Keene Brian - A Gathering of Crows

Except that when he flipped the cell phone open, it, like the Mazda and the lights in town, was dead. Stephen pressed the button twice, just to make sure, but there was no power. That didn’t make sense. He’d given it a full charge the night before, plugging it into a wall socket at a Motel 6 he’d stayed at in Walden, Virginia. He’d used it only a few times today— once to call Noralyn and tell her good morning, and twice to check his voice mail, to see if one of the antique stores or craft markets he’d stopped at had called him back. Both messages had been from automated telemarketing machines—one offering him an extended warranty on a car that he and Noralyn no longer owned and the other for some kind of ringtone service for his cell phone. He’d quickly hung up on both of them. Other than those three calls, he hadn’t used the phone all day. There was no way the battery should have been run down already. As if trying to prove this, he thumbed the power button again. The cell phone remained dead.

“Goddamn it!”

The crow squawked again, almost as if it were laughing at him. Stephen whirled around and raised his middle finger. The bird seemed nonplussed. It stepped off its perch and glided down to the ground, where it stood in the middle of the street, head cocked to one side, and continued to stare at him. Stephen stomped his foot at it.

“Go on. Get the hell out of here. Scat!”

The crow remained where it was. Defiant and aloof. Almost dismissive of him. It croaked again. He could have sworn it was laughing.

“Suit yourself, you stupid fucking bird.”

Stephen decided to walk into town and find some help. Even though the lights were out, there had to be somebody awake. A twenty-four-hour convenience store or a gas station. A cop making the rounds. The local insomniac, up late and listening to Coast to Coast AM or maybe watching infomercials on the tube. Kids out partying. Someone. Anyone. He’d find out if there was a mechanic or towing service who could help him tonight. If not, he’d find a place to sleep— hopefully a hotel room or a bed-and-breakfast—call Noralyn from their phone and let her know what had happened and then take care of the truck first thing in the morning.

He leaned into the cab and grabbed his large duffel bag off the floor. Inside the bag were his clean clothes, toiletries, iPod, the sample book, which displayed pictures of his handiwork, and other assorted items he’d carried with him on this road trip. Next to the duffel bag was a black plastic garbage bag that held his dirty laundry. He decided to leave that in the truck but bring everything else along. If someone wanted to break into the Mazda and steal his dirty skivvies, then let them. Obviously, if they were that desperate, they needed underwear more than he did. He opened the glove compartment and pulled out the handgun. Then he grabbed the box of bullets. Stephen knew better than to drive around with the pistol loaded. If he ever did get caught with it, that would just make matters worse— the difference between a small fine and a possible felony charge, depending on which state he was driving through and who was in office at the time.

He also tossed the useless cell phone into the bag.

Stephen was suddenly overcome with an immense feeling of homesickness. He missed Noralyn and the cats. He wished he were there with them now instead of stranded along the side of the road in Bumfuck, West Virginia. Stephen had a fairly large personal library, well over two thousand books, most of which were horror, suspense or mystery fiction. What he wouldn’t give right now to be curled up and reading one of those, rather than here.

Before zipping the duffel bag shut, Stephen pulled out his iPod and inserted the headphones. He used it quite a bit back home, whenever he was watering or mowing the yard. The only reason he hadn’t been using it tonight was because he’d lost the cigarette lighter adapter that powered it, and he hadn’t wanted to run the battery down before he could recharge it again. Now, he didn’t care. He felt sad and dejected and more than a little angry at his current situation, and he needed some music to cheer him up. He didn’t care what kind. Stephen’s musical tastes had always been eclectic. As he went for help, he’d put the iPod on randomize and let the music carry him away—ride a wave of Fred Astaire, White Zombie, Steve Howe, Black Sabbath, Yes, King Crimson, Judas Priest, Blue Öyster Cult, Robert Fripp, AC/DC, Guns N’ Roses, Robin Trower, Jimi Hendrix or whatever else the iPod decided to surprise him with. Sometimes, Stephen forgot that he owned certain songs or albums until he heard them played back to him while the iPod was on randomize.

Stephen smiled. He felt better already. He stuck the tiny headphones into his ears, pressed play, and nothing happened.

“Oh, goddamn it! Not the iPod, too.”

He glanced down at the piece of equipment. Like the truck and the lights and the cell phone, it was powerless.

“What happened in this place? Did somebody set off an EMP or something?”

He stuffed the useless iPod and headphones back in the duffel bag, locked the truck, climbed down out of the cab and shut the door. Then he turned toward town and jumped, startled. The crow was gone. Standing in its place was a tall, thin man dressed entirely in black.

Or is he? Stephen thought. What kind of material are his clothes made out of? It looks almost like he’s wearing the night itself—like the darkness is reflecting off him. That can’t be right. I must be more tired than I thought.

Slowly, the man in black began walking toward him. The figure kept his head lowered, and Stephen had trouble making out any distinguishing characteristics. He wore a large, floppy-brimmed black hat, and it concealed his features. All that Stephen could see was a shock of jet-black hair sticking out beneath the brim of the hat, a long, pointed chin with a cleft in the center and a cruel, thin-lipped mouth.

“Excuse me,” Stephen called. “Any chance you have a cell phone on you? I broke down, and mine’s not working. Hell, nothing’s working.”

The man didn’t respond.

Stephen tried to meet his eyes as he drew closer, but the stranger’s face remained hidden in shadow.

“Or maybe you could tell me where the closest gas station is?”

Still the man didn’t respond. He moved in silence, swiftly closing the distance between them. Stephen’s heart began to beat faster. There was something wrong with this guy. Stephen had seen some odd things in his life. He wasn’t necessarily a believer in the supernatural, but he’d experienced enough not to discount it either. He didn’t count anything out— including this dark man. Maybe the guy was a serial killer. Or maybe he was possessed.

Oh, stop being stupid, he thought. You’re freaked out and now you’re putting it on this guy. He’s probably just deaf. Or has special needs. Or doesn’t speak English.

“Hey, friend,” he tried again, trying to keep the uncertainty out of his voice. “You’re kind of creeping me out here. How about we try this again?”

The man did not respond.

“Do you speak English? Habla español ?” The man shrugged.

“Okay, so you can hear me. What’s with the attitude, man? I just want some help. I broke down.”

The stranger stopped in front of him, only a few feet away, and raised his head. Despite his proximity, Stephen still couldn’t get a good look at his face. He did see the man’s eyes, however. They were set deep in his face and glinted in the dark like embers on coal.

But there’s no light, Stephen thought. That’s weird.

What am I seeing reflected in them if there’s no light?