Keene Brian - A Gathering of Crows

The man smiled, revealing white, even teeth. Stephen couldn’t be sure, but he thought they might be pointed. He took a half step backward.

“What do you want?”

“To kill you,” the man said simply.

“W-what? Hey, what are you…? Shit.”

Stephen wasn’t much of a survivalist. He’d just lucked out in the lottery drawing for the Vietnam fiasco and had always considered himself fortunate that he didn’t have to face that horror. He’d known people that had served, of course. Guys who’d been less fortunate, and even a few who’d volunteered. Some of them had talked about their experiences in Vietnam. Most hadn’t. While Stephen knew full well that he’d never truly understand what it had been like, he knew himself well enough to understand that if he had gone to Vietnam, he’d have been one of those guys who came home irreparably damaged—if he survived at all. But he was no coward, either. He might not have been a badass, but he could handle himself just fine. He didn’t know any martial arts, but that didn’t matter. In Stephen’s opinion, fights by definition weren’t fair. Plus, he had another advantage. Stephen’s father had been a cop, and as a result, though he wasn’t much of a hunter, he could shoot the shit out of a handgun.

“Seriously,” Stephen said, “quit fucking around. I’m not in the mood, buddy. Not tonight.”

The man stepped closer. Stephen caught a whiff of him, and winced at the stench. The smell was bad enough to make his eyes water. The stranger reeked of roadkill, like he’d just rolled around in a five-daydead possum or something.

“Jesus Christ—”

“Is not here right now,” the man in black replied.

“And even if he were, he could not save you.”

Stephen stopped, setting his feet shoulder width apart and facing his opponent. He held his breath so he wouldn’t get nauseous from the stranger’s awful stench. The man hadn’t displayed a weapon. He didn’t seem to be carrying a knife or a handgun. Still, there was no telling what he might have hidden beneath the folds of that long coat. The man was only an arm’s length away now, and Stephen decided that there was no time to open the bag and pull out the SIG Sauer P225. He had three choices—try to talk the guy down, run away or rely on his fists. Stephen decided to go with the first and follow with the last. Running away wasn’t an option. This stranger was obviously mentally ill, and if he abandoned the truck, the guy might vandalize it instead.

“That’s far enough,” he said, fighting to keep his tone firm but even. “I’m warning you, freak.”

The man in black ignored him and continued to draw closer.

Stephen decided that, if forced, he’d lead with an elbow to the nose and then follow it up with a quick kick to the outside of his opponent’s knee. That should make the guy think twice about continuing to fuck with him.

And then, before Stephen could do any of these things, the man in black raised one hand and wiggled his fingers. As Stephen watched, the stranger’s fingernails began to stretch and grow, turning into long black talons. Stephen blinked, and the man laughed hoarsely. The sound was like dry leaves rustling in the wind.

“Is that supposed to scare me?” In truth, it had, but Stephen wasn’t about to let the guy know that.

“No,” the man replied. “It’s not supposed to scare you. It’s supposed to distract you.”

“What do you—?”

The man leaned forward and, with his other hand, punched Stephen just below his chest. Stephen grunted, more from surprise at the unexpected blow than from pain. In truth, there wasn’t much pain. Instead, there was just a cold sensation that spread rapidly across his chest and abdomen. His eyes filled up with water.

“Now that ,” the stranger said, “is supposed to scare you.”

The man’s arm was still extended. Stephen tried to pull away from him and found that he couldn’t.

Startled, he tried again. As he did, Stephen coughed, and tasted blood in the back of his throat. Then the dark man pulled his arm back and held up his hand. There was something gray and pink clutched in the stranger’s fist. His hand glistened wetly.

That looks like… raw meat? Where did he get that?

Stephen became aware that something warm and wet was running down the side of his chin. He smacked his lips together. They felt dry all of a sudden, and the coldness was spreading to his arms and legs.

“I’m not sure what this is,” the man in black said, frowning as he glanced at the grisly trophy in his hand. Shrugging, he tossed it to the side of the road. It landed in the grass and gravel with a squelch. “You people have too many useless things inside of you. It’s a wonder you ever made it out of the oceans. As a species, you’re so inferiorly designed. Then again, you were made in His image. And our kind has the unfortunate luck of manifesting in your image, rather than our own. We were once you, you see? Now we are something better. But never mind that.”

He punched Stephen again. Blood flew from Stephen’s mouth, splattering the stranger’s coat. This time, there was pain—a sharp, overpowering agony that seemed to jolt through him as if he’d been shocked. It blazed, and then, as suddenly as it had begun, the pain faded again, replaced by the coldness. Stephen choked as the man held up his hand again, revealing a new item.

“This is your heart, of course. A bit easier to recognize than that last piece.”

Stephen toppled backward, barely feeling it as his head cracked on the blacktop. He heard the sound it made, but he couldn’t be bothered to wonder what it was. Dimly, he thought that perhaps someone was cracking eggs on a stove.

“And these are your intestines. I can divine your future just by looking at them. Hmm. Your future does not look bright. Here, hold this.”

The attacker slipped something warm and slimy into Stephen’s hand, but he couldn’t see what it was. The last thing Stephen was aware of was the man in black crouching low and leaning over his face. Then the stranger’s terrible, cruel mouth opened wide, and Stephen Poernik died before he could scream.

“You fucking asshole!”

Marsha raised her hand to smack Donny, but he grabbed her wrist and squeezed—light enough not to hurt her, but firm enough to make her stop. Her anger was evident in both her expression and tone, loud enough to be heard over the howling dogs.

“Calm down,” he said calmly, trying to soothe her. Marsha stomped her heel down on the arch of his foot. It hurt, even through the thick leather of his boots. Yelping, Donny let go of her wrist and Marsha pulled away. Before he could react, she punched his chest. Donny shook his head, confused, and seized both of her wrists.

“Stop it, Marsha. What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Me?” Her tone changed from angry to flustered. “What’s wrong with you ? Were you really going to just leave again without saying anything? Just like before?”

Donny opened his mouth to respond, but all he could muster was a choked sigh. He released Marsha’s wrists and let his arms hang limp at his sides. Then he stared down at the pavement, unable to meet her wounded, accusatory glare.

“You’re right,” he muttered. “I’m an asshole, and I’m sorry. I just figured that—”

“That what? You’d take off again, just like you did after graduation? That you’d mess with my head some more? Is this how it’s going to be from now on, Donny? Just when I get over you and start to move on, you’ll come waltzing back into town again, play me and then leave?”

“No. I told you, it’s not like that.”

“Well then, explain it to me.”

The dogs quit howling, but neither of them noticed.