slashed his bulbous nose and a razor beak plucked his eyes from his head with two quick pecks. Ron reached out to help him, but when he wrapped both hands around the frenzied bird, the crow changed shape, shifting in his hands like water. He let go and stared as it turned into a man.

  The fuck is he dressed up like a pilgrim for? Ron thought, dimly registering his best friend’s screams. It ain’t Halloween.

  The dark man punched Ron in the throat, decapitating him with one powerful blow. Then he stood over Ron and fed as his soul departed. Finished, the killer turned his attention back to the dying blind man.

  Joe heard its laughter and screamed louder in an attempt to drown out the sound.

  Randy, Sam and Stephanie sat huddled together on the couch. Randy’s mother sat next to them. A single candle lit the living room. Stephanie wept softly, her face buried against Sam’s chest. Randy felt pangs of guilt and regret each time he looked at them—regret that it wasn’t him who was consoling her, and guilt that he felt that way. Randy’s father paced nervously, going from window to window and peeking outside. Each time he parted the blinds with his fingers, Randy’s mother begged her husband to stop.

  “Jerry,” she whispered, “somebody will see you!”

  “We need to know what’s happening. It sounds like World War Three out there.”

  “All the more reason to sit down over here and stay out of sight.”

  Sighing with frustration, Jerry Cummings let the blinds slide shut again. Then he turned and faced his wife.

  “Marsha is out there.”

  “I know that . . .” Cindy Cumming’s eyes were wide. Mascara ran down her cheeks. “What are we going to do?”

  “She’s with Donny,” Randy said. “She’ll be okay, Mom.”

  “Yeah, but what about us?” Sam’s voice sounded hollow.

  Jerry crossed the living room to the front door and peered through the window.

  “You’re going to attract attention,” his wife said.

  “Whatever is—”

  A long, agonized wail cut her off. They couldn’t tell from which direction it had originated, but it sounded nearby.

  “It’s getting closer,” Jerry said. “I think that was next door.”

  “I want to go home,” Stephanie sobbed. “My parents and my little brother are at home. I need to be there with them.”

  Randy glanced at Sam, annoyed that he wasn’t doing more to comfort Stephanie. If it had been Randy, he’d have stroked her hair and whispered soothing words and promised her that everything would be okay. Sam did none of these things. He merely sat there, mute and dumbstruck. He looked uncomfortable, and when he glanced up and saw Randy glaring at him, he shifted uneasily. The couch cushions groaned beneath him.

  “You can’t go home right now, sweetheart.” Cindy reached over and patted Stephanie’s knee. “But I’m sure your family is fine.”

  Stephanie didn’t look up from Sam’s chest. Her voice was muffled. “How do you know?”

  Cindy opened her mouth to respond, paused, looked at the others and then closed her mouth again. She removed her hand from Stephanie’s knee and wiped her eyes. Randy noticed that his mother’s hand was shaking.

  “We don’t know,” Jerry said, and Randy got the impression that his father was talking to himself rather than to the rest of them. “That’s the problem.”

  “Let’s try calling them again,” Sam suggested. “Maybe try calling Marsha’s cell phone again, too, while we’re at it.”

  Jerry shook his head doubtfully, but before he could speak, another volley of gunfire echoed down the street. He flinched.

  “It sounds to me like somebody is going door-to-door, shooting folks.”

  “Maybe we’re just hearing people fighting back,” Randy suggested, trying to sound brave for both his mother’s and Stephanie’s sakes. “Could be that—”

  Something thudded against the back of the house.

  Slowly, all of them turned to face the kitchen and the sliding glass doors that led out onto the patio and the Cummingses’ backyard. Even Stephanie looked up. Randy’s breath caught in his throat when he caught sight of her tear-streaked cheeks. They glistened in the dim candlelight. A lump formed in his throat. Then his attention was drawn to the flame atop the candle. It flickered and danced as if blown by a slight breeze, but the air inside the house was still. He looked up to see if anyone else had noticed it, but they were all focused on the patio doors. The thudding sound returned, followed a second later by something scuffing across the patio’s cement foundation.

  “What was that?” Cindy mouthed.

  “Stay here,” Jerry whispered. “I’m going upstairs to get the gun.”

  Unlike most of the men (and many of the women) in Brinkley Springs, Jerry Cummings wasn’t much of a hunter. As a result, Randy hadn’t spent much time hunting either. He’d gone out a few times with Sam and Sam’s father and uncle, but he’d found it didn’t interest him. Randy didn’t like the cold or the tedium. Despite his lack of enthusiasm for hunting, he did enjoy target shooting, and his father had taken him out to the woods many times and let him shoot the family’s Kimber .45, which Jerry kept secured in a lockbox on the dresser. They’d killed many empty soda cans and plastic water bottles.

  His father motioned at all of them. “Don’t move. Don’t make a sound. I’ll be right back.”

  As he started for the stairs, something brushed against the glass on the other side of the patio doors. Cindy gasped and Stephanie whimpered. Sam moaned, his eyes wide. He hugged Stephanie tightly, and Randy wondered if it was to comfort her or himself. The sound came again, more forceful this time. The doors rattled in their frame. Then something tapped the glass.

  Jerry ran for the stairs and took them two at a time. They heard his footsteps above them as he hurried toward the bedroom. The tapping sound continued, slow and rhythmic. Clenching his fists, Randy stood. It seemed to him that it took a very long time to do so. His hea
rt pounded and his ears felt like they were on fire. Unable to see past the curtains that covered the sliding glass doors, he slowly crossed the living-room floor. Sam, Stephanie and his mother watched in horror.

  “Randy!” Cindy reached for him. “Get back here.”

  Tap . . . tap . . . tap . . .

  He shook his head, not bothering to turn around.

  His mother called for him again, louder this time. Still not looking back, Randy waved his hand impatiently and continued toward the kitchen.

  “Dude . . .” Sam made a choking noise. “You heard what your dad said.”

  Randy ignored them both. The only words of concern he wanted to hear were from Stephanie, but fear seemed to have rendered her mute. He stared at the doors, wondering what was out there.

  Tap-tap . . . tap-tap . . . tap-tap . . .

  Swallowing hard, Randy strode forward, his mind made up. Whatever was out there, he wasn’t going to let it fuck with his friends and his family any longer. He kept his gaze focused on the doors and felt the living-room carpet give way to linoleum floor beneath his feet. He skirted the kitchen table and drew closer. It was darker in the kitchen than in the living room, and Randy wished for a moment that he’d brought the candle with him.

  The tapping became more insistent, changing to a rapid-fire staccato. Randy stopped in front of the sliding glass doors and realized that whatever was making the sound was doing it from near ground level. He reached for the curtains and hoped that Stephanie couldn’t see his hand shaking.

  “Randy Elmore Cummings . . .”

  Randy cringed, his hand pausing in midair.

  Frightened or not, his mother clearly meant business. She only used his middle name when she was seriously pissed off at him. Worse, that middle name had now been revealed to his best friends—both of whom he’d managed to keep it secret from for the past eighteen years. Shaking his head, he reached again for the curtains. The tapping grew louder, as if whatever was on the other side of the patio doors was agitated at the delay. His fingers brushed against the coarse fabric.

  Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap . . .

  A hand slammed down on his shoulder and squeezed hard. Randy yelped, both in pain and surprise. He looked up, and his father was beside him, clutching the handgun in one fist. Even though he’d fired it many times in the past, the weapon looked bigger than Randy remembered.