A Gathering of Crows

FIVE

Trish Chambers danced around in her darkened living room, singing ELO’s “Shine a Little Love” in a breathless falsetto. Her treadmill had died when the power went out, and her iPod had stopped working, too, but she wasn’t going to let that stop her from getting into shape. She was dressed in a faded gray T-shirt and a pair of black loose-fitting sweatpants. The sweats hadn’t always been so baggy, and it was their distinct lack of snugness that kept her going, no matter how exhausted from her exercise routine or disillusioned with her diet she became. Two months of working out every night—of running on the treadmill or dancing along with Richard Simmons and sweating to the oldies—had delivered results. All she had to do was keep going, and she did. Electrical outage be damned. She was divorced, thirty-two and desperate to find someone again.

Not that Brinkley Springs offered her many choices when it came to finding someone to date. Trish worked at the bank in Lewisburg, and the choices there weren’t much better. All of the male employees were either married or gay. A friend of hers had suggested she try one of the online dating websites, but Trish hadn’t quite worked up the nerve yet. She decided to wait until she was happy with her body.

After all, she’d spent the last twelve years of her life trying to make someone else happy—her ex-husband, Darryl. Now it was time to focus on herself. If she was happy with who she was, then it would be easier to find someone else who’d be happy with her. A man like she’d always dreamed of. Someone who would take her breath away.

She switched from ELO to Garth Brooks’s “Friends In Low Places,” singing out the vocals with an exaggerated drawl, and did a series of jumping jacks. The knickknacks on the shelves trembled and the ceiling fan swayed back and forth, but Trish didn’t care. She pressed herself for another three minutes and didn’t stop until she heard the gunshot.

Gunfire was a normal sound in Brinkley Springs. Lots of people hunted in the mountains around town, or engaged in a little backyard target shooting from time to time. On the Fourth of July, many residents often celebrated by firing their guns into the air. Normally, the sound of gunshots was nothing to be concerned about. Trish was just about to start exercising again when she realized that the gunfire was accompanied by multiple screams.

“What in the world?”

Breathing hard from the past half hour’s exertion,she padded to the front door and looked out the window. The streets were dark, and she couldn’t see anything. More shots echoed down the streets, followed by more cries of alarm. Trish was just about to open the door and peek outside when she heard glass breaking in her bedroom. Her hand fluttered to her chest and her breath caught in her throat.

More glass tinkled, as if falling to the floor. Then she felt a slight breeze drift through the house. Someone had broken in.

She reached for the phone, picked it up and dialed 911. Then she brought the receiver to her ear. There was only silence. No emergency operator. No ringing. Not even a dial tone. Whimpering softly, she placed the phone back in its cradle and tiptoed toward the kitchen. Her cell phone was lying on the counter. If she could reach it in time…

Laughter drifted from her bedroom, cold and malicious and definitely male. Her heart rate, already rapid from her exercise routine, increased.

Trish kept a pistol in the house, a Ruger .22 semiauto. She’d bought it at the gun store on Chestnut Avenue after she and Darryl split up because she’d been nervous being alone in the house at night. She kept it loaded. (“No sense having an unloaded gun in the house,” her daddy had always said.) The weapon was in the top drawer of her bedroom nightstand— right next to the window the intruder had gained entry through, judging by the sound.

Fat lot of good that does me.

She wondered if the intruder could be Darryl. She wouldn’t have thought so. He’d been pretty satisfied with the divorce, because it meant he could cat around at the bars and elsewhere without fear of getting caught. But if he’d been drinking, she wouldn’t put it past him. Maybe her lawyer had been right.

Maybe she should have gotten a restraining order.

Trish reached the end of the living room and was just about to step into the kitchen, when her bedroom door banged open at the far end of the hall and a figure dressed entirely in black leaped out into the hallway and rushed toward her. Trish backed away, screaming, aware that other people were shrieking right outside her house. She collided with an end table, sending a lamp her aunt had bought her as a wedding present crashing to the floor. Then the dark figure was upon her. He stank like something dead. The last thing Trish noticed was how big the man’s mouth was. Darkness engulfed her. She opened her mouth to scream again, and her attacker stifled her cries with a savage, forceful kiss that suffocated her. She was aware that he was laughing as he did it. His body shook and jiggled against hers as he wrapped both arms around her and squeezed.

Trish heard her spine snap as he took her breath away.

Clutching a 12-gauge shotgun, Paul Crowley stood in his backyard and squinted, peering into the darkness. The air was chilly, and Paul shivered as the breeze rushed over him. He was clad in a dirty pair of jeans and a loose-fitting, faded John Deere T-shirt with mustard stains on it. The stains were fresh— leftovers from his dinner, which he’d eaten in front of the television again, sitting in the recliner and watching a nature program on PBS.

Paul didn’t care much for PBS’s liberal bias, but he enjoyed shows about wildlife and nature, and since he didn’t have cable or satellite, PBS was his only option. Tonight’s program had been about crows. Paul didn’t have much use for the damned things. Nasty little creatures. They carried the West Nile virus and other diseases. In the spring, they rooted through his garden and ate up all the seeds he’d planted. In the fall and winter, they fluttered around in the woods, making a fuss and alerting wild game to his presence. Paul had missed shots at plenty of deer and wild turkeys over the years thanks to motor mouthed, obnoxious crows. When he’d been a boy, Paul’s daddy had told him that a group of crows could kill and eat a newborn lamb. Maybe that was why a group of crows was called a murder. He’d been surprised to learn from the program that crows could imitate a human’s voice. Apparently, they were highly intelligent and cunning. Paul didn’t care. Just because they were smart didn’t mean they were any less of a nuisance.

He’d fallen asleep in the recliner during a segment about scientists training crows to pick up trash, and had slept until the sound of his dogs’ barking woke him, causing Paul to jerk upright and almost tumble out of the chair. That might have been bad. He certainly wasn’t old yet—at least, not what he considered old—but living alone; had he broken a leg or hip or knocked himself out, there’d have been no one to find him.

Since his retirement seven years earlier, Paul had spent every day out in the woods with his six bear dogs. They were mutts—crossbreed mixes of black and tans, beagles, German shepherds and Karelians, mostly. He loved the dogs and they loved and respected him. Each day, except on Christmas, Thanksgiving and Sundays, Paul got up at the crack of dawn, loaded the dogs into his pickup truck and headed up into the mountains. During bear season, he hunted. When black bears weren’t in season, he allowed the dogs to track and run them. They did this all day long, usually returning home just before sundown. Paul enjoyed it, and all of the walking across ridges and hills kept him in great shape. It kept the dogs healthy, too. Each one was equipped with a radio collar and GPS device so he could track them if they got lost in the mountains—which they often did, especially if a mother bear or her cubs gave them a long chase.

He knew the dogs better than he knew most people. He’d come to recognize the subtle changes in their barks and what the differences in tone meant, and that was how he knew upon waking that the dogs were upset by something. He’d stood there in the living room, yawning and blinking and wondering how long the power had been out, and realized that the dogs weren’t just distressed. They were absolutely terrified.

Wondering what had gotten them so riled up, Paul had hurried through his darkened home, grabbed the 12-gauge and rushed outside just as the dogs fell quiet. He checked the pen and found them huddling together at the back, trembling and frightened, their pink tongues lolling as they panted. He whispered soothing words to them and then crept around the property. He couldn’t find anything amiss. There were no signs of a trespasser—no footprints in the wet grass or evidence indicating someone had tried to break into the house. He was just about to go inside when the disturbance erupted again. This time, instead of the dogs howling in fright, it was his fellow townspeople. The cries and screams seemed to be coming from all four directions at once. An occasional gunshot peppered the commotion. Curiously, there were no sounds of car engines or screeching tires or sirens. “I don’t like this,” Paul told the cowering dogs. “I don’t like this one bit. Sounds like somebody’s done snapped and gone on a killing spree, like you see on the news. You boys stay here. I’ll go have a look.”

He tiptoed around to the front of the house and glanced both ways. As far as he could tell, the electrical outage wasn’t confined to his street or block. It seemed to have affected the entire town. The yells and other noises seemed distant, but as he stood there listening, they slowly began to draw closer.

Paul ran back into the house, found his cell phone and started to dial 911, only to discover that the phone wasn’t working. He stared at the blank, lifeless screen and then tossed it onto the counter in frustration. He hurried into the living room and went to the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves he’d built into one wall. They were lined with paperback and hardcover books—western novels by Ray Slater, Ed Gorman, Al Sarrantonio, Zane Grey and Louis L’Amour, history books about Vietnam, World Wars I and II, and the Korean Conflict, and nature books, including a massive, two-volume field guide to North American fish and game. In between the books were framed pictures of his wife (taken away from him by pancreatic cancer two months before his retirement) and their son and daughter-in-law (all grown now and living on the West Coast). A few dusty knickknacks occupied other empty spaces. On top of the shelf was a radio that played extreme weather alerts for Brinkley Springs from the National Weather Service, bulletins from the Department of Homeland Security and FEMA, and announcements from local law enforcement and emergency-response crews. He’d bought it on sale at the Radio Shack in Beckley several years before, and it had proven invaluable time and time again, especially during the winter months. One of Paul’s favorite features was the battery back-up, which kept the radio functioning during a power outage.

Except it wasn’t working now. Like the cell phone, the emergency radio sat lifeless.

“Well, if that don’t beat all. Cheap piece of Chinese junk. Don’t nothing work anymore the way things used to.”

Muttering to himself, Paul stalked back out of the house as the noises outside grew louder. Someone ran down the sidewalk as the screen door slammed shut behind him, but Paul couldn’t see who it was. He wondered if they were running to something or away from something. He noticed that the dogs were still cowering in their kennel. Hefting the shotgun, he approached it again. Being in their proximity made him feel more assured.

“That you, Paul?”

Startled, he jumped at the voice, nearly dropping the 12-gauge before he recognized the speaker as Gus Pheasant, who lived next door. Gus owned the local garage, along with his brother, Greg. Although both men were twenty years younger than Paul, he liked them very much and often got together with them in the evenings. Greg was divorced and Gus had never married, so they had their bachelorhood in common. They’d often invited Axel Perry— another widower—to join them, but the old man never did. Paul got the impression that Axel liked to be alone. It was a shame. He didn’t know what he was missing. Although he would have never said it aloud, Paul found that spending time with them made his own evenings a little less lonely. He liked the gruff companionship, liked playing cards and drinking a few beers and arguing sports and politics and women.

“Yeah,” he called, “it’s me, Gus. What in the hell is going on?”

“I don’t rightly know. Sounds like World War Three’s done started though, don’t it?”

Gus stepped out of the shadows. He looked shaken. His complexion was pale and his eyes were wide and frightened. His hair stuck up askew, and his pajamas were soaked with sweat and stuck to his body, including his prodigious beer gut. Paul’s gaze settled on Gus’s feet. The man wore a pair of fuzzy Spider-Man slippers. The costumed character’s big red head adorned the toe of each and seemed to stare up at Paul.

“Gus, what in the world are you wearing?”

The mechanic glanced down at his feet and then shrugged, clearly embarrassed.

“Oh, shoot. Forgot I had those on. I rushed out of the house so quick…”

“What are they?”

“Bedroom slippers.”

“I can see that. But they seem a little—”

“I didn’t buy them,” Gus interrupted. “Lacey Rogers bought them for me.”

“Lacey Rogers is eight years old, Gus.”

“I know that. Do you really think these are the type of slippers an adult would buy for me?”

“Well, what’s Lacey Rogers doing buying you a present, anyway? That don’t seem right.”

“Remember last year when they did the Secret Santa thing at church?”

Paul nodded. Each member of the congregation had pulled a slip of paper out of the offering plate. Written on the slip was the name of a fellow parishioner. They then purchased a gift—under twenty dollars—for that person. Paul’s Secret Santa had been Jean Sullivan, who’d bought him two pairs of wool socks for hunting.

“Lacey pulled my name,” Gus explained. “Her parents said she picked these out herself down at the Wal-Mart. I couldn’t very well return them, now could I?”

“No, I don’t guess so. That would have broke her little heart.”

“Exactly. And I have to say, they do keep my feet warm at night.”

“Well, you look like a damned fool.” Paul’s voice was gruff, but his grin nearly split his face in half.

“Your phone working?” Gus asked, clearly anxious to change the subject.

Paul shook his head. “Nope. Ain’t nothing working. My cell phone and emergency radio are dead, too. The cell I can understand. Service ain’t never been that reliable around here. But the radio should still be working. It’s got a battery back-up. I don’t understand why it would quit like that.”

“Same here,” Gus confirmed. “It ain’t just your radio. Everything in my place is dead. It’s like something fried all of the electronics. Hell, I couldn’t even get my damned flashlight to work. How’s that for weird?”

“It’s something, alright.”

“What do you suppose it means?”

“I don’t rightly know,” Paul said, “but whatever it is, it ain’t good.”

Another gunshot echoed across town, followed by an explosion.

“Holy mother of God,” Paul said, jumping. “What was that?”

“I don’t know. All I know is it’s been a weird day and it just keeps getting stranger.”

“How do you mean?”

Gus paused. “Well, first there was this Amish fella come riding into town on a horse and buggy. Real pretty horse. Very gentle, but very big. She’d be a prize mare. He’s got her tied up down by the river tonight. He asked me and Greg if there was a hotel in town and we sent him over to Esther’s place.”

“Amish?” Paul grunted. He’d known a few Brethren in his life—Amish, Mennonites and Moldavians. All of them had been good people. Hard workers. Very handy with a hammer and a saw. “I don’t see how that would be connected to what’s happing now, though.”

“I don’t reckon it is, but you never know. Maybe it’s—”

Paul paused as a man ran by them, weaving around parked cars on the street and tottering back and forth. Paul recognized him as one of the cashiers at the local convenience store, but he didn’t know the man’s name. At first, Paul assumed the guy must be drunk, but then he noticed the man’s torn trouser leg and the blood on his calf, and realized he was injured.

“Hey,” Gus called, apparently not knowing the cashier’s name either. “You okay, fella? What’s going on?”

The fleeing man didn’t stop. He shuffled past them, not even bothering to look in their direction as he answered. “Dark men… they’re going house to house… killing folks. Killing everybody. Even the pets.”

Paul took a step forward. “What do you mean?”

“No time! If you’re smart, you’ll run now. I mean it. They’re killing everyone.”

“Who?”

“The dark men. Run!”

“What was that explosion?” Paul asked.

“Someone shot the propane tank behind the fire hall. Now get going, if you know what’s good for you. I ain’t waiting around for the dark men.”

“Hey! Just wait a goddamn minute, fella. We don’t understand what you’re talking about.”

Without another word, the man fled on, trailing dark spots of blood on the asphalt. Gus and Paul looked at each other.

“Dark men?” Gus arched one eyebrow. “What do you suppose he meant by that?”

“I don’t know. Black folks, maybe?”

Gus shook his head. “No. I’ve talked to him plenty of times down at the shop. He’s brought his car in to be serviced, though I can’t remember his name. He seemed like a nice enough guy. Never struck me as a racist.”

“Just because a fella ain’t telling nigger jokes or wearing a Klan robe don’t mean they’re not racist.

You can never tell.”

“I still don’t buy it,” Gus said. “And besides, even if he was racist, it still doesn’t make any sense. Why would a bunch of black folks want to shoot up Brinkley Springs?”

“Not saying they are. I’m just trying to figure out what he meant. He said dark men.”

“Well, if we stand out here long enough, I reckon we’re liable to find out the hard way what he meant.”

Paul nodded. “I suspect you’re right. Not sure what to do, though. Don’t hear any sirens or anything. Just screaming.”

They paused, listening. Gus shuddered.

“I hope my brother is okay.”

“Where is Greg, anyway?” Paul asked him.

“At home sleeping, I guess. Wish I could call him and find out.”

Paul glanced at his cowering dogs and then out into the street. The breeze shifted, bringing with it the unmistakable smell of smoke. It made his eyes water. He hesitated, weighing his options. On the one hand, he should stay here and look after the dogs and his belongings. The fleeing cashier had mentioned that pets were being killed. But on the other hand, it sounded like there were a lot of people out there who needed help. People that he knew. Some that he’d known his whole life. It didn’t seem right to hunker down here while they were in trouble. He turned back to Gus.

“Want to go check on your brother?”

“I’d like to. Do you think it’s safe?”

“No. But it beats standing around here waiting for whatever is happening to find its way to us. We’ll make sure he’s okay. Then I’ll come back here and watch over my dogs.”

Nodding, Gus squared his shoulder and straightened up. “Sure. Just let me change my shoes.”

“Yeah,” Paul replied, glancing back down at the bedroom slippers. “I reckon you might want to do that first. Might want to put some clothes on over those pajamas, too. And Gus?”

“What?”

“Might be best if you bring along a gun.”

“I reckon you’re right.”

Artie Prater slept, which was exactly what he’d been afraid of. His wife of five years, Laura, was out of town. She worked for the bank in Roncefort, and once a year, all of the bank’s employees went on a mandatory week-long retreat. This year, they were in Utah, enjoying steak dinners and attending seminars about things like team-building and synergy. Artie liked to tease Laura about these things, but only because he was secretly jealous. He’d been unable to find work for over a year, and it bothered him that he couldn’t provide for his wife or their new son, Artie Junior. The upside was that while she was at work every day, he’d been able to stay home and take care of Little Artie. Laura reciprocated by getting up with the baby at night, which relieved Artie to no end.

Artie had always been a deep sleeper. His mother had once said that he could sleep through a nuclear war, and that wasn’t far from the truth. He’d slept through 9/11, waking up in his college dorm room later that night and wondering why everyone was staring at the television and crying. Since becoming a father, Artie’s biggest fear was that the baby would wake up crying, perhaps hungry or in need of a diaper change or shaking from a nightmare, and he’d sleep through it. That’s why he was grateful when Laura was there to get up with Artie Junior at night, and that’s why he dreaded these rare times when she wasn’t home.

They had a baby monitor in the house. A small camera was mounted above Little Artie’s crib. It broadcast a signal to the monitor, which was plugged into the bedroom’s television. With Laura out of town, Artie had turned the volume on the television all the way up, filling the room with white noise and the soft sounds of his son’s breathing. Then, bathed in the glow from the screen, he’d sat back in bed with his laptop and played a video game. It was early— too early to sleep—but Little Artie had been tired and cranky, and Artie knew from experience that he should rest when the baby rested. He promised himself that if and when he got tired of the game, he’d sleep lightly.

Except that he hadn’t. He’d fallen asleep playing the game, barely having the presence of mind to sit the laptop aside before passing out. He slept through the power outage, and did not wake when both the laptop and the television shut off, as well as the baby monitor. He slept through the howling dogs and the terrified screams and the numerous gunshots. He slept through the explosion. He slept as his neighbors were murdered in their homes and out on the street. He slept, drooling on his pillow and snoring softly as two shadowy figures entered his home. He slept, unaware that in Artie Junior’s nursery, a large black crow had perched on the edge of his son’s crib. He slept as the crow changed shape. He remained asleep as the bedroom door opened and a shadow fell across him, as well.

He didn’t wake up until the baby screamed, and by then it was too late.

The last thing he saw was the figure in the room with him. The baby’s screams turned to high-pitched, terrified shrieks. Artie bolted upright and flung the sheets off his legs, but before he could get out of bed, the intruder rushed to the bedside and loomed over him. The man’s face was concealed in darkness. It shoved his chest with one cold hand and forced him back down on the bed. In the nursery, the baby’s screams abruptly ceased.

“W-who…?”

“Scream,” the shadow told Artie. “It’s better when you scream.”

The pounding on Axel’s door grew louder and more insistent. The chain lock rattled and the door shook in its frame. Candlelight flickered, casting strange shapes on the walls. The pounding came again. Gripping his walking stick like a club, Axel tiptoed into the living room and peeked through the curtains. Jean Sullivan stood on his porch, holding Bobby in one arm and beating on the door with her fist. Breathing a sigh of relief, Axel lowered the stick and hurried to the door. He fumbled with the locks as Jean hammered again.

“Mr. Perry? Axel? It’s Jean from next door. Please let us in!”

She sounded frantic. Releasing the chain from its hasp, Axel turned the knob and yanked the door open.

“What’s wrong?” he asked. “What is it?”

Jean stumbled into the house and slammed the door shut behind her. Bobby held tight, his arms and legs wrapped around his mother. The boy looked terrified. Axel stared at them both in concern.

“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 started 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 heart 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.

“Dad—”

Removing his hand from his son’s shoulders, Jerry raised one finger to his lips. Randy fell silent. The tapping on the glass resumed, frantic and angry.

With it came a dry, rustling sound. Randy held his breath. Jerry grasped the curtain and pulled it aside.

A large black crow stood on the other side of the glass, tapping at the doors with its beak. It stopped, tilted its head up and stared at them. Both Randy and his father exhaled at the same time. Then Jerry laughed.

“What is it?” Sam called. “What’s out there?”

Jerry turned around to face them. “It’s just a bird. That’s all. Just an ugly old crow. Big sucker, too.”

The others murmured among themselves, and Randy, whose attention was still focused on the bird, heard the relief in their voices. He tried to speak, tried to get their attention, but suddenly he had no breath. The bird was changing. As he watched, it turned shadowy, blurred. And then it changed.

A tall man, dressed all in black, stood on the patio where only a second before there had been a crow. He grinned at Randy, revealing rows of white teeth. Too many teeth. Randy didn’t think human beings were supposed to have that many in their mouths.

The man in black raised a fist. Randy whined softly. “Dad…”

Still grinning, his father started to turn toward him. The stranger’s fist smashed through the glass doors, and he grasped Jerry Cummings by the ear.

“Come here.” The man’s voice reminded Randy of fingernails on a chalkboard.

Jerry had time to utter a startled yelp, and then his attacker yanked him forward, pulling his head through the shattered hole. Glass fragments fell to the kitchen floor. The gun slipped from Jerry’s hand and spun like a top on the linoleum. Randy screamed, dimly aware that his mother, Sam and Stephanie were doing the same behind him.

Laughing, the man on the patio jerked Jerry’s head down. Long, jagged shards of glass slashed his face and throat. Blood spurted, running down the doors on both sides. Jerry wailed and thrashed, arms flailing, legs kicking wildly as the stranger pushed his head even lower. Another shard speared his eye, and Randy heard a small pop, like air rushing from a sealed plastic bag. His father’s cries ceased. Jerry jittered once more and then lay still. His body went limp and the glass slipped even farther into his eye socket.

Randy gaped, crying as the killer grasped his father’s hair with both hands and tugged him through the opening. The remaining glass shattered as Jerry’s corpse was pulled through. Randy flinched as the stranger lifted his father’s head and kissed him on the mouth. The murderer’s cheeks seemed to balloon for a moment, as if he’d swallowed a mouthful of something. Then he casually tossed Jerry’s lifeless form aside and stepped through the hole.

“Didn’t you hear me knocking? I was gently tapping, tapping at your chamber door.”

Randy scrambled backward, tripped and fell. He sprawled across the kitchen floor and spotted his father’s gun. He reached for it, but the invader moved quicker, kicking it away. The weapon slid across the floor and slammed against the kitchen cabinets.

“It wouldn’t have done you any good,” the man said, looking down at him. The tip of the killer’s black hat brushed against the ceiling fan. “But if you don’t believe me, go ahead and try. I’ll wait.”

Randy skittered backward, sobbing. The man followed along, clearly enjoying the sport. His laughter echoed through the kitchen.

“What do you want?” Randy shrieked.

“Your soul. They taste better if you’re scared.”

The man leaned over him and Randy closed his eyes.

“Youuuu get away from my son!”

Footsteps pounded across the floor. Randy’s eyes snapped open in time to see his mother leaping over him, flinging herself at her husband’s killer. She beat the intruder with her fists, but the man in black swatted her aside. She crashed into the refrigerator and then stumbled to her feet. Groaning, Cindy grabbed the salt and pepper shakers from the countertop and flung them. Both bounced off the figure’s shoulders and smashed on the floor, spilling their contents all over the linoleum. A thrown coffee mug suffered the same fate. Then Cindy seized a steak knife from the dish drainer.

“Get away from us,” she screamed. “Jerry! What did you do to my Jerry?”

“Mom.”

“Randy,” Sam shouted. “Come on!”

Randy clambered to his hands and knees and crawled toward the handgun. Grains of salt from the spilled dispenser stuck to his palms. The intruder’s attention was focused on his mother. The killer taunted her, leaning in close and then darting out of the way as she repeatedly slashed at him with the steak knife. They repeated this dance again, the killer giggling as Cindy shrieked.

“Run, Randy.” Her eyes didn’t leave her tormentor. “Get out of here.”

“Leave her alone,” Randy shouted as his fingers curled around the pistol. He jumped to his feet and pointed the weapon at the man in black, holding the .45 with both hands and spacing his feet apart at shoulder width, just as his father had taught him. “I mean it, you son of a bitch. Get the fuck away from her.”

The dark figure didn’t even turn around. “Go ahead. Take your best shot.”

“I’ll do it,” Randy warned. He hoped his voice didn’t sound as terrified as he felt.

“Then do it already, boy, and be done with it. My brothers and I have many more to deal with tonight. You make such small morsels.”

“Randy,” Cindy said, “go find your sister. Make sure she’s safe. Get out of here.”

“I’m not leaving you, Mom. That fucker killed Dad.”

“Sam,” she cried. “Stephanie. Get him out of here.” “Come on, Randy,” Sam urged again. “Let’s go get help.”

“I’m not leaving my mother here, so fuck off!”

The man in black turned around to face him. His smile was terrible to behold.

“I’m going to turn your mother inside out now. Would you like to watch?”

Cindy lunged forward and drove the steak knife into his back with both hands. At the same time, Randy pulled the trigger. The .45 jerked in his hands, and he felt the reverberation run all the way up his arms. The blast drowned out all other sound, and Randy’s ears rang in the aftermath.

Grunting, Cindy stumbled backward and slipped again to the floor. Randy noticed that there was blood spattered across the white refrigerator door. It hadn’t been there a moment before. He wondered where it had come from. Then he saw more of it on the front of his mother’s sweatshirt.

“Oh my God.”

The killer, his expression impassive, calmly reached for the knife jutting from his back. He pulled it out and dropped it to the floor. Then he smiled again.

“But I shot you.” Randy tossed the gun away in frustration. “I shot you, not my mom.”

“Indeed. The bullet passed through me and into her. And for that, I thank you, boy. You helped expedite things for me. As a reward, I shall make your death quick and painless. Just give me one moment.”

He turned back to Randy’s mother and knelt beside her. Cindy struggled to sit up, but slumped back down again.

“M-Mom… I’m sorry.”

Her eyes flicked toward him. Randy noticed a thin line of blood dribbling from one corner of her mouth.

“Marsha,” she wheezed. “Go find your sister. It’s okay, baby. I love you.”

“Mom…”

“Dude.” Sam had opened the front door. A gust of wind blew into the house, and the screams of the neighbors grew louder. “Come on, man, before he kills you, too.”

Randy glanced at Sam and Stephanie, then back to his mother and the stranger, and then down to the discarded gun.

“Forget it,” Sam shouted. “You already shot the fucker once, and it didn’t faze him. Come on!”

“Oh, Jesus.” Stephanie stared at something across the street. “There’s another one. What’s it doing to the Garnett’s dog?”

Randy turned back to his mother again, intent on rushing forward and pushing the intruder away from her. The man was kissing her, just as he had kissed Randy’s father. Cindy’s eyes were closed.

Balling his fists, Randy opened his mouth and—

“Randy?” Stephanie’s voice cut through his rage and distress. “We have to go. We have to go now. Please?”

He glanced from her to his mother, and then back again. The man in black stood up and sighed.

“Ah, that was tasty. Now come here, boy. I promised I’d make it quick, and I keep my word.”

Randy took a faltering step backward. The killer moved forward and then stopped, recoiling as if he’d been shocked. He glanced down at the floor and hissed. Randy looked down and saw that the intruder’s toe was at the line of spilled salt.

“You little bastard. Come here.”

“F-fuck you. You killed my parents.”

“And now I’m going to kill you. Come here. I won’t ask again.”

Randy noticed that the man still hadn’t moved. He seemed unable or unwilling to come any closer.

It’s the salt, he thought. I don’t know why, but he doesn’t like the salt.

“Fuck you.” This time, his voice didn’t waver.

The killer’s eyes widened. “You have the touch, don’t you, boy?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Touch this, you son of a bitch.” Randy grabbed his crotch.

“Amazing,” the intruder whispered. “You don’t know.”

“Randy?” Stephanie’s voice was pleading. She sounded near tears again.

With one last glance at his parents’ bodies, Randy turned and fled. Tears streamed down his face as he followed Sam and Stephanie through the open door. He noticed that they were hand in hand, but at that moment, he didn’t care.

“Run,” the man in black called after them. “Flee, if you wish. There is nowhere for you to go, little bugs.

One of my brothers will see to you in due time.”

The street and yards were chaos, but none of it registered with Randy. He only caught fleeting glimpses as he ran across the grass toward his truck. Homes were burning. Bodies lay in the street. Another dark figure, almost identical to the one they had just faced, strode across the roof of the house next door, menacing two people who had crawled to the edge.

Sam unlocked the doors. Randy watched in despair as he guided Stephanie to the Nissan and yanked the passenger door open. She hurried inside and he slammed the door behind her. Then he looked up and noticed Randy.

“What are you doing?”

“Truck…” It was all Randy could manage to say.

He pointed at the 4×4.

“Follow us,” Sam said, and quickly climbed behind the wheel. Then, a second later, he swore.

Stephanie glanced around, frantic. “What’s wrong?”

“It won’t start!”

Randy stumbled toward them. Sam sat behind the wheel, frantically turning the key back and forth in the ignition. Randy placed his hand on the Nissan’s hood and was just about to tell them to get in his truck when Sam’s engine suddenly roared to life.

“Got it,” Sam shouted. “You coming?”

“I’ll be right behind you.”

Randy ran over to his truck and fumbled for the keys. They jingled in his trembling hand as he unlocked the door. The people next door screamed as they plummeted to the ground. The man in black on the roof turned in Randy’s direction and waved. Randy gave him the finger and then slipped into the cab. He started the truck and the engine roared to life. The man on the roof seemed startled by this. He leaped to the ground as Randy raced away, pressing the accelerator all the way to the floor and struggling to keep sight of Sam’s brake lights as the black Nissan lowrider with flames painted on the sides raced into the darkness. The CD player beeped and then began playing the Geto Boys’ “Still,” which Randy had been listening to the last time he was in the truck. Now, he barely heard the music.

“I’m sorry,” Randy sobbed as he whipped around the turn and followed Sam. “I’m so sorry.”

The truck’s massive tires crunched over a corpse lying in the middle of the street, but Randy didn’t even notice.