A Gathering of Crows

by Brian Keene

  His eyes watered. The curtains in a few houses fluttered as he sneaked past them. When he reached an open space and ran out of cover, he darted down the sidewalk. Broken glass crunched beneath his feet. An obese woman, sobbing uncontrollably, stood on the corner, leaning against a mailbox.

  “Excuse me,” Levi called. “Are you okay? Have you been injured?”

  She glanced in his direction and then her sobs turned to screams. She ran away, her speed belying her size. Shaking his head, Levi continued onward.

  He found a dead body at the next intersection. The victim was a middle-aged white male. His head and limbs were still intact, but his genitals had been torn off, leaving a ragged, gaping hole in his crotch. Blood shone black on the asphalt beneath him, and his shirt and the tattered remains of his pants were crimson. Levi knelt next to the corpse and stuck the tip of his right index finger into the gore. The blood was sticky but not yet congealed. He placed his palm against the corpse and found that the flesh was cool, but still pliant. Whoever the man was, he hadn’t been dead long. Levi glanced around for the missing penis and testicles and spotted them lying on the curb—which meant that whatever had murdered this man hadn’t consumed the grisly prize. Nor had it eaten or mangled the rest of him. The killing had been quick, almost perfunctory, if not for the brutality of it. This hadn’t been about torture or revenge. This killing had served a purpose, albeit a quick one. But what? His blood hadn’t been drained. His flesh hadn’t been consumed. So why kill him in this fashion?

  There was only one way to find out. Only one person who would have the answers—the dead man himself.

  Lord, he prayed silently, as always, I am your humble servant and your mighty sword. Guide my hand tonight as if it were your own. Let our victory be swift and just, and though my methods might not all be yours, let their purpose be to thy everlasting glory.

  Levi stretched the corpse out, making sure the head was pointing north and then extending the arms and legs straight out from the torso. He noticed purple splotches on the underside of the limbs. The remaining blood in the man’s body was beginning to settle. He stood up then and wiped his hands on his pants. He grimaced at the stickiness on his palms, and was reminded of the dog that had been impaled on the church fence. There was starting to be a lot of blood on his hands tonight, and the symbolism was not lost on Levi. He wondered if it was the Lord trying to send him a message, or if this was simple synchronicity. It didn’t matter, either way. If he didn’t stop this slaughter, and soon, all of the blood in Brinkley Springs would be on his hands.

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out a stick of chalk with his red right hand. Then he knelt again and drew a pattern around the corpse. He followed this with several arcane symbols, drawing each one quickly but carefully. He could afford no mistakes. Something as simple as one line or dot out of place could have unexpected—if not disastrous— consequences. Despite the chill in the air, sweat dripped from his forehead and the tip of his nose. Levi was careful not to let any of it fall inside the pattern. He worked in silence, except for the screams and occasional gunfire that still echoed across the town.

  When he was finished, Levi stood up and surveyed his handiwork, ignoring the aches and pains in his joints and back. Satisfied that he’d done it correctly, he stood over the body, careful not to let his shoes touch the chalk lines.

  “I’m deeply sorry about this,” he whispered. Then he raised his voice and chanted in a guttural combination of ancient Sumerian and a language not normally spoken by human tongues.

  ***

  A black crow hovered above the carnage while two of its brothers, both still in human form, eviscerated a family of four—father, mother and their children, a boy and a girl. Insatiable, they feasted greedily on the departing souls of the parents and the boy, pausing only to engage in a tug-of-war game with the little girl, using her arms as a rope. The limbs popped from their sockets. Sinew and muscle twisted and tore. The girl’s shrieks reached a fevered pitch. The crow swooped downward, resuming its human guise.

  “Don’t play with your food.”

  Its brothers laughed. They pulled harder and the limbs came free. The girl toppled to the ground, unconscious yet writhing. They jostled one another for the departing soul, but stopped suddenly.

  “Do you feel that?”

  “Yes. What is it?”

  “Someone in this town still knows the ways of old. He or she seeks congress with the realms beyond.”

  “If they can do that, then perhaps they are skilled in other works. Perhaps they can defeat us?”

  “Reach out. Do you feel their power? This one is dangerous.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Find them immediately. But be careful. This one isn’t like the others. This one is like those we faced of old.”

  Without another word, all three reverted to crow form and flew into the night, leaving the mangled bodies where they’d fallen. The birds soared in different directions, searching the darkness for the source of the disturbance, and their cries were terrible to all who heard them.

  ***

  At eighty-nine, Jack McCutchon was the oldest man in Brinkley Springs. He lived by himself and fended for himself, something which he took great pride in. He still exercised every day, walking from his front door to the end of the driveway and back again, and still had most of his teeth. Sure, he had to wear hearing aids, but other than that, he thought he was in pretty good shape.

  Jack wasn’t afraid of being old, and he wasn’t afraid of dying. He wasn’t afraid of much, in fact. As a radioman in the air force, Jack had flown bombing missions over Japan during World War II. One night, they’d been only eight thousand feet over a Japanese village. At that height, they’d been able to smell burning flesh even inside the plane’s hull. The heat and thermals from the explosions had buffeted the aircraft, tossing it about like a child’s toy glider. One moment, they were cruising along at eight thousand feet. The next, they were shooting straight up to ten or fifteen thousand. Some of the other planes in the bomber group had actually flipped over from the turbulence. Jack’s crew had made it safely back to base, but he’d never forgotten that night. It was the most frightening experience of his life.

  Until the man dressed in dark clothing broke into his house and confronted Jack in his chair, where he’d been doing a crossword puzzle. His hearing aids sat on the end table next to him.

  “What are you supposed to be?” Jack wheezed, his hand going to his chest. Suddenly it was very hard to breathe. “A pilgrim or something?”

  Jack died of fear before the intruder even touched him.

  ***

  Hand in hand and gasping for breath, Donny and Marsha ran, turning down one street and then another, darting through backyards and alleys and glancing over their shoulders as they fled. Marsha stumbled, but Donny pulled her upright and urged her onward. Panting, she resisted and tugged her arm away.

  “I’ve got to rest. Please? Just for a minute.”

  Nodding, he guided her to a row of shrubbery in front of an abandoned house. They ducked down behind the untrimmed bushes and caught their breath. Their stifled gasps were punctuated by screams and cries from nearby streets.

  Marsha shivered.

  “Are you cold?” Donny asked.

  “No,” she whispered. “I’m scared.”

  “Me, too.”

  “Even after . . . what you saw over there?”

  “Sure. Iraq was Iraq. This is different. I lived here.”

  Despite their situation, Marsha noticed that he referred to Brinkley Springs in the past tense rather than the present. She decided not to mention it. Now wasn’t the time.

  Donny reached out and took her hand again.

  “What are you thinking about?”

  “I don’t know. Everything. Brandon . . . He was just a kid. We shouldn’t have just left him like that.”

  “No,” Donny agreed. “We shouldn’t have. It wasn’t right. But if we hadn’t, then we’d both be dead right n
ow. I don’t give a shit about me, but I couldn’t let anything happen to you.”

  Marsha stared at him, unable to speak. She squeezed his hand and he squeezed back. Then Donny cleared his throat and peered through the branches, watching the street.

  “I hope my parents and my brother are okay,”

  Marsha said. “They have to be, right?”

  “Where were they tonight?”

  “At home. Mom and Dad were watching TV and Randy had friends over—Sam and Stephanie.”

  “You mean little Stephanie Hall?”

  “I sure do. Except she’s not that little anymore.”

  Donny grinned. “No kidding? Is he going out with her?”

  “Who knows? I think she likes playing him and Sam against each other.”

  “Well, that’s not right. I always liked your little brother. He’s a good kid. Little weird, what with all the hip-hop stuff, but still a good kid.”

  “You don’t have to live with him. He’s a pain in the ass.” Her voice softened. “But he likes you, too. He was excited when he heard you were back. I think he hoped you’d stick around. He missed you, Donny. We all did.”

  Donny didn’t reply. Instead he focused on the street again. Marsha sensed that she’d struck a nerve and decided it might be best to change the subject.

  “Where are we going, anyway?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “We should hide somewhere. I don’t reckon it makes sense to go back to my mom’s place. No way of knowing if those fuckers are still around there or not. If they are, they’ve got us outnumbered.”

  “Who were they?”

  “Something . . . not normal. Did you see how fast they moved? Nothing normal moves like that.”

  “What are you saying, Donny? That they were demons or something?”

  “Hell, I don’t know what I’m saying. I mean, I didn’t used to believe in that stuff. But I heard things. Over in Iraq. Guys talked, you know? I reckon you see enough of the worst shit imaginable, then you start to believe in evil. Real evil, like what they taught us in Sunday school when we were little. There’s so much more to our planet, Marsha. It’s a big world out there beyond these mountains, and we don’t know as much about it as we think we do.”

  Marsha opened her mouth to respond, but he cut her off.

  “Look, forget it. All I’m saying is that we need to be careful. We got lucky back there, and if we come across those fuckers again, I don’t think we’d get that lucky a second time. I need to make sure you’re safe.

  I don’t know what I’d do if one of them got you.”

  “Donny . . .”

  He turned toward her, and Marsha saw the tears in his eyes. She reached for him, cradled his face in her hands and then pulled him toward her. He didn’t resist. Their lips met, and when Marsha closed her eyes, the darkness seemed to fade a bit.

  Somewhere overhead, a bird cried out.

  ***

  Levi stopped chanting and frowned in concern.

  There had been no reaction to his summons. By this point in the ritual, the departed soul should have returned to the body, regardless of which plane of existence it now inhabited. He checked the symbols and incantations and reconfirmed that all were in place and correct. Then he addressed the corpse.

  “Can you hear me? If so, then I command you to tell me who did this to you.”

  The dead man didn’t answer. Levi watched the corpse’s face, looking for some sign of movement or awareness, no matter how slight, but nothing changed. The body was as soulless and empty as when he’d first found it. But why? What had gone wrong? This was simple necromancy, after all. Not a discipline to be trifled with or taken lightly, of course, but not nearly as hard as many other occult tasks. Even if the man had been dead for hours, Levi should still have been able to pull the soul back. It wasn’t until decay set in that such a summoning became useless. After all, how could a dead man be expected to answer questions with a decomposing tongue?

  “Are you there? Please, I only want to help. Perhaps you are confused by your situation? Can you tell me your name? Can you tell me who did this to you?”

  Silence. Levi’s frown deepened. There should have been some spark, some indication that the soul had temporarily returned to its former home. For whatever reason, he had failed. He was no closer to knowing what he was dealing with, and while his questions remained unanswered, the situation in Brinkley Springs grew more desperate by the minute. Even now, the screams drew closer. He needed to face this—whatever it was. He had to save these people. Had to defeat it. But to do that, he needed the name of the entities. He needed to know whom or what he was fighting. All power stemmed from naming.

  Without a name, the situation was hopeless.

  Desperate, Levi racked his brain for an alternative. His hands curled into fists and his fingernails dug into the skin of his palms. He didn’t notice the pain. For a brief moment, he found himself wishing that the Siqqusim—a race of incorporeal beings used as soothsayers by the ancient Sumerians—weren’t sealed away in the void. He could have done as the Sumerian priests used to do and cast one of the entities into the body of this dead man, thus giving it a voice. But to do so—to breach the veil—was beyond his abilities. Indeed, he didn’t know anyone on Earth who could achieve that.

  So what’s the point of standing around here and mulling it over? What’s wrong with me? I’m better than this. I bested Nodens two years ago. I should be able to do this.

  Think, man. Think!

  “Crows,” he whispered, staring up into the sky. “Dark men dressed in black. The systematic slaughter of innocents. But why? For what purpose? Simple cruelty? What am I dealing with here, Lord? Any help you can give me would be greatly appreciated.”

  The heavens were as silent as the corpse. Levi had expected as much.

  “God helps those who help themselves,” he muttered. “But He sure doesn’t make it easy for them.”

  Hurrying footsteps caught his attention. Levi glanced up in time to see two young people—a man and a woman—step out of the shadows. The man appeared to be in his midtwenties. He wore blue jeans and a flannel shirt, both of which hugged the contours of his body. He was in good physical shape. His brown hair was cropped close to his head and shaved down to stubble on the sides. Levi recognized the haircut. It was what members of the military called a “high and tight.” He assumed that this young man was either a soldier or a marine—or had been until recently. The woman he was with appeared to be about the same age. She was slim and pretty, with mournful brown eyes that matched her long hair, and a fair complexion.

  Spotting him, they halted. The girl gasped. Both of them were obviously terrified. They glanced down at the body and then up at Levi. He held up his hands and smiled to show that he meant them no harm.

  “Hmmm,” Levi murmured. “Maybe the Lord is answering prayers tonight after all.”

  ***

  As Randy roared along behind Sam and Stephanie, he felt a sick mixture of fear, revulsion and shock. He’d turned the CD player off because it was too much of a distraction. His eyes were wide as he gaped at the destruction. He didn’t see the man who had killed his parents, nor the man’s compatriots, but the signs of their passage were visible on every street corner. Racing through downtown and struggling to keep up with Sam’s faster car, it was impossible for Randy to avoid the killers’ handiwork. Brinkley Springs was no longer recognizable as the place he’d grown up in. Fires burned unchecked in a dozen homes and businesses. Cars and trucks sat vacant along the streets and in driveways, some with their doors hanging open or hoods up, as if their owners had experienced car trouble. He thought again of when they’d first fled. Sam’s Nissan hadn’t started at first—not until Randy had leaned against it.

  Corpses, both human and animal, lay sprawled in the streets, yards and sidewalks. Randy knew most of them—if not their names, then at least their faces—but he forced himself not to think about it. If he pretended that he didn’t know them, that their deaths
had no more meaning than some random NPC in a video game, then maybe it wouldn’t hurt as bad. Some of the corpses showed no obvious signs of trauma. Others had been mauled and mangled— eviscerated, torn apart, heads and limbs tossed aside with careless abandon. And a few had suffered even worse fates. A man jutted halfway through the pawn shop’s plate-glass window. Shards of glass had severed his head from the nose up. A small child lay sprawled in a plastic wading pool. The pool was filled with blood. A man had been impaled with his own arms and legs. The grisly appendages stuck out the front of his torso as if they’d grown from it. Several people had been burned alive. Their charred remains still smoked on their lawns. A red and brown and pink pile of slop next to a woodpile and a chopping block with a bloodied ax embedded in it defied description, but Randy was pretty sure he knew what it was. Bile rose in his throat as he looked away. Across the street, a woman hung from a tree limb, dangling at the end of an extension-cord noose. Her breasts had been torn off and her stomach ripped open. Her innards lay on the ground at her feet. Carved into the bark of the tree was a single word in big block letters.

  CROATOAN

  As he sped by, Randy wondered what it meant. It was a strange word. Certainly not one he’d ever heard before. He wasn’t even sure it was English. And who had carved it? The men in black, maybe, but how? Randy had some experience carving his initials into trees. When he was fourteen, Randy and Cathy Wilson had gone together for a whole summer. They’d had a favorite spot down along the Greenbrier River—a secluded section along the riverbank, hidden by a stand of tall birch trees. They’d gone there nearly every day and spent the afternoons swimming and talking and making out. Randy had convinced her to go skinny-dipping, but despite his best efforts, he’d never made it past third base. Near the end of the summer, he’d used the lock blade hunting knife his grandfather had given him for his birthday to carve his and Cathy’s initials— along with a big, if somewhat lopsided, heart—into the trunk of one of the old birch trees. Despite the soft bark, it had taken him all afternoon, and that was just four small letters and a crude heart. The strange word on the hanging tree was eight letters long, and each of the letters was a good ten inches high.