awareness, no matter how slight, but nothing changed. The body was as soulless and empty as when he’d first found it. But why? What had gone wrong? This was simple necromancy, after all. Not a discipline to be trifled with or taken lightly, of course, but not nearly as hard as many other occult tasks. Even if the man had been dead for hours, Levi should still have been able to pull the soul back. It wasn’t until decay set in that such a summoning became useless. After all, how could a dead man be expected to answer questions with a decomposing tongue?
“Are you there? Please, I only want to help. Perhaps you are confused by your situation? Can you tell me your name? Can you tell me who did this to you?”
Silence. Levi’s frown deepened. There should have been some spark, some indication that the soul had temporarily returned to its former home. For whatever reason, he had failed. He was no closer to knowing what he was dealing with, and while his questions remained unanswered, the situation in Brinkley Springs grew more desperate by the minute. Even now, the screams drew closer. He needed to face this—whatever it was. He had to save these people. Had to defeat it. But to do that, he needed the name of the entities. He needed to know whom or what he was fighting. All power stemmed from naming.
Without a name, the situation was hopeless.
Desperate, Levi racked his brain for an alternative. His hands curled into fists and his fingernails dug into the skin of his palms. He didn’t notice the pain. For a brief moment, he found himself wishing that the Siqqusim—a race of incorporeal beings used as soothsayers by the ancient Sumerians—weren’t sealed away in the void. He could have done as the Sumerian priests used to do and cast one of the entities into the body of this dead man, thus giving it a voice. But to do so—to breach the veil—was beyond his abilities. Indeed, he didn’t know anyone on Earth who could achieve that.
Think, man. Think!
“Crows,” he whispered, staring up into the sky. “Dark men dressed in black. The systematic slaughter of innocents. But why? For what purpose? Simple cruelty? What am I dealing with here, Lord? Any help you can give me would be greatly appreciated.”
The heavens were as silent as the corpse. Levi had expected as much.
“God helps those who help themselves,” he muttered. “But He sure doesn’t make it easy for them.”
Hurrying footsteps caught his attention. Levi glanced up in time to see two young people—a man and a woman—step out of the shadows. The man appeared to be in his midtwenties. He wore blue jeans and a flannel shirt, both of which hugged the contours of his body. He was in good physical shape. His brown hair was cropped close to his head and shaved down to stubble on the sides. Levi recognized the haircut. It was what members of the military called a “high and tight.” He assumed that this young man was either a soldier or a marine—or had been until recently. The woman he was with appeared to be about the same age. She was slim and pretty, with mournful brown eyes that matched her long hair, and a fair complexion.
Spotting him, they halted. The girl gasped. Both of them were obviously terrified. They glanced down at the body and then up at Levi. He held up his hands and smiled to show that he meant them no harm.
“Hmmm,” Levi murmured. “Maybe the Lord is answering prayers tonight after all.”
***
As Randy roared along behind Sam and Stephanie, he felt a sick mixture of fear, revulsion and shock. He’d turned the CD player off because it was too much of a distraction. His eyes were wide as he gaped at the destruction. He didn’t see the man who had killed his parents, nor the man’s compatriots, but the signs of their passage were visible on every street corner. Racing through downtown and struggling to keep up with Sam’s faster car, it was impossible for Randy to avoid the killers’ handiwork. Brinkley Springs was no longer recognizable as the place he’d grown up in. Fires burned unchecked in a dozen homes and businesses. Cars and trucks sat vacant along the streets and in driveways, some with their doors hanging open or hoods up, as if their owners had experienced car trouble. He thought again of when they’d first fled. Sam’s Nissan hadn’t started at first—not until Randy had leaned against it.
Corpses, both human and animal, lay sprawled in the streets, yards and sidewalks. Randy knew most of them—if not their names, then at least their faces—but he forced himself not to think about it. If he pretended that he didn’t know them, that their deaths had no more meaning than some random NPC in a video game, then maybe it wouldn’t hurt as bad. Some of the corpses showed no obvious signs of trauma. Others had been mauled and mangled— eviscerated, torn apart, heads and limbs tossed aside with careless abandon. And a few had suffered even worse fates. A man jutted halfway through the pawn shop’s plate-glass window. Shards of glass had severed his head from the nose up. A small child lay sprawled in a plastic wading pool. The pool was filled with blood. A man had been impaled with his own arms and legs. The grisly appendages stuck out the front of his torso as if they’d grown from it. Several people had been burned alive. Their charred remains still smoked on their lawns. A red and brown and pink pile of slop next to a woodpile and a chopping block with a bloodied ax embedded in it defied description, but Randy was pretty sure he knew what it was. Bile rose in his throat as he looked away. Across the street, a woman hung from a tree limb, dangling at the end of an extension-cord noose. Her breasts had been torn off and her stomach ripped open. Her innards lay on the ground at her feet. Carved into the bark of the tree was a single word in big block letters.
As he sped by, Randy wondered what it meant. It was a strange word. Certainly not one he’d ever heard before. He wasn’t even sure it was English. And who had carved it? The men in black, maybe, but how? Randy had some experience carving his initials into trees. When he was fourteen, Randy and Cathy Wilson had gone together for a whole summer. They’d had a favorite spot down along the Greenbrier River—a secluded section along the riverbank, hidden by a stand of tall birch trees. They’d gone there nearly every day and spent the afternoons swimming and talking and making out. Randy had convinced her to go skinny-dipping, but despite his best efforts, he’d never made it past third base. Near the end of the summer, he’d used the lock blade hunting knife his grandfather had given him for his birthday to carve his and Cathy’s initials— along with a big, if somewhat lopsided, heart—into the trunk of one of the old birch trees. Despite the soft bark, it had taken him all afternoon, and that was just four small letters and a crude heart. The strange word on the hanging tree was eight letters long, and each of the letters was a good ten inches high.
He promptly forgot about it as they hit a straightaway near the outskirts of town. Sam accelerated and Randy had no choice but to do the same. He glanced down at the speedometer. The needle was edging toward seventy- five miles per hour.
“Slow the hell down, Sam. It ain’t gonna do us any good if you and Stephanie end up wrapped around a motherfucking telephone pole.”
He knew, of course, that his friend couldn’t hear him, but Randy didn’t care. Hollering at Sam made him feel better. It took his mind off the horrors around them. It helped him forget about what had happened to his parents. Randy bit his lip and gripped the steering wheel hard. He moaned, long and low, and then the tears started again. He blinked his eyes, trying to clear his blurry vision, but every time he did, he saw the grotesque images. His father, bleeding from dozens of lacerations, shaking and jittering as the glass shard speared his eye. His mother, bravely holding the steak knife and trying to defend him. The way the killer’s voice had sounded when he promised to turn Randy’s mother inside out. How his ears rang and his hands grew numb when he pulled the trigger. Worst of all, Randy remembered the look on his mother’s face when the bullet passed through the intruder and slammed into her instead.
“I’m sorry, Mommy.” He wiped his eyes and nose with the back of his hand. “I didn’t mean to leave you there. I just didn’t know what else to do. And there was Steph . . .”
What would Marsha say when she found out? What would she think of him? She’d probably hate him, and she had every right to. He’d abandoned their mother. He’d
Randy hoped that his sister was okay, hoped that she was with Donny. If anybody could kick these weird fuckers’ asses, it was Donny Osborne. If Marsha was with him, she’d be in good hands. She had to be. Marsha was all that Randy had left. Marsha and Stephanie . . .
They blew past Pheasant’s Garage. It was dark, just like the rest of the town. As Randy caught up to Sam,
