A Gathering of Crows

“That’s them,” Marsha gasped. “What’s happened?”

Donny and Marsha started toward the fleeing figures, but skidded to a halt as another figure emerged from the dark house. Neither of them recognized the man. He was tall and thin, and hidden beneath a long, dark coat and a wide-brimmed black hat. They only caught glimpses of his shadowed face as he raced after the fleeing mother and son. The man moved quickly, seeming to almost glide across the porch and down the steps. He caught up to Mrs. Lange and slashed at her legs with one hand. Donny and Marsha noticed that his fingernails were like talons. Mrs. Lange belly flopped onto the lawn. Her son paused and turned around, screaming when he saw what was happening.

“Run, Brandon,” she hollered as the black figure loomed over her.

“Stay here,” Donny told Marsha, and then charged across the street.

The attacker straddled Mrs. Lange’s prone form and grasped her ponytail. Then he placed one foot on her back, right between her shoulder blades, and yanked her head up. Mrs. Lange wailed as her entire scalp was torn away. Brandon, Donny and Marsha howled along with her. As Donny reached the screaming boy, the dark figure grabbed Mrs. Lange’s bare head with both hands and slammed it repeatedly against the ground. She jittered and shook, and then lay still. The man knelt over her body, rolled her over and then placed his mouth over hers.

“Mommy!”

Donny grasped the boy’s shoulders, and Brandon screamed.

“Let me go! My mommy . . .”

“I’ll help her,” Donny said. “You run over there to my friend Marsha.”

Brandon stared at his mother’s still form with wide, terrified eyes. Mucous and tears coated his upper lip. He whispered her name one more time and then turned and fled toward Marsha.

“Hey,” Donny shouted at the killer. “Don’t you fucking move, motherfucker!”

The man in black raised his hand and waved, beckoning Donny forward. His lips were still pressed to Mrs. Lange’s mouth. Gritting his teeth, Donny ran toward him. As he approached, the killer raised his head. Donny caught a glimpse of something white and glowing—like cigarette smoke with a light inside of it—drifting from Mrs. Lange’s gaping mouth. The man seemed to suck it into himself. Then he stood up and laughed.

“Donny,” Marsha screamed.

Donny halted in his tracks and risked a glance over his shoulder. Another similarly dressed figure was racing down the street toward them. The odds were no longer in his favor—especially against an opponent who could rip a woman’s scalp off with his bare hands.

“Fuck this,” Donny whispered. “I need a gun.”

He turned and ran back to Marsha and Brandon.

Behind him, he heard footsteps racing after him. He glanced to his right and was alarmed to see that the second arrival was also closing the distance between them.

“Run,” Donny hollered.

Marsha grabbed Brandon’s hand and they ran down the street, but then Brandon twisted out of her grip, turned and ran back toward Donny. Ducking as he fled, Donny reached out to grab the boy, but Brandon darted past him, screaming for his mother.

“Hey,” Donny yelled. “Get back here!”

He spun around, pausing long enough to see that their second attacker had been distracted by a man who had emerged from his home, apparently to investigate all of the commotion. Donny knew the man’s face, but not his name. The guy stood on his front lawn, dressed only in a ratty pair of boxer shorts and a white T-shirt. He clutched a shotgun in his trembling hands, but instead of raising it, he simply stood gaping as the black-clad figure bore down on him.

Marsha shrieked. Donny’s attention went back to Brandon, and he cried out in despair when he saw that it was too late. The boy dangled in the air, his feet kicking ineffectively at the killer’s stomach and crotch. One of the man’s hands encircled the boy’s throat. The other hand was buried deep in Brandon’s guts. The dark man chuckled as he withdrew his fist and pulled out the child’s intestines like a magician producing a stream of scarves. As the glistening strands looped around his feet, he pulled Brandon close and kissed him. Next door, the second killer had taken the shotgun from its owner and was repeatedly skewering him with the barrel.

Donny struggled with his instincts. Part of him wanted to rush to Brandon and aid the boy, even though he knew it was probably too late. Another part of him wanted to charge the boy’s killer and beat him to a pulp. He knew how unrealistic this was. Both men had displayed uncanny—if not inhuman— strength and speed. He doubted his fists would do much good against such a foe. It would be smarter to take advantage of this momentary distraction and get Marsha out of here before the strangers turned their combined attention back to them. Weeping, he turned and ran.

Even after all Donny had seen and experienced overseas, abandoning Brandon and the next-door neighbor was one of the hardest things he’d ever done.

Marsha was behind the wheel of his truck. The driver’s-side door hung open, and Donny saw that she was repeatedly turning the key with one hand and smacking the steering wheel with the other.

“It won’t start,” she cried.

“Come on. Move, damn it.”

Taking her hand, he pulled her from the cab and led her across a front yard and between two houses. He heard somebody shout inside one of the homes, but he didn’t stop. He guided Marsha through a backyard and onto the next street, and tried to figure out what to do next.

All around them, Brinkley Springs continued to scream.

Levi heard the first scream as he darted out the front door. He ignored it, focusing instead on the task at hand. Whatever was happening, whoever was screaming, he wouldn’t be able to help them without first obtaining his tools. The Lord had put him here. That much was certain. Earlier, Brinkley Springs had seemed like nothing more than a good place to stop for the night. He had planned on leaving early the next morning, just after breakfast. Levi had been traveling to the Edgar Cayce Association for Research and Enlightenment headquarters in Virginia Beach. While their library was renowned as one of the largest collections of metaphysical studies and occult reference works in the world, there was a second collection—one not open to the general public—that Levi needed access to. Among the library’s invaluable tomes was an eighteenth-century German copy of King Solomon’s Clavicula Salomonis, which Levi needed to make a copy of for himself. His stop in Brinkley Springs had been intended as nothing more than a brief respite from the long and arduous journey. Both he and Dee had needed the rest. But there would be no rest tonight. No rest for the wicked, and no rest for God’s warriors, either. He’d been placed here on purpose, because only he could combat the threat that the town now faced. This was what he did. This was his calling, his birthright and, quite often, his curse.

Back home in Marietta, Levi’s neighbors thought that the nice Amish man who lived in the small one-story house next door was a woodworker—and they were partially right. Half of the two-car garage at the rear of his property had been converted into a wood shop (the other half was a stable for Dee). During the week, he spent his time in the wood shop making various goods—coat and spoon racks, chairs, tables, dressers, plaques, lawn ornaments and other knickknacks. Each Saturday, he’d load the items into the back of his buggy and haul them to the local antiques market. It was an honest, decent living and paid for his rent, groceries, utilities and feed for Dee and his dog, Crowley.

But what his neighbors didn’t know was that Levi also had another, more secret vocation. He worked powwow, as had his father and his father before him. Usually, he was sought out for medical treatments. His patients were mostly drawn from three groups: the elderly (who remembered the old ways), the poor (who didn’t have health insurance or couldn’t afford to see a doctor or go to the hospital), and people who’d forsaken the mainstream medical establishment in search of a more holistic approach. Patients came to Levi seeking treatments for a wide variety of ailments and maladies. He dealt with everything from the common cold to arthritis. Occasionally, he was called upon for more serious matters—stopping bleeding or mending a broken bone.

But powwow went beyond medicine. It was a magical discipline just like any other, and once in a while, Levi was charged with doing more than helping the sick or curing livestock. Once in a while, the threats he faced were supernatural, rather than biological, in origin. Levi knew that tonight would be one of those times.

More screams rang out as Levi reached the buggy and climbed up into the back. His weight made the buggy shift, rocking the suspension. Even though the wheels were chocked, the axles groaned slightly. The buggy’s floor was as messy as that of any automobile. Road maps, emergency flares, a flashlight, assorted wrenches and