"I don't rightly know," Paul said, "but whatever it is, it ain't good."

Another gunshot echoed across town, followed by an explosion.

"Holy mother of God," Paul said, jumping. "What was that?"

"I don't know. All I know is it's been a weird day and it just keeps getting stranger."

"How do you mean?"

Gus paused. "Well, first there was this Amish fella come riding into town on a horse and buggy. Real pretty horse. Very gentle, but very big. She'd be a prize mare. He's got her tied up down by the river tonight. He asked me and Greg if there was a hotel in town and we sent him over to Esther's place."

"Amish?" Paul grunted. He'd known a few Brethren in his life-Amish, Mennonites and Moldavians. All of them had been good people. Hard workers. Very handy with a hammer and a saw. "I don't see how that would be connected to what's happing now, though."

"I don't reckon it is, but you never know. Maybe it's-"

Paul paused as a man ran by them, weaving around parked cars on the street and tottering back and forth. Paul recognized him as one of the cashiers at the local convenience store, but he didn't know the man's name. At first, Paul assumed the guy must be drunk, but then he noticed the man's torn trouser leg and the blood on his calf, and realized he was injured.

"Hey," Gus called, apparently not knowing the cashier's name either. "You okay, fella? What's going on?"

The fleeing man didn't stop. He shuffled past them, not even bothering to look in their direction as he answered. "Dark men...they're going house to house...killing folks. Killing everybody. Even the pets."

Paul took a step forward. "What do you mean?"

"No time! If you're smart, you'll run now. I mean it. They're killing everyone."

"Who?"

"The dark men. Run!"

"What was that explosion?" Paul asked.

"Someone shot the propane tank behind the fire hall. Now get going, if you know what's good for you. I ain't waiting around for the dark men."

"Hey! Just wait a goddamn minute, fella. We don't understand what you're talking about."

Without another word, the man fled on, trailing dark spots of blood on the asphalt. Gus and Paul looked at each other.

"Dark men?" Gus arched one eyebrow. "What do you suppose he meant by that?"

"I don't know. Black folks, maybe?"

Gus shook his head. "No. I've talked to him plenty of times down at the shop. He's brought his car in to be serviced, though I can't remember his name. He seemed like a nice enough guy. Never struck me as a racist."

"Just because a fella ain't telling nigger jokes or wearing a Klan robe don't mean they're not racist. You can never tell."

"I still don't buy it," Gus said. "And besides, even if he was racist, it still doesn't make any sense. Why would a bunch of black folks want to shoot up Brinkley Springs?"

"Not saying they are. I'm just trying to figure out what he meant. He said dark men."

"Well, if we stand out here long enough, I reckon we're liable to find out the hard way what he meant."

Paul nodded. "I suspect you're right. Not sure what to do, though. Don't hear any sirens or anything. Just screaming."

They paused, listening. Gus shuddered.

"I hope my brother is okay."

"Where is Greg, anyway?" Paul asked him.

"At home sleeping, I guess. Wish I could call him and find out."

Paul glanced at his cowering dogs and then out into the street. The breeze shifted, bringing with it the unmistakable smell of smoke. It made his eyes water. He hesitated, weighing his options. On the one hand, he should stay here and look after the dogs and his belongings. The fleeing cashier had mentioned that pets were being killed. But on the other hand, it sounded like there were a lot of people out there who needed help. People that he knew. Some that he'd known his whole life. It didn't seem right to hunker down here while they were in trouble. He turned back to Gus.

"Want to go check on your brother?"

"I'd like to. Do you think it's safe?"

"No. But it beats standing around here waiting for whatever is happening to find its way to us. We'll make sure he's okay. Then I'll come back here and watch over my dogs."

Nodding, Gus squared his shoulder and straightened up. "Sure. Just let me change my shoes."

"Yeah," Paul replied, glancing back down at the bedroom slippers. "I reckon you might want to do that first. Might want to put some clothes on over those pajamas, too. And Gus?"

"What?"

"Might be best if you bring along a gun."

"I reckon you're right."

Artie Prater slept, which was exactly what he'd been afraid of. His wife of five years, Laura, was out of town. She worked for the bank in Roncefort, and once a year, all of the bank's employees went on a mandatory weeklong retreat. This year, they were in Utah, enjoying steak dinners and attending seminars about things like team-building and synergy. Artie liked to tease Laura about these things, but only because he was secretly jealous. He'd been unable to find work for over a year, and it bothered him that he couldn't provide for his wife or their new son, Artie Junior. The upside was that while she was at work every day, he'd been able to stay home and take care of Little Artie. Laura reciprocated by getting up with the baby at night, which relieved Artie to no end.

Artie had always been a deep sleeper. His mother had once said that he could sleep through a nuclear war, and that wasn't far from the truth. He'd slept through 9/11, waking up in his college dorm room later that night and wondering why everyone was staring at the television and crying. Since becoming a father, Artie's biggest fear was that the baby would wake up crying, perhaps hungry or in need of a diaper change or shaking from a nightmare, and he'd sleep through it. That's why he was grateful when Laura was there to get up with Artie Junior at night, and that's why he dreaded these rare times when she wasn't home.

They had a baby monitor in the house. A small camera was mounted above Little Artie's crib. It broadcast a signal to the monitor, which was plugged into the bedroom's television. With Laura out of town, Artie had turned the volume on the television all the way up, filling the room with white noise and the soft sounds of his son's breathing. Then, bathed in the glow from the screen, he'd sat back in bed with his laptop and played a video game. It was early-too early to sleep-but Little Artie had been tired and cranky, and Artie knew from experience that he should rest when the baby rested. He promised himself that if and when he got tired of the game, he'd sleep lightly.

Except that he hadn't. He'd fallen asleep playing the game, barely having the presence of mind to sit the laptop aside before passing out. He slept through the power outage, and did not wake when both the laptop and the television shut off, as well as the baby monitor. He slept through the howling dogs and the terrified screams and the numerous gunshots. He slept through the explosion. He slept as his neighbors were murdered in their homes and out on the street. He slept, drooling on his pillow and snoring softly as two shadowy figures entered his home. He slept, unaware that in Artie Junior's nursery, a large black crow had perched on the edge of his son's crib. He slept as the crow changed shape. He remained asleep as the bedroom door opened and a shadow fell across him, as well.

He didn't wake up until the baby screamed, and by then it was too late.

The last thing he saw was the figure in the room with him. The baby's screams turned to high-pitched, terrified shrieks. Artie bolted upright and flung the sheets off his legs, but before he could get out of bed, the intruder rushed to the bedside and loomed over him. The man's face was concealed in darkness. It shoved his chest with one cold hand and forced him back down on the bed. In the nursery, the baby's screams abruptly ceased.

"W-who...?"

"Scream," the shadow told Artie. "It's better when you scream."

The pounding on Axel's door grew louder and more insistent. The chain lock rattled and the door shook in its frame. Candlelight flickered, casting strange shapes on the walls. The pounding came again. Gripping his walking stick like a club, Axel tiptoed into the living room and peeked through the curtains. Jean Sullivan stood on his porch, holding Bobby in one arm and beating on the door with her fist. Breathing a sigh of relief, Axel lowered the stick and hurried to the door. He fumbled with the locks as Jean hammered again.

"Mr. Perry? Axel? It's Jean from next door. Please let us in!"

She sounded frantic. Releasing the chain from its hasp, Axel turned the knob and yanked the door open.

"What's wrong?" he asked. "What is it?"

Jean stumbled into the house and slammed the door shut behind her. Bobby held tight, his arms and legs wrapped around his mother. The boy looked terrified. Axel stared at them both in concern.

"What is it?" he asked again.

"Didn't you hear me knocking? Or all the noise outside?"

"No," he admitted. "I don't hear so good these days. I came inside after the dogs started barking. Was going to fix myself a bite to eat, but with the power out, I decided to just go to sleep instead. I was laying down when I finally heard you. I'm sorry."

"It's okay." Jean turned around and locked the door behind her.

"Did you say there's trouble? What kind of trouble?"

"I don't know." She turned back to him. "People screaming and shouting. Gunshots. Something exploded on the other side of town. I think there are a couple of fires, too."

Axel gaped. "Good Lord..."

"Bobby, I need to put you down, sweetie. Mommy's arms need a break."

Shaking his head, the boy buried his face in her hair and clung tighter.

"Bobby..."

"No, Mommy. Bad things are out there."

"We're safe now. Mr. Perry won't let anything happen to us."

"Your mother's right," Axel said, not understanding any of this, but trying to sound brave for the boy. "Whatever's going on, it can't get you in here."

Bobby peered doubtfully at the old man from between his mother's hair.

Grinning, Axel raised the walking stick. "If it does, I'll whack it with this."

"That's just an old stick."

"Oh no, it's much more than an old stick. You see, this walking stick has magic."

"No it doesn't."

"Bobby," Jean chided, "be polite."

"But, Mommy, there's no such thing as magic. It's just make-believe, like in the cartoons and Harry Potter."

Axel winked at the boy. "Magic is more than just stories, Bobby. Where do you think the lady who made up those Harry Potter books got the idea from? I reckon magic has been around as long as human beings have, and that's a long, long time."

He paused. Axel couldn't be sure, but he thought he heard somebody screaming outside. He wondered if he should go out and check, but then decided that Jean and Bobby were his primary responsibility now.

"So what can it do?" Bobby asked, pointing at the walking stick.

"I cut this branch off a magic tree a long, long time ago when I was just a little older than you. We lived way down in a hollow on the other side of Frankford, back near where the quarry is today. There was a cave at the far end of the hollow-more of a sinkhole, really. My daddy filled it up over the years because our cows kept falling into it. But next to the hole was a big old willow tree, just as gnarled and ugly as I am now. The tree's name-"

"Trees don't have names, Mr. Perry."

Jean frowned. "Bobby, manners!"

The boy stuck his bottom lip out and pouted. "But I called him mister."

"It's okay," Axel soothed. "Everything has a name, Bobby. Not just people, but animals and trees and even rocks. God gives everything a secret name. This old willow tree's name was Mrs. Chickbaum."

"That's a funny name."

"Aye, I reckon it is. But that was what my mother said its name was, and she knew about these things."

"Was your mommy magic?"

Axel was surprised to find himself tearing up as he answered. "Yeah, she was. My mommy was magic. And so was old Mrs. Chickbaum. Not in a way that you'd probably understand. The tree couldn't fly or turn people into salamanders. But you felt better in its shade. You rested easy underneath its branches. There was a little spring to the left of her trunk, and that water was just about the best I've ever tasted-clear and fresh and ice cold."

"So Mrs. Chickenbaum made things better?"

"That's right. Nothing bad happened around her. And this walking stick came from Mrs. Chickbaum and I've had it ever since, and it's always brought me nothing but good luck, for the most part. So I reckon we'll be safe enough here. Okay?"

Bobby smiled, and then slowly relaxed. "Okay, Mr. Perry."

Jean lowered him to the floor and sighed. Axel heard her back crack and her joints pop as she straightened up again.

"He's not as light as he used to be," she said, stretching.

"No," Axel agreed. "He's growing quick. Gonna be a fine boy, Jean. You do good with him."

"Thank you, Axel. You're good with kids."

He shrugged, blushing. She smiled then, and Axel saw some of the fear ease from her face. He motioned toward the couch.

"Why don't you two sit down?"

"We'd better not," Jean said, glancing back to the door. "It's really bad out there."

"And you don't know any more than what you told me?"

She shook her head. "Not really. But with the power and the phones out, and the dogs, and now all this screaming and such-I'm scared."

"Well, I don't suppose we should be standing around here talking about it in the living room. I reckon we're sort of exposed up here. Maybe we should head down into my basement for a while? I hunker down there when there's a tornado warning or a really bad storm. We'll be safe enough. It's not finished-not much on the eyes. Just a concrete floor and cement block walls, but it's dry. I've got a kerosene heater I can turn on to keep us warm. And the stairs are the only way in or out, so we'll have plenty of warning if somebody breaks in or anything."

"That's a good idea."

"I'll get a few bottles of water and such from the kitchen. Can you help me carry it? This danged arthritis makes it harder for me to do things like that these days."