A Murder
Page 2
black rats rushed in.
Now Prof. Bolvere started shooting. Actually, he only shot three times.
Once into the face of a crow that was headed straight for his.
Once into the sudden cloud that had congregated at his window, right before he jumped out.
Once at his shoulder when he accidentally pulled the trigger when he scrambled up amidst the crows that had already descended upon his head and began to claw and bite.
Fortunately, only a small part of the shot of the shell actually embedded itself in the very upper part of his shoulder. It still hurt enough for him to clutch at the bleeding wound as he ran, though.
The crows followed him, clinging to him like aerial leeches. He pried his red hand off his shoulder and shot blindly.
Nothing came out of the barrel.
He kept firing still, in denial of his situation. His gun, though, immune to all emotion, still shot nothing.
Survival instinct kicked in as he held the empty gun by the barrel and started swinging at his attackers. They parted and swirled about for an instant before closing in the gap with greater energy than before, pecking at and even grabbing the stock of the gun. They pulled with such force that he thought they would pull it right out of his hand. Still swinging, he reached into his pocket and grabbed a shell.
One of the crows, realizing what he was doing, dived for his hand, making him drop the red cartridge on the ground. It only made him swing and flail harder, trying desperately to drive away the crows for just long enough to load even one shell into the gun.
Without thinking, he collapsed to his knees on the ground, shielding the weapon while the crows scratched viciously at his back. He gritted his teeth as he dug another shell out of his pocket and loaded it into the gun.
The crows were smart enough to scatter when they saw him turn around. He saw two of them fall down in a cloud of red mist when he fired. The kick knocked him off balance and he fell on his back. He started to frantically scramble up before he had a realization that made him stop on his knees.
The crows had all left.
He stared at the sky as he slowly stood and began unconsciously reloading the gun. All of the crows that attacked him were flying away, gradually disappearing as they seemed to melt into the sun.
He held the gun at ready, perplexed at what could have caused the birds’ retreat.
He found the answer coming towards him. Just over the trees came a line of black dots soaring like an airborne Calvary.
Ravens! Prof. Bolvere thought. They must be ravens! My God, I’ve been saved by ravens!
In his momentary euphoria, he cackled and nearly dropped to his knees in gratitude. Then they got closer. He could make out their tails, pitch black fans that could be used to decorate a rich man’s walls.
Mickey was right. There were no ravens left on the property.
He fired again and again into the murder of crows that was descending upon him. His vision was filled with black and red as they came down from all angles. They ripped at his back, his torso, his face, everywhere. They cut and tore like they were a feathered species of piranha.
Yet somehow, he still had enough of a trachea left to scream when the weight of the birds forced him to the ground.
Mickey was standing by his Jeep, waiting for the small red pump to finish filling the tank with gas, when he heard the squawk behind him.
He turned around and saw a raven standing on the ground. It stared at him, as if waiting for an answer to its question.
He heard the gas pump shut off behind him. He set it back into its niche, all the time looking back at the raven standing on the ground. It never moved, and that made him very nervous.
It meant that the bird was waiting for something.
He slowly got back into his car and sat there for a minute, waiting for the raven to fly off, but it still just stood there, staring at him in the driver’s seat.
The thing was right in the path of his front left wheel. If it didn’t move out of the way, he’d end up flattening it.
Actually, he thought, that’s not so bad.
The bird flew away as soon as he started the engine. He rolled out onto the street and straight into a red light.
Two ravens perched on top of the traffic light, standing across from each other like they were guarding a door. Like the one back at the gas station, they just stood there, waiting for something. Mickey apprehensively tapped on the steering wheel, praying that the light would change soon. More ravens started floating down, landing on nearby rooftops and lamp posts. He ran his fingers through his hair in a habitual attempt to hide the fact that he was wiping off the cold sweat that had broken out across his forehead.
The light turned green. The tires squelched as he speed off.
He kept driving. He slowed down for a second at the turnoff for his house before he saw a blurry black shape flutter in the branches.
He floored the gas pedal. He continued on at brake neck speed for three hours straight.
At that time a strange sensation came over him. His heart was threatening to burst out of his chest, yet his eyes were drooping and he was dangerously close to passing out. He reluctantly pulled over to the side of the road and leaned back his seat, praying that he’d either fall asleep or wake up.
He shot up. He thought he had heard something, a muffled ka-haw.
He got out of the Jeep. His headlights were off, but the sky was clear and the light of the stars and the mostly full moon allowed him to see just about everything.
He saw no birds, heard no calls. They were there, though, watching him as he turned and twisted about to try and see them.
Why don’t they just come now? Lord knows I’m too tired to try and fight them off!
Perhaps they weren’t just waiting for a moment when he was weak, but a moment when he was damn near dead. Perhaps they were just hounding him until he killed himself with exhaustion, until he slept and ran his car into a tree or had a heart attack from an overdose of adrenalin.
He again spun around and around and around, trying to see any ravens. Seeing none, he got back in his Jeep and proceeded to slap himself a few times, trying to thrash in alertness.
He started the car, despite the fact he was dog tired, despite the fact that he knew that he would crash if he went any further like this.
But still, dying that way seemed better than the alternative they had planned for him, just as long as he was sure to floor it enough so that he’d at least be unconscious when they started tearing at him.
“Damn birds,” he mumbled, and then sped off.
Birth of Pong
Near Miss
The Day After