[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
.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 [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]