A Gathering of Crows (15 page)

He tried to remember everything he knew about crows, as they related to occult lore. If he’d been back home, if he’d had access to his library, the task would be a snap. But between the adrenalin coursing through his body and his own fear, amplified as it was by the town’s collective horror, he’d have to trust his memory, instinct and years of experience.

So, what do I know?

The first thing that came to Levi’s mind was Raven, a deity of the Native American tribes who had once inhabited the Pacific Northwest. According to their beliefs, Raven was sometimes a generous benefactor and, at other times, a mischievous trickster, credited with doing everything from creating the Earth to stealing the sun. But since Brinkley Springs, West Virginia, was on the other side of the country, and since there were a number of other tribes who had worshipped other deities between here and there, he doubted this had anything to do with Raven. The Hindu god Shani was usually depicted as being not only dressed in black, but dark in color, as well. Shani also traveled around the world on the back of a giant crow. That seemed to fit, but as far as Levi knew, Shani was a god of justice who would have abhorred the atrocities taking place. What else was there? There was Odin, of course, with his two pet ravens, Hugin and Munin. Celtic mythology told of Morrigan, also known as Badb, Fea, Anann, Macha and others. One of the goddess’s forms was that of a crow. The Welsh had the giant king of the Britons known as Bran the Blessed, whose name meant “crow.” Levi wondered for a moment if Brinkley Springs’ residents were primarily of Germanic, Irish or Welsh descent. Probably so, but even then, none of those possibilities felt right.

Crows were present in Ovid’s
Metamorphoses
, as well as in Chaldean, Chinese and Hindu mythology, and they were mentioned quite often in Buddhism, especially the Tibetan disciplines. One physical form of Dharmapala Mahakala was a crow. Crows had watched over the first Dalai Lama and had supposedly heralded the births of the first, seventh, eighth, twelfth and fourteenth Lamas. Levi was certain, however, that he could rule the Dalai Lama out as a suspect.

He stuck close to the church walls, remaining in the shadows. Lost in thought, he didn’t notice the dead dog until he was almost upon it. The poor creature had been impaled on the black wrought iron fence that surrounded the churchyard. One end of the iron rod jutted from the dog’s anus. The other end stuck out of its mouth. Judging by the expression in the dogs face, it had been alive when the act was perpetrated. Without even really thinking about it, Levi reached out with two fingers and closed the poor dog’s eyes. Then an idea occurred to him. If he could find a dead human—one whose death was connected to these mysterious crow figures or the men in black—he could summon their spirit and get the answers from the departed. It stood to reason that a murder victim, especially one killed in so gruesome a fashion, would be able to answer questions about the person or persons who had killed them.

All he had to do was find a corpse, and given the current situation, that should be an easy task.

Levi grasped the iron bars and vaulted over the fence. His hands came away sticky with blood and fur. Frowning, he knelt and wiped them on the grass. Then he stood up again and walked around the side of the church, sticking once more to the shadows to avoid being seen. A black car with flames painted on the side raced past, followed closely by a revving pickup truck. That struck Levi as odd. He hadn’t heard or seen any other running vehicles this evening.

Flames flickered in the night, casting the side streets and alleys with an orange glow. Though none of the buildings in his proximity were ablaze, the fires were close enough that Levi could smell the smoke.

His eyes watered. The curtains in a few houses fluttered as he sneaked past them. When he reached an open space and ran out of cover, he darted down the sidewalk. Broken glass crunched beneath his feet. An obese woman, sobbing uncontrollably, stood on the corner, leaning against a mailbox.

“Excuse me,” Levi called. “Are you okay? Have you been injured?”

She glanced in his direction and then her sobs turned to screams. She ran away, her speed belying her size. Shaking his head, Levi continued onward.

He found a dead body at the next intersection. The victim was a middle-aged white male. His head and limbs were still intact, but his genitals had been torn off, leaving a ragged, gaping hole in his crotch. Blood shone black on the asphalt beneath him, and his shirt and the tattered remains of his pants were crimson. Levi knelt next to the corpse and stuck the tip of his right index finger into the gore. The blood was sticky but not yet congealed. He placed his palm against the corpse and found that the flesh was cool, but still pliant. Whoever the man was, he hadn’t been dead long. Levi glanced around for the missing penis and testicles and spotted them lying on the curb—which meant that whatever had murdered this man hadn’t consumed the grisly prize. Nor had it eaten or mangled the rest of him. The killing had been quick, almost perfunctory, if not for the brutality of it. This hadn’t been about torture or revenge. This killing had served a purpose, albeit a quick one. But what? His blood hadn’t been drained. His flesh hadn’t been consumed. So why kill him in this fashion?

There was only one way to find out. Only one person who would have the answers—the dead man himself.

Lord,
he prayed silently
, as always, I am your humble servant and your mighty sword. Guide my hand tonight as if it were your own. Let our victory be swift and just, and though my methods might not all be yours, let their purpose be to thy everlasting glory.

Levi stretched the corpse out, making sure the head was pointing north and then extending the arms and legs straight out from the torso. He noticed purple splotches on the underside of the limbs. The remaining blood in the man’s body was beginning to settle. He stood up then and wiped his hands on his pants. He grimaced at the stickiness on his palms, and was reminded of the dog that had been impaled on the church fence. There was starting to be a lot of blood on his hands tonight, and the symbolism was not lost on Levi. He wondered if it was the Lord trying to send him a message, or if this was simple synchronicity. It didn’t matter, either way. If he didn’t stop this slaughter, and soon, all of the blood in Brinkley Springs would be on his hands.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a stick of chalk with his red right hand. Then he knelt again and drew a pattern around the corpse. He followed this with several arcane symbols, drawing each one quickly but carefully. He could afford no mistakes. Something as simple as one line or dot out of place could have unexpected—if not disastrous— consequences. Despite the chill in the air, sweat dripped from his forehead and the tip of his nose. Levi was careful not to let any of it fall inside the pattern. He worked in silence, except for the screams and occasional gunfire that still echoed across the town.

When he was finished, Levi stood up and surveyed his handiwork, ignoring the aches and pains in his joints and back. Satisfied that he’d done it correctly, he stood over the body, careful not to let his shoes touch the chalk lines.

“I’m deeply sorry about this,” he whispered. Then he raised his voice and chanted in a guttural combination of ancient Sumerian and a language not normally spoken by human tongues.

***

A black crow hovered above the carnage while two of its brothers, both still in human form, eviscerated a family of four—father, mother and their children, a boy and a girl. Insatiable, they feasted greedily on the departing souls of the parents and the boy, pausing only to engage in a tug-of-war game with the little girl, using her arms as a rope. The limbs popped from their sockets. Sinew and muscle twisted and tore. The girl’s shrieks reached a fevered pitch. The crow swooped downward, resuming its human guise.

“Don’t play with your food.”

Its brothers laughed. They pulled harder and the limbs came free. The girl toppled to the ground, unconscious yet writhing. They jostled one another for the departing soul, but stopped suddenly.

“Do you feel that?”

“Yes. What is it?”

“Someone in this town still knows the ways of old. He or she seeks congress with the realms beyond.”

“If they can do that, then perhaps they are skilled in other works. Perhaps they can defeat us?”

“Reach out. Do you feel their power? This one is dangerous.”

“Indeed.”

“Find them immediately. But be careful. This one isn’t like the others. This one is like those we faced of old.”

Without another word, all three reverted to crow form and flew into the night, leaving the mangled bodies where they’d fallen. The birds soared in different directions, searching the darkness for the source of the disturbance, and their cries were terrible to all who heard them.

***

At eighty-nine, Jack McCutchon was the oldest man in Brinkley Springs. He lived by himself and fended for himself, something which he took great pride in. He still exercised every day, walking from his front door to the end of the driveway and back again, and still had most of his teeth. Sure, he had to wear hearing aids, but other than that, he thought he was in pretty good shape.

Jack wasn’t afraid of being old, and he wasn’t afraid of dying. He wasn’t afraid of much, in fact. As a radioman in the air force, Jack had flown bombing missions over Japan during World War II. One night, they’d been only eight thousand feet over a Japanese village. At that height, they’d been able to smell burning flesh even inside the plane’s hull. The heat and thermals from the explosions had buffeted the aircraft, tossing it about like a child’s toy glider. One moment, they were cruising along at eight thousand feet. The next, they were shooting straight up to ten or fifteen thousand. Some of the other planes in the bomber group had actually flipped over from the turbulence. Jack’s crew had made it safely back to base, but he’d never forgotten that night. It was the most frightening experience of his life.

Until the man dressed in dark clothing broke into his house and confronted Jack in his chair, where he’d been doing a crossword puzzle. His hearing aids sat on the end table next to him.

“What are you supposed to be?” Jack wheezed, his hand going to his chest. Suddenly it was very hard to breathe. “A pilgrim or something?”

Jack died of fear before the intruder even touched him.

***

Hand in hand and gasping for breath, Donny and Marsha ran, turning down one street and then another, darting through backyards and alleys and glancing over their shoulders as they fled. Marsha stumbled, but Donny pulled her upright and urged her onward. Panting, she resisted and tugged her arm away.

“I’ve got to rest. Please? Just for a minute.”

Nodding, he guided her to a row of shrubbery in front of an abandoned house. They ducked down behind the untrimmed bushes and caught their breath. Their stifled gasps were punctuated by screams and cries from nearby streets.

Marsha shivered.

“Are you cold?” Donny asked.

“No,” she whispered. “I’m scared.”

“Me, too.”

“Even after . . . what you saw over there?”

“Sure. Iraq was Iraq. This is different. I lived here.”

Despite their situation, Marsha noticed that he referred to Brinkley Springs in the past tense rather than the present. She decided not to mention it. Now wasn’t the time.

Donny reached out and took her hand again.

“What are you thinking about?”

“I don’t know. Everything. Brandon . . . He was just a kid. We shouldn’t have just left him like that.”

“No,” Donny agreed. “We shouldn’t have. It wasn’t right. But if we hadn’t, then we’d both be dead right now. I don’t give a shit about me, but I couldn’t let anything happen to you.”

Marsha stared at him, unable to speak. She squeezed his hand and he squeezed back. Then Donny cleared his throat and peered through the branches, watching the street.

“I hope my parents and my brother are okay,”

Marsha said. “They have to be, right?”

“Where were they tonight?”

“At home. Mom and Dad were watching TV and Randy had friends over—Sam and Stephanie.”

“You mean little Stephanie Hall?”

“I sure do. Except she’s not that little anymore.”

Donny grinned. “No kidding? Is he going out with her?”

“Who knows? I think she likes playing him and Sam against each other.”

“Well, that’s not right. I always liked your little brother. He’s a good kid. Little weird, what with all the hip-hop stuff, but still a good kid.”

“You don’t have to live with him. He’s a pain in the ass.” Her voice softened. “But he likes you, too. He was excited when he heard you were back. I think he hoped you’d stick around. He missed you, Donny. We all did.”

Donny didn’t reply. Instead he focused on the street again. Marsha sensed that she’d struck a nerve and decided it might be best to change the subject.

“Where are we going, anyway?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “We should hide somewhere. I don’t reckon it makes sense to go back to my mom’s place. No way of knowing if those fuckers are still around there or not. If they are, they’ve got us outnumbered.”

“Who were they?”

“Something . . . not normal. Did you see how fast they moved? Nothing normal moves like that.”

“What are you saying, Donny? That they were demons or something?”

“Hell, I don’t
know
what I’m saying. I mean, I didn’t used to believe in that stuff. But I heard things. Over in Iraq. Guys talked, you know? I reckon you see enough of the worst shit imaginable, then you start to believe in evil. Real evil, like what they taught us in Sunday school when we were little. There’s so much more to our planet, Marsha. It’s a big world out there beyond these mountains, and we don’t know as much about it as we think we do.”