Free A Gathering of Crows by Brian Keene Page A

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