A Murder of Crows: One

The sound of cars passing was gone. Engines, steady but anxious, filled his brain.

Raymond went into the back room behind a rack of tires to find a small headlight bulb. He picked up the bulb and checked the part number. Hollow, crumbling crashes made his neck snap toward the front of the gas station bordering the highway.

He ran through the bay door and stopped in the parking lot. Along the highway, scattered like toys were cars—crashed, stopped against curbs, against poles—all is still as a photograph.

Three cars, crumpled, one still running, huddled near the gas pumps in front of the lot. He ran toward them. Other vehicles were still, but he could hear them idling, radios on, music haunting the sudden quiet.

The nearest car’s window was down. Inside, the driver flailed her arms and legs. Her mouth was open in a silent scream. He reached out to her, but his hands went through her as she faded, and her body turned to softest fog. Clothes, fillings, and glasses fell to the car seat.

He ran to another car’s passenger side, and his hands hit the door, stopping his momentum. It was empty, like the one behind it. They all were.

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Walking to the middle of the highway, Raymond stopped and looked around. Along the road, in each direction, cars were empty and forlorn. He heard explosions farther down the road and watched the black, oily smoke rise in a column over dark cedar trees lining the median strip and snaking toward the east.

“Rick! Rick!” Raymond yelled over his left shoulder and toward the gas station. No one answered. The sound of cars passing was gone. Engines, steady but anxious, filled his brain. He walked between the broken packs of cars and trucks that clogged the highway. The sun was high and cast no shadows. He was unsure of himself and confused. On a telephone wire above his head, a crow sat, watching.