Here are a few .gifs that I have found. Click on each image and watch. I promise there are no screamers. I personally hate them. Enjoy.
Supplied to my be my new friend Allen of (http://terriblygoodstuff.blogspot.com/)
You Can’t Hurt Me
The first day, the crows only watched, and cackled back and forth.
It was disturbingly human, and Derek shook his head and hollered until they flew away. He had given up trying to move his arms or legs long before the crows had arrived.
He had been riding his motorcycle home the previous night, when a semi had cut him off at the worst possible time, sending him careening off the side of the highway and into a sandy ditch. He had woken up with the sun beating down on him, his helmet missing, and his entire body numb from the neck down.
He gave up on screaming for help when the sun set that first night, his throat itching and aching and bleeding, and the empty night desert sending a chill through his very bones.
When he woke up the second day, the crows were back. More of them. The black birds were bigger here than their cousins in the city, their feathers ruffled and dented like ratty armor. They hopped around him, cawing brusquely to one another as they observed Derek lying there.
One got a little braver than his fellows, seeming to smile in his curved beak, and hopped right up to the injured man’s head, only a foot away. Derek promptly began to scream, causing the pain in his throat to soar, and he cut himself off quick. The brave crow was startled enough to jump back away with a flourish of its wings, but there was clever little glint in its eye as it pranced back into place.
“You can’t hurt me,” it seemed to say.
About an hour before sunset, most of the crows had flown away lazily, but the brave one (Derek was able to recognize it now, it had different eyes from the rest of them) and a few of the bigger ones remained. One of the bigger ones, probably bored simply walking around and chirping, took the initiative to step over to Derek’s leg and nip at an exposed area of flesh.
Again, Derek yelled, and again, the crow flew away, this time all the way out of the circle, back to some unknown nest. The injured man squeezed his eyes shut against the swelling pain in his dry throat, wishing-hoping-praying that someone, anyone would come and help him. When he opened his eyes after what must’ve been no more than a minute, all of the crows were gone…except the brave one. It was perched on a small yucca plant a few feet away from where the motorcyclist laid, its head cocked to one side. Suddenly, it hopped into the air, flapped its wings, and landed just beside the exposed leg. Just like the larger crow before it, the brave crow pecked down into Derek’s pale, exposed flesh, hard enough to draw blood. This time, however, despite the injured man’s outraged roar, the crow did not fly right away. It simply met his eyes, a crimson dribble against its black beak.
“You can’t hurt me,” those eyes said.
The third day, Derek woke earlier than usual. The crows were already about, despite the sun’s low position in the sky, and their cackling and cawing was so loud and bawdy that, as delirious as the motorcyclist felt, he couldn’t help but blink himself awake. He tried to swallow, but his throat was too sore, and his mouth too dry; he only succeeded in causing himself more pain. His neck was too weak and stiff to move more than a few inches, but he squinted and shifted and tried to peer at the carrion birds.
They were hopping about frantically, and bickering between each other. All of them were much closer to him than they had been the previous days, but he couldn’t muster the energy necessary to yell at them, not that it would do much good. After yesterday’s courage, Derek figured he couldn’t get them to go away even if he did have his full vocal capacities. He blinked against the dim light, straining to watch them.
The birds had found something to eat, and they were fighting over it. He recognized some of the bigger, tougher crows from yesterday hopping by unharmed with long strings of dripping flesh between their beaks, as the littler birds cawed and shrieked and fought to get scraps. Derek couldn’t quite tell where they were getting the meat from, or even what kind of meat it was, but it looked fairly fresh. Derek shifted his neck gingerly away from the sun, only to startle a small crow that had hopped onto his chest. The little bird squawked and scuttled back to its fellows, fighting for more of the stringy meat that they seemed unwilling to share.
A larger crow moved into view. It was big, almost a raven, certainly the biggest of the group that Derek had seen. It hopped straight over Derek’s useless legs and up his numb body, until it sat to rest right in front of him, and began to peck vigorously at his right pectoral. The injured man felt nothing, but his dry eyes widened as the bird dug through his thick shirt and began picking out the flesh beneath, beads of red blood soaking into the fabric of the shirt. All of this played out almost like a film before the motorcyclist, as the reality of the situation dawned on him. Another crow hopped up beside the larger crow, and began to peck in a new spot to feed.
Fresh Meat. It was him. The crows were eating him.
Now Derek found the strength to scream, scream like a madman, roaring and jabbering at the crows on his chest and feasting on his legs, even as his throat ripped apart in his neck. For a brief moment, the black birds ceased their hemming and hawing, and made not a noise, and they stared at him, taken aback. It was almost comical, until they realized that he could do nothing but lay there, and they turned back to their feast.
Derek felt sick, his head reeling and his tongue flat and dry in his mouth. He couldn’t watch, couldn’t watch as sharp ebony beaks dug into muscle and fat and bone, pecking upon the whiteness of his skeleton like he might have done to a piece of turkey or chicken. He moaned low and squeezed his eyes shut, trying to turn away.
When he opened them, there was a crow inches away. It was average-sized, dusty, and standing there, fixating the injured man with an inquisitive gaze. The bird was in no way exceptionally frightening or intimidating, save for its eyes. They were darker than yellow, almost golden, and as Derek looked into them, they seemed unnervingly intelligent, as if they were totally aware of the torture the man was enduring, and that they found nothing wrong with it. It was the brave bird, the crow from before who had showed all the others that this big man who made loud noises was nothing more than a pile of meat, and now it would claim its prize.
“Early bird gets the worm,” Derek thought, and almost chuckled.
The crow appeared to take note of his smile, and its beak slid open in what might have been a mocking grin of response. The crow leaned back and spread out its wings in a triumphant gesture, and began to caw.
“You can’t hurt me,” it squawked. “But I can hurt you.”
The bird settled in to feed.