Keene Brian - A Gathering of Crows

“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.