Deadhouse Gates
Terror gripped the widow. Pain shot up her arm from where the horsewife still clutched her wrist, a hold that threatened to snap bones.
Flies.' Oh, spirits below – flies . . .
The horsewife screamed in wordless anguish, as if giving voice to a thousand grieving souls. Releasing the widow's wrist, she fell to her knees.
No, not flies. Crows. Crows, so many crows—