Keene Brian - A Gathering of Crows

“Oh,” Esther said, “that would never happen here. Nothing ever happens in Brinkley Springs. Especially bad things like that.”

Levi wanted to tell her that she was wrong, that something bad was indeed happening in Brinkley Springs right now, but he didn’t. Instead, he forced a smile. A sour taste rose in his mouth.

“I’m sure you’re right, of course. But still, better safe than sorry. You ladies stay here. I’ll be right

back.”

He reached for the doorknob and hoped they couldn’t see how badly his hand was shaking. Then he stepped out into the night, shivering as the darkness embraced him in ways the girl in the cornfield from so long ago never could.

Stephen Poernik had just passed the green and white sign on U.S. 219 South that said WELCOME TO BRINKLEY SPRINGS, AN INCORPORATED TOWN, when his faithful Mazda pickup truck suddenly died. There was no advance warning. One moment, he’d been doing a steady forty-five miles an hour and scanning the radio, searching for some heavy driving music, or anything other than bluegrass, preaching and talk radio, which seemed to be the only three programming choices this part of West Virginia had to offer. The next instant, the engine, lights and radio all went dead. The truck didn’t stall. It simply shut off. The headlights and the rest of the electrical equipment shut off with it. Cursing, Stephen coasted to a stop in the middle of the road, just past the welcome sign.

“Well, shit.”

He glanced down at the dashboard gauges, but had trouble reading them in the dark. Stephen reached above him and flicked the switch for the dome light, but it was dead, as well. He leaned over the steering wheel, squinting at the gauges. They seemed fine. As far as he could tell, there wasn’t a problem with the engine temperature. He put the truck in park and then turned the key. His attempts were fruitless. Nothing happened. He didn’t even hear the starter clicking. Apparently, he’d lost all power.

Stephen didn’t know much about fixing vehicles. He knew that he’d be up Shit Creek under the hood, but decided to give it a try anyway. Maybe it was something simple like a loose battery cable. He hoped so. Otherwise, he was screwed.

He reached down beneath the heater vent and tugged the hood release. Then he opened the door and hopped out of the truck. Stephen was immediately struck by the silence. He’d spent enough time on these rural back roads to become familiar with the sounds of the night—crickets and other insect songs, the chirping of spring peepers, the occasional call of an owl or whippoorwill, the barking of a dog or even just the sound of another car approaching on the road. He heard none of these things. It was almost as if Brinkley Springs existed in some sort of noiseless vacuum. Even the wind seemed nonexistent. Standing on the road next to the truck, with one hand on the open door, Stephen felt uneasy. For a moment, he considered reaching into the glove box and grabbing his SIG Sauer P225. He never left home without it. (Stephen’s thoughts on handguns were that he wasn’t on parole and didn’t live in New York, so fuck the permit.) He paused, and then decided against it. For one thing, he might need both hands to look at the engine. For another, if a cop or somebody pulled up, they’d be a lot less sympathetic to his plight if they saw him brandishing a weapon. Besides, he was just being silly. His unease was just a bad case of nerves. Nothing more. He’d been driving all day and needed some sleep.

Sleep. Not that he slept all that well anymore. Not since losing his job as a cabinetmaker, thanks to the disastrous economic policies of the last two presidents. He’d been suffering from bouts of insomnia and depression ever since. He was trying to be patient, of course. Trying to give this new presidential administration more time to fix things. After all, they’d been handed a shit sandwich. It was hard not to become disillusioned with something as inherently fucked-up from top to bottom as the American political system, but he’d given them a chance, hoping they could turn things around, hoping for the change that had been promised over and over again during the campaign. And he had to admit, things were starting to look and sound better. But at the end of the day, he was still unemployed. These days, there just weren’t many job openings for cabinetmakers and glassblowers. The only other thing Stephen had ever worked as was a blackjack and roulette dealer. At age fifty-five, with both his beard and his long black hair that hung to the middle of his back now shot with gray, he was too old to get back into that game. That’s why he was out here on the road. He’d been driving around with a book of sample pictures, trying to find craft markets and antique stores that would sell his woodworking and stained-glass wares. Stephen wasn’t much of a people person, and he disliked going from business to business, but he had no choice. His hope was that he could find enough outlets and sell enough goods to support his family full-time. If not, at least it would supplement his meager unemployment checks.

He’d been fortunate, and with his third marriage lasting twenty-three years now, Stephen considered himself a lucky guy. Things would turn around.

Things would get better again.

They had to.

“Look on the bright side,” he whispered. “At least you’ve still got your health.” And he did, too. Standing at a few inches over six feet tall and weighing about one hundred ninety-five pounds, Stephen was in remarkably good shape, especially considering the life he’d led. Granted, he wasn’t in prime workout shape. He didn’t have the physique of a bodybuilder, but he was still healthier than he’d ever thought he’d be at this age.

He walked around to the front of the truck and placed his palms on the hood. The metal was warm, but not hot. He didn’t see any steam or smoke drifting out from underneath. He felt around beneath the hood, found the latch and released it. Then he raised the hood and stared at the engine. Even if he’d known what to look for, it was hard for him to see anything clearly in the dark. He turned around and glanced at the welcome sign, and noticed that someone had peppered it with buckshot at some point. Shaking his head, he let his gaze wander toward town, and then it struck him that there were no lights on. Sure, it was nighttime, and most of the townspeople were probably asleep, but even so, there should have been some illumination. The streetlights weren’t functioning. There were no nightlights glowing in the windows of any of the houses. The entire town was dark. Maybe the power was out?

A flutter of motion caught his attention. A large black crow swung down out of the coal-colored sky and landed on one of the dead streetlights. It tilted its head and stared at him. Then it opened its beak and croaked. The sound reminded Stephen of rusty hinges. It didn’t sound like a normal birdcall. It sounded almost like some garbled, guttural language. The sound seemed very loud in the stillness.

“Hey buddy,” he said to the bird, “any chance you could call Triple A for me?”

The crow continued staring at him. It croaked again.

“No? I didn’t think so.”

The crow cawed a third time. If he hadn’t known better, Stephen would have thought he heard distinct syllables in the cry.

“Get the fuck out of here, you weird bird.”

Stephen turned his attention back to the motor.

He leaned down and sniffed, but the engine didn’t smell hot. He smelled antifreeze and oil, but neither seemed to be overpowering, as they would be if he had a leak. Clueless as to what else to do, he slammed the hood and moved back around the side of the truck again. He climbed into the cab and reached for his cell phone. Then he glanced at his watch and checked the time. His wife, Noralyn, was probably still awake, curled up on the couch with their two Siamese cats, Princess and Eddie (short for Edgar Allan Poernik). He’d call her, let her know what had happened, and then he’d call for a tow truck.