Black Bird of the Gallows

by Meg Kassel

  I scrabble over a section of mud and stones and attack the steep slope. Behind me, the crows still battle the bees. The crows’ calls have grown desperate. I can see a ledge trail cut into the bank above me—maybe one used years ago by miners or currently by animals. It’s only about ten feet away. If I can get to it, I’d make up some ground and possibly find someplace to hide. It’s a long shot at best, but the crows are back there fighting for me, so I can’t give up. I shed my disguise and played my music for a crowd. I can climb a damn hill.

  Slivers of wet shale slide out beneath my feet, and my knees crash on the rocks for the umpteenth time. I land on my belly, panting. Again. I don’t have the footwear for this, or the strength. My arms shake with fatigue. My stomach lets out an empty howl.

  Then, for the second time, the sound of thunder cracks through the valley.

  The crows go silent. The buzzing quiets to a dull hum. It’s as if they are waiting…

  A terrible thundering unsettles the rock beneath me. It vibrates, shifts, with tremors as frightening as the crack of the landslide. The loose rock and soil beneath my fingers gives way. I slide down a few hard-won feet.

  I wait, ribs heaving against the rocky surface. Nothing happens. My view of Cadence is limited from here. I can’t see anything, and for a second, my body sags with relief. It’s beautiful and brief, wiped away by a sound both unfamiliar and terrifying. It is a roar, quiet and relentless. It’s the sound of water.

  I look to the bend in the highway, and a cry rips from my throat. A frothing tumble of water unrolls down the four lanes like a dark, filthy ribbon. The road is a deep groove cut into the landscape, making it act as a perfect funnel. Debris I can’t identify tumbles with it, and the water is deepening, thickening with each passing second. Reece was right—the water ran for the highway—but I don’t know what else it’s hitting. Whether it’s moving through the valley or found a path over and through the rubble. Either way, Lake Serenity is free of her restraints, and she’s moving fast.

  I dig in my hands and feet and scrabble upward with desperation. My feet find a slippery patch of loose rock, and I slide down more. The water is not deep, but it surges up the base of the slope and tugs at my feet. I can’t climb up the muddy mess I’m clinging to. It’s like climbing up mashed potatoes. I am no match for the water’s power. Ice cold fingers pull my legs, yanking me with terrifying force.

  The swift current jerks me into its turbulent rush. In an instant, the mountain is gone. Gravity is gone. Sky and earth, shaken senseless. I’m capable of swimming, but not in this. I am nothing. A small, breakable toy being tossed around by nature’s force.

  I won’t survive this. I grab one last lungful of air before being sucked under again, bumping and scraping against rocks and earth and things once owned by people. This is how I’m going to die. It’s a neutral thought. I can’t even summon emotion. It’s just simple fact.

  Something big and solid slams against my back. Pain shoots up my spine, around my ribs. I gasp in a lungful of water and reach back for the rough, layered thing against my spine. Shingles. A house? With the last of my strength, I haul myself onto the object behind me. It is a roof—part of one, anyway. It’s buoyant enough to stay steady in the rushing current. I drag myself as high as I can and collapse against the peak, gasping, coughing up filthy water from aching lungs. The pain in my ribs makes me retch. Or maybe it’s all the river I choked in. Hard to tell. Harder to care.

  How long did that whole thing take? Five seconds? Fifty? It felt like an eternity. I open my eyes and see a woman, facedown, being pushed along by the current. I shut my eyes and don’t open them again. That could have been me. It should have been me. At this moment, Reece should be very thankful of his ability to turn into a bird. I’d rather be a bird right now.

  The ride slows. Lake Serenity is large, but it isn’t an ocean. As the water spreads out, the urgent push of it eases. The roof grinds to a halt, and now, for some reason, I feel like crying. And I would, if I had anything left. But I do have to open my eyes. Face whatever post-apocalyptic hellscape is waiting for me on the other side of my lids.

  So I look, half expecting to see fires, destruction, a sea of corpses. But no. The air isn’t thick with grit here, but clear. The body I saw before is nowhere to be found. In fact, there are no bodies anywhere in sight. I push myself to sit and blink in confusion. Am I having a delusion? There’s no piles of rubble or ruined buildings. I’m not on the highway anymore. At some point, the water changed course, eased around Mount Franklin, following gravity’s pull, spreading out and dispersing. Aside from the six-or-so inches of gently moving muddy water, this cross street is intact—houses, trees, everything is as it was before the landslide. I know this because I know precisely where I am. My roof has run aground in the parking lot of Reilly’s Gas and Variety on Route 12. My heart stutters off beat. I’m close to home. I shouldn’t be surprised. Cadence is a small town. I’m not too far from the entrance to Mount Franklin Estates.

  Walking a few miles uphill is unthinkable, but oh…home. I wondered if I’d see it again. I climb off the roof and stagger to my feet. My body is unevenly heavy, as if different weights are tied to my limbs. I try to take stock, figure out what might be broken. Pretty much everything hurts, but not so terribly that I’m debilitated. I’m standing, after all.

  I eye the front door of Reilly’s and begin to slosh toward it. There’s food in there. Water. My throat feels coated in sand. I’m dragging my left foot a little, reducing my progress to a plodding shuffle. A hysterical laugh shudders out of my belly, unbidden.

  I climb the step and push open the convenience store’s door, admitting a thin spread of water. A sour smell hits my nose, making my spirits drop. Someone’s been through here. A glance to the right shows empty refrigerator cases with doors hanging open. A smashed gallon of milk spreads sticky and white over the floor. So much for water. That was surely what was looted first. My thoughts focus on the aisles. Food. Something must still be left.

  I turn at the sound of a light moan. A girl around my age lies on the floor, folded into a ball, her back to me. Her hair is caked with blood and dirt. I hurry to her side and lay a hand on her shoulder. The girl whimpers and curls tighter. There are bruises up her bare arms. Her hands clutch at her torn T-shirt, printed with the words Reilly’s Variety across the chest. She must be a worker here.

  “Shh,” I soothe. “I’m not here to hurt you. Can you sit up?”

  The girl hesitantly rolls. Both her eyes are swollen—one is blackened—but she can open the other one a bit. “They’re still here,” she whispers. Her eye turns toward the back room.

  A loud crash sounds from there, followed by rowdy, feverish laughter. At least two males, as far as I can tell. My heart races. Fresh fear sweeps adrenaline into my wiped-out system. “They did this to you?”

  The girl just closes her eye. The rest of her face is streaked with dirt, puffed and purpled with bruises. A gash runs from her eyebrow into her hair. The men in the back room laugh again. It’s a high, demented sound. Not sane. I would bet good money that they have been stung.

  I slide an arm under her and gently lift her to sitting. “Can you walk?”

  Her brow knits. “If I could walk, do you think I would still be here?”

  Her reply is so snappish, I pause. Then it’s so familiar, I almost drop her like a rock. Only one person has that voice. “Kiera Shaw?”

  31- a murder of crows

  “Oh hell. Angie Dovage?” She tries an eye roll, fails. “Of course, it would be you.”

  My grip on her loosens. I didn’t know she worked here. I never stopped at this gas station because the gas was more expensive than anywhere else. Still, I can’t imagine the queen of Cadence High behind the counter, selling lottery tickets and potato chips. But this isn’t high school—this is survival. I give her a little shake. “Get up, Kiera.”

  She sighs. “I don’t expect you to help me.”

  My stomach coils with something cold
and ugly. It’s not my job to help her. I’m wounded, too—and weak and hungry and dehydrated—and Kiera Shaw has made my life hell since I arrived in Cadence. No one would blame me for walking away. No one but me. I couldn’t abandon her and live with myself.

  Glass shatters in the back room, and one of the men lets out a howl. Loud banging ensues. I cringe at the sound of fists hitting flesh and the screams of a man who is not going to win. My senses fly into high gear. One of them is going to come out of there shortly, maybe looking for another body to beat on.

  Kiera drops her head and waves her hand. “Just go,” she rasps out. Her mouth stretches into a bloody smirk, exposing a dislodged eye tooth. “I’ll get what I deserve, right?”

  “Shut up.” I hook my arms under her armpits and heave her back up against my chest. “No one deserves this.”

  Using my last scraps of adrenaline, I drag her toward the door. I’m not gentle about it. Maybe she does deserve that. I back into the door, grateful beyond words the bell isn’t working.

  Breath coming in labored puffs, I haul her to the side of the building and pin her against the wall. I’m not trying to be mean, but carrying a girl with five inches and twenty pounds on me isn’t something I can sustain. “You need to walk.”

  Her face is surprised. That one eye is open as wide as she can make it. “I told you, I can’t. It’s broken.”

  I wince at the sound of things smashing inside the convenience store. The man is out of the back room and probably looking for Kiera. We’re in a really bad spot here. Reilly’s Gas and Variety hugs a curve in the road, leaving only asphalt to our sides and a wedge of thick forest to the rear. Our only hope lies on the other side of the street. It’s a neighborhood. The houses are small and closer together.

  We could hide in one of those small houses until the guy forgets and moves on. At least, we could find a way to defend ourselves. But we have to cross the wide-open space of gas pumps and parking lot before we even reach Route 12. And then we’d have to cross that two-lane road. A lot of ground to cover by two wounded girls.

  A bottle of liquor explodes against the inside of the plate-glass window, startling muffled shrieks from Kiera and me.

  He’s going to see us if we run. But he’s going to see us if we stay here.

  I grab Kiera’s arm and pull it over my shoulder. “We’re going. You have to walk. It’s going to hurt.”

  A pained gasp wheezes from her. “But—.”

  “I don’t care.” I don’t. My entire body is a throbbing knot of pain. Plus, I’m pretty sure I’ve got a cracked rib from my ride in Lake Serenity’s water slide. I yank her forward as another bottle smashes on the window. “You will hurt more with him.”

  Kiera starts walking, and I know it hurts her. Her face is gray, and she whimpers each time she puts weight on that broken ankle. But she does it.

  We make it all the way to the pumps before the door smashes open, banging against its frame. I glance back to see a wide-bellied man in a bloodstained T-shirt shout at us. I can’t tell his age. All I see is rage and clenched red fists, trembling at his sides.

  He sees us and starts running. Not fast, but faster than us.

  I jerk Kiera forward, and we’re able to pick up the pace slightly. Not enough. I don’t see the curb through the water, and we both tumble into the street.

  “What are you, suicidal? Leave me and go,” she gasps, holding her face out of the water with trembling arms. This time, there’s nothing snide behind her words. She means it. The chase is over, and she knows it.

  The truth is, even without her, I wouldn’t be able to outrun him. “When he reaches us, we fight,” I tell her. “Nail him in the crotch. I’ll go for his eyes.”

  “Where you going, girlies?” the man gasps. He’s closer than I thought, closing the gap fast.

  Kiera’s mouth opens in surprise, then firms. “Crotch. Got it.”

  Suddenly, the sounds of flapping papery wings and feverish caws fill the street. A cloud of crows heads directly for our pursuer. The man flings his meaty arms wildly as the birds descend on him.

  This scene is very different from the one at the bus stop when I met Reece, all those weeks ago. Different from the skirmish they just had with the Beekeeper swarm. This is a serious attack. This is mortouri. The harbingers of death are dealing it themselves this time, and although I know little about this magical system, I think this is probably against the rules. Either they know it and hope their dark watchers aren’t seeing this, or they know it and don’t care.

  Unlike Rafette, this man is no match for a murder of supernatural crows. There are more of them this time—more than a dozen. The crows easily dodge his clumsy flailing. I flinch as their talons dig into exposed flesh, ripping, shredding. Their skilled beaks aim for eyes, the skin just below the ears. The man drops to his knees with a howl, hands covering the ruined remains of his face. Blood streams through his fingers, down his filthy T-shirt.

  Kiera squeezes my arm as one of the crows breaks away from the rest and turns sharp red eyes on us.

  Reece? I can’t tell. They all look the same. Its beak is shiny. Drops of red drip from the tip into the murky water. My throat goes dry. If this is Reece, I can’t imagine the boy on the other side of this gore-spattered bird. He hops forward and lets out a low caw.

  Kiera moans, dragging her arms over her head.

  “They won’t hurt us,” I murmur, but she’s crying so loudly she doesn’t hear.

  The crows peck and dig until the man goes still. Until the water around him turns rust-colored.

  Some of the crows perch in a gruesome row on the man’s body. Others fly to the gas pumps. They begin to run their beaks through glossy feathers. All except for the one standing on the curb, watching me. It dips its head and blinks at me. I mouth the words, thank you.

  Satisfied, it hops back to the others, perched on the dead guy’s back. They shift to make room for it, and it lets out a long, mournful kraaaah before cleaning its feathers.

  I turn away, feeling a little light-headed, and I climb to my feet. “Come on,” I croak, pulling Kiera upright. “Let’s break into that house.”

  Kiera points and blubbers at the crows, but I tug her away. Together we limp to the closest house, a neat little yellow number with window boxes. They’re all abandoned around here, of course. Inconvenient. It would be so much easier if someone would just open their doors and let us in. Two beaten girls, filthy and drenched in foul water, hobbling across the street. Kiera might be in shock. She’s making weird little mewling sounds.

  “Zip it, will you?” I mutter. “You’re creeping me out.”

  She rolls that swollen eye my way. “I’m creeping you out? We just saw a man get pecked to death by crows. Crows, Angie, and you’re not even fazed.” She shakes her head. “You are a freak.”

  I glance over at the blood-caked wreck of a girl next to me and grin. Yes, I grin, when just a few weeks ago, her words would have had me pushing back tears. When did this girl cease to have power over me? I wish I could pinpoint the precise moment. To feel the before and after and know if it happened because of something I did, or because of something that happened to me. My grin turns into a chuckle. “I actually feel sorry for you right now.”

  Despite the bruises, Kiera’s face pulls in a well-worn expression of disdain. “Oh please. You are so full of it.”

  I’m not interested in being her friend, but maybe there was a part of me that once did. Maybe that’s why it used to hurt when she was so cruel to me. “Yes, I am,” I say, “and maybe that’s the thing. You’re just…empty. Like, there’s nothing there. It’s like you’re waiting for a train or something. Being mean to kill the boredom.”

  Kiera looks away with a faraway frown. The front door is locked, of course, so I leave Kiera on the front stoop and move to try the rest of the doors and windows. Her mouth moves like she wants to say something, but she closes it and turns away.

  I shuffle off and try the other doors, but they’re also locked.
Luckily, there’s an unlocked living room window. I open it and carefully hoist myself inside, being mindful of my ribs and ankle and, oh, everything. The only furniture is a leather couch, a large TV on the wall, and a game system sprawled on the floor. Games and their plastic boxes float in an inch of water on the floor. I’d bet money that a single guy lives here. Hopefully he won’t mind if we borrow his house for a bit. I lean out the window to Kiera. “Go around to the front door. I’ll unlock it.”

  Kiera does as I say and limps through the front door. She collapses on the couch. I rifle through the homeowner’s kitchen for something to eat and drink. I know I’m desperate when the not-so-clear water on the floor is starting to look good. In the fridge, I find a six-pack of water bottles shoved behind a case of beer. The cabinet is stuffed with junk food. I return to the living room, hand Kiera a water and a tube of Pringles.

  She accepts them, but instead of opening them, she presses her loose eye tooth upward with her thumb and shudders in fresh pain. “Why are you still helping me?” she asks around her thumb.

  I stare at her for a minute. “Because it’s the decent thing to do. You should try it sometime.”

  She scoops up a Madden NFL box and shakes the water from it. “Do you think I owe you something now?”

  I look out the bare window. I’m restless but unsure where to go. “No,” I say. “Just try to… Oh forget it.” I shrug and rip open a bag of Doritos. “We’re graduating in a few months then we’ll never see each other again. Hopefully.”

  I’m surprised to see hurt flicker over her bruised features. “You’re right, you know,” she says in a small voice.

  “About what?”

  “I am…empty. Waiting, or whatever.” She waves a hand. “You said it better. You say everything better.”

  I struggle not to roll my eyes. In the scheme of things I’d like to do right now, playing therapist to Kiera Shaw is ranked way, way low on the list. I scarf down several handfuls of Doritos and shove the rest in a plastic grocery bag I found in the kitchen. “You’ll figure it out,” I say. “Or not.”