Twelve to Midnight. The Crows.
The farmhouse sat at the end of a long, serpentine dirt road in the middle of nowhere. The derelict house at the end of the road had a roof that sagged and a warped, wide-covered deck with birdfeeders that hadn’t been filled in years. The vast cornfields surrounding the farm house were wild and rumpled. A chime dangling from a nearby gnarled tree rang softly in the warm, humid wind as Max Holt, sitting on a hill at a distance, used binoculars to examine the barns, the rusting tractors and an old collapsing outhouse. Just beyond the farm, he noticed a cemetery with gravestones, etched black against the dusk. He sighed, lowered the binoculars and wiped beads of sweat off his brow.
“So why exactly am I in Texas?” He asked, adjusting a small device in his ear. “What’s so special about this abandoned farm?”
“It’s not abandoned… We decoded a name two days ago and tracked him here.” Haddie’s voice emerged through the tiny black, communication device in his ear.
“What do we know about the mark?”
“Tom Smith. Born in Nevada. Worked as a creative manager in the 60s and 70s in South America for several multinational corporations. No citations. No tickets. No fines. Always paid his taxes on time. Perfect record.”
“Sounds like a cover.”
“Good observation. His real name is Luis Rand. Born in Oakland. Film degree from UCLA. Recruited by the government for a special department. Luis ended up in charge of manufacturing rebellion. Meaning, he produced fictional radio broadcasts in several countries reporting on the victories of rebels that never existed.”
“Why go through all that trouble?”
“People don’t act if they’ve lost hope.”
“What year are we talking about?”
“1950s. Luis created fictional rebel groups to revolt against a government that was trying to do some good for its people. Each broadcast reported a growing rebellion marching on the capital to depose of the president. Usual fare… lies, terror, propaganda… fabrications designed to make the rebels seem unbeatable so no one would dare oppose them. The agency created a boogeyman that never existed, and they used that boogeyman to overthrow an elected president trying to do some good for his country.”
“Right,” Max said. “And heard they’re working on a sequel to the original ‘War of the Worlds.’ Looking forward to that, myself. Heard it’s an epic Five Eyes co-production with no expenses spared.” He chuckled as he scanned the vast empty fields behind the farm. “Should I be looking out for mutilated cows or scorched geometric shapes in cornfields?”
“Not funny, Max. These operations corrupted, destabilized and destroyed entire countries, and Luis has information the Vale wants. You need to get to him before they do.”
Suddenly, Max heard a rumbling in the distance. His binoculars swivelled to a black SUV thundering down the dirt road, throwing great clouds of dust in the air. “Shit, we might be too late. I’ve got an SUV approaching fast.” He hooked his binoculars to his belt and withdrew his pistol. “I’m heading in.”
“Watch yourself.”
“Always.”
MAX RUSHED DOWN THE HILL as the SUV came to a stop and three shadowy figures vaulted out. Two agents kicked the front door and charged into the house while the other stood guard outside. As Max approached the entrance he lowered to a stealthy crab-walk. From inside he suddenly heard someone cry out in pain. They had Luis and were preparing to torture him. He had to move fast.
With a great sense of urgency, Max inched closer to the guard, concealing himself in the shadows. Then, all at once, he sprung up behind him, took him in a chokehold and squeezed until his torso shook and his legs sagged.
Carefully, Max lowered the unconscious agent to the ground as Luis released another scream. They had begun to interrogate him. He didn’t have much time.
Max followed the edge of the house to an open window and climbed inside the cluttered home and nearly slipped on a counter covered in grime and dead flies. Stacks of dirty dishes covered the kitchen table. Piles of magazines and books rose from the floor to the ceiling. On the walls were black and white surveillance photos of artists painting murals and protesting various dictators that had been selected and sponsored by the agency.
Max picked his way into the hallway, moving slowly toward the sound of hard knuckles hitting swollen flesh accompanied by the occasional groan. He froze suddenly when everything stopped and one of the agents spoke. “Where are the letters? Where are The Crows? Who else knows about them?”
Luis didn’t answer.
The punches and groans continued, and so did Max. He inched slowly toward the living room, picking his way around the stacks of boxes and crates, stopping with each step to listen.
“Where are the letters?”
Luis coughed and struggled with every word. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m just an old man who hoards a lot of useless junk from around the world.”
Max reached the living room and peeked through the open doorway.
One agent prepared a small bottle of orange serum and held it up to Luis. “I’ll ask my questions, again. Disappoint me and you get a drop of Grime. Disappoint me, again, and we move to a spoonful. Another time, and it’s the bottle. If we’re mistaken, and you’re just an old man who likes to hoard junk from around the world, then you have no idea what Grime will do to you.”
The agent tilted the bottle and let a drop form at the rim of the bottle and asked, “Where are the letters? Where are The Crows? Who else knows about them?”
Luis shook his head. “You’re dealing with forces you couldn’t possibly understand.”
The agent smiled and let a drop of Grime fall into Luis’ busted mouth. Luis struggled to keep his mouth closed, but the drop dissolved into his cuts and swollen lips.
“I’m told a drop of Grime unlocks a doorway to hell,” the agent said. “I can’t imagine what a bottle would do. Let’s try, again, and let’s not presume to know what I would and wouldn’t understand.”
Luis scoffed. “You remind me of myself when I was first at the agency. Do you even know who you’re working for? Who you’re really working for? Not the government. Not even the corporations. That’s what I thought at first when I realized we weren’t working for the government… I thought we were working for the corporations… But they’re just tools like the agency for a very dark end.”
“Where are the letters!”
The agent filled a spoon with serum and thrust it into his mouth, breaking his four front teeth.
Luis gagged and coughed and spat blood and saliva. After a long moment he said, “You know the serum you hold is made from a very peculiar flower that comes from another place. And I don’t mean another country.”
“Where are The Crows!”
“Your true masters are into some crazy shit. They are. They don’t just sacrifice people to their ancient god. No. That would be too easy. They go a step beyond. They sacrifice villages, towns and countries, turning them into places of fear. It’s all about the fear… hate… anger…”
Luis nodded.
“What we did in the 50s and 70s was just the beginning. They want to sacrifice the world. They do. They think by turning this world into a living hell they’ll bring forth transcendence.” \n\n The agent sighed. “You are a stubborn old mule, aren’t you.” He grabbed his hair, tilted his head back and smashed the bottle into his mouth just as Max sprung from the shadows in one fluid motion, firing two rounds into each surprised face. Then he rushed to Luis and pulled the bottle out of his gaping mouth.
Luis smiled at Max. “I ain’t getting out of this one. I can already hear the voices… the horror…”
“Luis, stay with me.”
Luis stared at Max for a long moment. Then he said, “You’re the ones, they’re after — the wrench in their finely oiled killing machine.”
Max nodded as the Comms in his ear sounded. “Ask him about what they wanted?” He inched closer to Luis. “What do you have that scares them so much?”
Luis smiled. “Words.”
“Words?”
“Poetry. Art. Letters.” Luis began to sob, and Max was sure the serum was beginning to act on his faculties. Then he continued, “I thought I was a patriot, preventing threats to our way of life. Imagine my surprise when I found out the agency is just a tool for a bunch of rich assholes in dark robes. I hurt so many people… they’re coming for me… ”
“What did they want?”
Luis struggled against the poison coursing through his veins.
“We targeted her because she was connected. She could see things in the other world. She could see their faces and she could paint them in a way no remote viewer ever could. When we tried to own her… her voice… her art… so she wouldn’t expose us… she still painted… whatever she wanted.”
Luis fell silent, and his face tightened.
“Her mother was the same, and we intercepted her letters to her daughter. We couldn’t let her know her mother was still alive. Both mother and daughter had something between them we couldn’t possibly understand. A variable we had somehow overlooked.”
Luis groaned and trembled and struggled to calm himself before he continued.
“We paid her father to keep a close eye on her and report anything unusual in her art. She could see crows from the other world… she told her father they were following her, protecting her, and he thought she was crazy.”
Luis began to breathe heavily.
“It was all there in her collection…The Crows… a blueprint of how they planned to sacrifice the entire world to their ancient god. I’ve seen the paintings, and I still don’t get it. I hate what we did to that poor girl and her brother. At least the mother… got away…”
Luis trailed away. He collected his thoughts and took in a deep breath.
“The girl nearly got away too. She ran, and she started a collective of artists, a rebellion we didn’t control, and they painted and wrote poetry against the corruption—against the darkness.”
Luis shook his head, almost in disbelief.
“They published a book of poetry along with an underground magazine. We had to find every single one of those books and periodicals and burn them.”
Luis began to stammer.
“Her mistake was going to her father… for all the things she had seen she did not see him.”
Luis lost himself for a moment. Tears formed in his eyes and slowly slipped down his face as he continued.
“She was just an experiment and she ended up turning against us. She was the key, the leader, the inspiration for them and for me…”
His eyes widened as though he saw something horrible behind Max. He closed his eyes and when he opened them again he continued with difficulty.
“What we did to them… I will never forgive myself for.”
“Do you have the letters?”
“They’re coming for me! I can hear them!”
“Do you have the paintings!”
Luis started, then nodded as he struggled for every breath.
Max realized he didn’t have much time. “Are they in the house?” he asked, leaning closer to Luis. But Luis didn’t answer. He tried to speak with difficultly, whispering:
“15… 13…”
He repeated the numbers again, then suddenly shrieked and thrashed in the chair. Max tried to rip the tape off his arms as he jerked about, making the chair thump against the creaking floors.
When Max finally freed him, Luis jack-knifed to his feet, charged past him and dove straight through the window. Bleeding from multiple lacerations, he crawled toward the cemetery before his mouth froze in a hideous scream of terror.
OUTSIDE IN THE GROWING DARKNESS, Max knelt beside Luis checking for a pulse but didn’t find any. Luis' eyes were wide and his hand extended out toward the cemetery. “Nothing you could have done for him,” Haddie’s voice sounded in his ears. Max stared at the dead man’s hands, then the cemetery where he saw gravestones in the moonlight. \n\n“15… 13… It could be a safety deposit box.” Haddie observed.
Max nodded. “Yeah, it could be.” He narrowed his eyes on the cemetery. The trail of blood Luis left on the ground was like an arrow pointing to a gravestone. “Hold on, I got a hunch.”
Max stood and proceeded toward the cemetery.
“You need to be careful. There could be more agents on their way.” \n\n “Government agents I can handle. It’s the other shit I’m worried about.”
MAX FOUND A BURIAL PLOT MARKED 1513 IN THE SMALL CEMETERY, and using a shovel he had found in a barn, he dug deep into the ground until he hit a coffin. He jumped down into the hole and brushed the dirt off the lid with his blistered hands. Then he heaved the rotten lid open to find a thick lining of black plastic. As he ripped the plastic apart, the scent of wet earth, paint and burnt wood hit him like slap in the face. But within moments he found himself staring at sketches, books, envelopes, statuettes and paintings from different times and origins. “Jackpot!” he said, and activated his cellphone camera to send a live stream to Haddie who was sitting safely in the back of a cramped bookstore in New York City.
“Mora,” Haddie said as she observed the paintings. “We’ve sensed she was ‘marked’ like the others but could never prove it. She was clearly connected…” Her voice trailed away pensively as he held the cellphone above a painting of a medieval lord surrounded by stacks of bodies in a crumbling castle. “Looks like another artist… also seeing into the other realm…”
Max scanned the paintings, then moved on to a copy of a book titled, ‘Poets Against the Darkness.’ From within the book he pulled out an envelope with ‘WSFM’ written on it. “What does WSFM stand for?”
“Weird Science and Freakin' Magic department.”
Max chuckled. “What?”
“True story… you’re starting to lag—”
Max looked up and to his horror he noticed a thick, unnatural fog creeping over the open grave. “Shit!” he said with dawning realization. “I think I’m in a Bleed. I think that’s why Luis hid the artefacts here.”
But Haddie didn’t respond. A high pitch whine sounded in his ear and he instantly pulled off the earpiece. As he thrust his comms into his pocket, he saw crows circling above and felt his entire body suddenly prickle with needles. His body was reacting to another vibration as he shifted in and out of another dimension. As he tried to gather himself, he heard a twig snap above. He looked up to see a tall woman made of darkness standing by the grave.
Max quickly hid inside the coffin, pulling the wooden lid over. He stared through a crack in the wood at the dark apparition looming above him. It stared down at the coffin with cold black eyes and black blood like ink dripping down from its fingers. A crow flew down into the grave, landing on the coffin, pecking nervously at the lid, giving away his position.
Max closed his eyes and waited to be dragged away to this other world. But the crow disappeared and the apparition drifted away from the grave. Max quietly slipped out of the coffin and climbed out of the grave, ascending into a world of fog. He could hear the crows circling above but couldn’t see them. As he ran, he heard the sound of his heart thumping against his chest, and then he heard footsteps. Behind him. Growing faster. Louder.
Max glanced over his shoulder but saw only a mass of fog. He didn’t wait for whatever lurked in the darkness to snatch him. He charged through the cemetery, jumped over the fence and stumbled miserably to the ground. Then he closed his eyes and lost consciousness as a high-pitched whine filled his ear.
When at last he opened his eyes, it was morning and beams of golden sunlight poured through the cracks of a door illuminating the darkness and warming his face. He had no recollection of what had transpired, only vague flashbacks of dragging himself over the ground while unnatural and incomprehensible things moved around him.
He remembered the crows, the woman with the black eyes, and the shrieks and screams that rent the night. He remembered seeing the outhouse and crawling through a layer of fog. He remembered opening the creaking, red door and hiding inside. Everything else was a blur.
Covered in dirt and filth, he stepped out into the harsh, white sunlight. He grabbed his phone and called Haddie. A moment later her face appeared on the small screen.
“Thought we lost you there.”
“I feel like I’ve been run over by a truck… but I’m still here…” Max turned round and round, staring at the old farm. “I don’t remember much.”
“You were out the whole night.”
“Yeah… well… It felt like an eternity.”
