Keene Brian - A Gathering of Crows

“There ain’t no KGB anymore, Greg.”

“So you say, Gus. Me, I don’t believe everything I hear from the mainstream media. I’ll tell you something. That old Putin ain’t no dummy. The KGB are still around. They’re just called something different now.”

“Look,” Paul said, “I’ve never been one to tell a man what he should or shouldn’t believe, Greg, but I just don’t understand what any of this has to do with what’s happening outside. I don’t reckon Vladimir Putin declared war on Brinkley Springs.”

“The CIA and the KGB both developed ways to control people’s minds. One morning, you could wake up and everything could be fine, and then, all of the sudden, you grab your rifle and start shooting. Haven’t you guys noticed how things like that are on the rise? Every week, we hear about a school getting shot up or some nut killing all his co-workers. It’s all just another method of population control.”

“Goddamn it, Greg.” Gus slammed his bottle down on the coffee table, sloshing beer all over his hand. “The NWO aren’t shooting up Brinkley Springs any more than that Amish fella staying at Esther’s is. That’s stupid talk, and it ain’t helping us any right now.”

“Then tell me why we haven’t heard any sirens. Tell me why the cops haven’t shown up yet. Why are the phone lines down? And none of the electronic stuff is working. This is a controlled situation, Gus. Hell, they’ve probably got the town cordoned off. Nobody gets in or out, I bet.”

Paul stood up. “I think we should put that theory to the test.”

The Pheasant brothers stared up at him. “What do you mean?” Gus asked.

“Personally, I don’t believe in this NWO stuff, but one thing’s for sure, you’re right about the police and firemen. Nobody has shown up to help, but maybe that’s because nobody knows about our situation. I think we should try to leave, try to go for help.”

“I don’t know,” Gus said. “It’s like a war zone out there. Maybe we’d be better off just staying put.”

“Screw that. People are dying outside. Our people! We saw it. I’ve lived here all my life, and I’ll be goddamned if I’m gonna let it end this way. Brinkley Springs may have been dying, but it doesn’t deserve to get murdered. I’m going. On foot, if I have to, but I’m going, either way. It would mean a lot to me if you guys came along. I could use the backup.”

The brothers glanced at each other for a moment and then stood up as one.

“You’re right,” Gus said. “This is too big for us to handle on our own, but that doesn’t mean we should just hide out like a bunch of kids. Let’s go.”

“Hang on a second.” Greg glanced down at his sweatpants. “I reckon I ought to change first. And maybe we should all drink another beer, just to get ourselves ready.”

“You’ve got five minutes,” Paul said. “Chug the beer while you get dressed. You ain’t gonna come back downstairs in a pair of Spider-Man slippers, are you?”

Greg and Paul began laughing. Gus shook his head.

“Fuck you both.”

Paul grinned. “I’ll remember you said that if it turns out your brother was right about the New World Order.”

“If he’s right, then I hope the NWO shoots you first.”

Melanie Candra peeked through her curtains and watched in terror as a tall, looming figure dressed entirely in black chased a fat man in flannel boxer shorts down the sidewalk. As she stood there trembling, the pursuer caught up with his prey, grabbed the man’s hair with one hand and yanked him off his feet. The fat man uttered a short, surprised squawk and then his attacker swung him through the air. His scalp tore free. The loose flap of skin and hair dangled from the black figure’s hand. Its owner soared halfway across the street and then slid across the asphalt on his face and chest. He quivered, but did not rise. The dark shape then raced over to him and knelt beside the body. Melanie let the curtains fall shut again and backed away from them, biting her lip to keep from screaming.

She’d moved to Brinkley Springs from New Jersey a year ago, hoping to open an equestrian center and horse farm. Real-estate prices were cheap and she’d found the small-town sentimentality a refreshing change from that of the Mid-Atlantic suburbs. She hadn’t counted on the economy changing so drastically, however, and now her dreams of running a horse farm were just that—dreams. Instead, she was stuck in a dingy little farmhouse that was drafty in the winter and filled with insects in the summer, in a town that seemed to die a little bit more each day. And if Brinkley Springs hadn’t been dying before, it certainly was now. Judging by the sounds outside, it was being murdered. Exterminated.

The street fell silent again. Still shaking, Melanie tiptoed into the kitchen and pulled a large butcher knife out of the top drawer. She’d thought that having a weapon—any weapon—might make her feel better, but instead, she wanted to puke. She crossed the kitchen and back into the living room. She glanced down at the cordless phone. The light was still off. The power was still dead. She found herself longing for the days of rotary phones. They still worked during a blackout. She wondered, however, if that would be the case in this instance. Earlier, when she’d tried dialing 911 on her cell phone, it had been dead, as well. She couldn’t even get it to come on, let alone dial for help.

She stood there in the silence, wishing for a sound. The ticking of her cuckoo clock. The ring of a phone. The engine of a car driving by. A bird chirping. A dog barking. Anything would be better than this oppressive stillness that seemed to have suddenly settled over the street. Well, except another scream, of course. She didn’t think she could handle another one of those. Maybe the man in black was gone. Maybe the fat guy in the flannel boxer shorts was dead. Maybe that was why it was so quiet out there now—the murderer had moved on to find another victim.

What if he’d moved on to her? What if she was next? What if he’d seen her at the window and was now standing on her front porch or peering in her windows? Still clutching the knife, she pulled her pink knit bathrobe tighter around her and glanced at all the windows, verifying the curtains were drawn on each.

If he’s out there, she thought , I can look through the peephole. I’ll be able to see him but he won’t be able to see me.

No, but he’d hear her. The floorboards around the door tended to creak when stepped on. She’d have to be quiet. She had a vision of some black-clad maniac driving an ice pick through the peephole right into her eye.

Trembling harder, she crept to the front door and slowly brought her face to the peephole. Then she peered outside. Melanie breathed a sigh of relief when she saw that her front porch was empty—a sigh that was stifled a moment later when she saw the man in black breaking down the door of the house across the street. He raised one black-booted foot and kicked the door in on the first try, reducing the heavy oak to kindling. Then, with a sweep of his cloak, he stepped through the wreckage and went inside. She held her breath, waiting for him to come back out or waiting for the screams to start—but neither happened. She tried to remember if the house was occupied or not. So many of them stood vacant, and more seemed to end up on the market every month. Not that they were selling. She’d pretty much had her pick when she bought this place. Melanie had intended it to be temporary—a place to live in and keep her stuff until she got the horse farm operational. Then she’d planned on fixing this place up and using it as a rental property.

Restless, she rocked back and forth on the balls of her feet, stopping suddenly when she spotted a blur of movement from the open doorway across the street. She’d been expecting the killer, or perhaps a fleeing resident, but what exited the home was a large black bird. Flapping its wings, it soared up above the roofs and disappeared from her sight.