“And all of that stuff is connected. Bush and Obama are pawns of the same people. But that ain’t my point. You guys ever hear of eugenics?”
“No,” Gus said, “and neither did you until you got on the Internet. Swear to God, somebody ought to take away your computer access.”
Greg ignored the comment. “They want to control humankind through what they call selective breeding. The Nazis started it, but the NWO are continuing it. See, the only way to control the population is to first get it back down to a manageable size. They’re culling the herd, same way the game commission does when the deer population gets out of control. That’s why we’ve got diseases like cancer and AIDS. You telling me that we can put a little goddamn skateboard-looking robot on Mars and have it send back pictures, but we can’t find a cure for cancer? There’s a cure. You can bet on that, boys. There’s a goddamn cure. They just won’t release it because cancer helps cut down the population.”
Paul drained his beer and belched. The Pheasant brothers both fanned the air and frowned.
“Seems like cancer would take a long time to cull the population,” Paul said. “Wouldn’t they try something that worked a little quicker?”
“Don’t encourage him,” Gus said.
“Well, they ain’t just using cancer. That was just one example. Look at the world! We’ve got a high child-mortality rate among the poor. We’ve got war everywhere. These are all ways of whittling down the population. Another way to do it is shooting sprees. See, the CIA are in on it. So is the KGB.”
“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.
She noticed that the fat man’s corpse was gone. In its place was a small pile of dirt or ash. She couldn’t tell which from her vantage point. She wondered if someone had dragged the body away, or if perhaps the man hadn’t been dead after all. Perhaps he’d crawled away, wounded.
Moments later, three men armed with guns crept past her home, moving from car to car, using the parked vehicles as cover. They seemed very intent. Their expressions were grim and serious. Melanie recognized two of them as the men who ran the local garage—they were brothers, she thought. The Pleasants? The Pheasants? She couldn’t remember which. She didn’t know the other man who was with them, but he looked like someone who could handle himself; he had a big, burly frame. She reached for the doorknob, intent on calling out to them for help, but then she paused. What if they were working with the other killer? She’d heard gunshots sporadically through the night. It had sounded like more than one person was shooting and more than one type of firearm was being used. What if these weren’t the good guys? Maybe they were some kind of domestic terrorist group or just a bunch of crazies.
She stood there, debating with herself and hating her indecisiveness, until they’d moved on, and then was overwhelmed with a sense of regret. Clenching her jaw, she decided to risk it. She reached for the doorknob again when there was a soft rustling sound from the corner of the living room. Eyes wide, Melanie spun around so fast that she almost lost her balance. Teetering, she reached out with one hand and pushed against the wall for support. The noise was coming from the chimney. It grew louder as she stood there. Dirt and flecks of debris drifted down from above. Melanie whimpered. She realized the flue wasn’t closed, but surely that didn’t matter. The chimney wasn’t wide enough for a human being to fit through.
Was it?
A black form burst from the opening, and Melanie screamed. She flung the butcher knife at the shape, realizing too late that it was nothing more than a bird—a crow, just like the one she’d seen fly out of the house next door. The knife spun end over end and then thudded softly onto the carpet. The bird paid it no notice. Instead, the crow flew up onto the mantel and perched there, staring at her with its beady eyes.
“Jesus Christ . . .”
The bird croaked in response. A second crow emerged from the fireplace and landed on the recliner. Then a third appeared and lit on the couch, followed by a fourth and a fifth.
A gathering of crows,
she thought,
a murder. A gathering of crows is called a murder . . .
Melanie backed up to the door. Keeping her gaze on the birds, she reached down and fumbled for the umbrella she kept in the corner next to the coat rack. Her fingers closed around the handle. She raised the umbrella and shook it at the birds. As she did, the umbrella ballooned open, momentarily blocking her view. She caught a whiff of something that smelled rotten.
“Get out of here,” she yelled, wrestling with the open umbrella. “Shoo!”
When she lowered the umbrella, the birds were gone. In their place were five identical men, each dressed all in black. They varied only in height. One of them raised his hand and spoke. His voice was like a rusty, squeaking hinge.
“Hello.”
She didn’t even have time to scream.
***
Randy woke up cold, wet and confused. His head throbbed. The pain seemed to be centered in his temples. He opened his eyes and saw the night sky. Pinprick stars stared back at him. He was lying on something hard. Pavement? Asphalt? He shivered in the damp air. What was he doing outside? And what was that smell?
Groaning, he pushed himself into a sitting position. His hands, pants and shirt were sticky. Frowning, he glanced down at the wetness and saw that it was blood. Then he looked up at the wreckage.
The blood wasn’t his. He was shocked by how much there was. It had come from the car, running out onto the road and . . .
And then it all came back to him.
Randy gulped cold air, buried his face in his bloodied hands and screamed—mournful, unintelligible shrieks that left his throat raw. He wished he would pass out again, but that didn’t happen, so he continued screaming. He didn’t stop until he heard something flutter overhead. Startled, Randy looked up and saw a small bat swoop overhead. Randy had seen bats in his backyard plenty of times, but he hadn’t realized they could fly so fast. This one zipped right along. Seconds later, it crashed into the invisible barrier. The bat dropped like a stone and landed on the road. It twitched once and then lay still. Even from where he sat, Randy could tell that the collision had killed it. The bat had been going too fast, just like Stephanie and Sam.
Wiping his nose, he choked down a sob. There was nothing he could do for them now. Not for Stephanie. Not for Sam. Not for his parents. Not for anyone.
As Randy watched, a tiny smoke like wisp escaped from the bat’s corpse and rose into the air. The shapeless, ethereal form hovered for a moment and was then pulled toward the barrier, as if by a magnet. There was a brief flash of light and then the white stuff—whatever it was—disappeared. He considered this for a moment and then decided that he’d probably been better off passing out. Otherwise, he could have blundered into the same thing that had just killed the bat.