Dusk, Part 2

As she continued walking she heard soft footsteps behind her, and as she turned she saw Gregory, a young boy who lived down the street. He was hunched in on himself and looked furtively about as he hurried along. Still looking at his feet while walking, he put his finger to his lips, and as she was about to speak, whispered, "shhh, they remember."

"What," she whispered back, "do they remember."

"Blood." Gregory said, glancing from side to side, nervous.

Francis made to speak, but could not. So he continued, "ancient blood spilled in this valley. Over a thousand years past, and they remember, and come remembering the feast past."

In the silence that followed, even the sound of flapping wings ceased. "Whose blood?"

He raised his head, and with a deep seeded fear in his eyes said, "the blood of gods, sacrificed to themselves by their worshipers. A right of incredible power, giving all who eat of the flesh, immortality."

A single crow cawed, Gregory flinched and mewed as though struck.

Quietly, Francis said, “There are no gods, Gregory. I’m sure they are on their way to their nests.”

“No. They remember because…” The rest of his words were drowned by the screams of tens of thousands of crows, and the sounds of their furiously flapping wings. Gregory turned and ran as murder upon murder of crows descended on him. His screams reached Francis over the near deafening noise, “Because they were there!” As each bird landed, it struck with its beak, and took flight again, dripping gore, red on the pavement.