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 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
“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.
“You’re going to attract attention,” his wife said.
“Whatever is—”
A long, agonized wail cut her off. They couldn’t tell from which direction it had originated, but it sounded nearby.
“It’s getting closer,” Jerry said. “I think that was next door.”
“I want to go home,” Stephanie sobbed. “My parents and my little brother are at home. I need to be there with them.”
Randy glanced at Sam, annoyed that he wasn’t doing more to comfort Stephanie. If it had been Randy, he’d have stroked her hair and whispered soothing words and promised her that everything would be okay. Sam did none of these things. He merely sat there, mute and dumbstruck. He looked uncomfortable, and when he glanced up and saw Randy glaring at him, he shifted uneasily. The couch cushions groaned beneath him.
“You can’t go home right now, sweetheart.” Cindy reached over and patted Stephanie’s knee. “But I’m sure your family is fine.”
Stephanie didn’t look up from Sam’s chest. Her voice was muffled. “How do you know?”
Cindy opened her mouth to respond, paused, looked at the others and then closed her mouth again. She removed her hand from Stephanie’s knee and wiped her eyes. Randy noticed that his mother’s hand was shaking.
“We don’t know,” Jerry said, and Randy got the impression that his father was talking to himself rather than to the rest of them. “That’s the problem.”
“Let’s try calling them again,” Sam suggested. “Maybe try calling Marsha’s cell phone again, too, while we’re at it.”
Jerry shook his head doubtfully, but before he could speak, another volley of gunfire echoed down the street. He flinched.
“It sounds to me like somebody is going door-to-door, shooting folks.”
“Maybe we’re just hearing people fighting back,” Randy suggested, trying to sound brave for both his mother’s and Stephanie’s sakes. “Could be that—”
Something thudded against the back of the house.
Slowly, all of them turned to face the kitchen and the sliding glass doors that led out onto the patio and the Cummingses’ backyard. Even Stephanie looked up. Randy’s breath caught in his throat when he caught sight of her tear-streaked cheeks. They glistened in the dim candlelight. A lump formed in his throat. Then his attention was drawn to the flame atop the candle. It flickered and danced as if blown by a slight breeze, but the air inside the house was still. He looked up to see if anyone else had noticed it, but they were all focused on the patio doors. The thudding sound returned, followed a second later by something scuffing across the patio’s cement foundation.
“What was that?” Cindy mouthed.
“Stay here,” Jerry whispered. “I’m going upstairs to get the gun.”
Unlike most of the men (and many of the women) in Brinkley Springs, Jerry Cummings wasn’t much of a hunter. As a result, Randy hadn’t spent much time hunting either. He’d gone out a few times with Sam and Sam’s father and uncle, but he’d found it didn’t interest him. Randy didn’t like the cold or the tedium. Despite his lack of enthusiasm for hunting, he did enjoy target shooting, and his father had taken him out to the woods many times and let him shoot the family’s Kimber .45, which Jerry kept secured in a lockbox on the dresser. They’d killed many
