Check out the update to The Eyes of God:
“Your name man, and quick about it. Know ye not the time, what hour we are in?”
“It please you, Mortimer,” said I, clutching myself as I shivered in the cold night. “But should it not, my other name my father called me by, Moses.”
“Approach,” was their command.
“I thank you greatly,” said I, as dripping wet I came unto their fire.
They did not seem to look at me, but with their hoods covering their features, could not have viewed much but their own feet. Yet they were in no ways handicapped by this. They walked assured, and standing fast, at times someone of them would shake himself, as if eager for the coming.
“You please,” said I after a second warming in the light of the flame, “Wherefore your arms, your readiness?”
“They’ll come,” said the one with the club.
“How shall I know them? What signs?”
The man with the net spoke again, “They come on the wind, and the sound is not like the flying bird, but like the beating wings of insects.”
Interjected the ax man, “They come upon two feet as like a man, but smell of rot, decay.”
I took a moment, the red scar upon my hand glistening in the light, the place where I’d cut the phantom eye, the boil open, remembering the visions of my fever. Again I grabbed my knife.
“Well I’ll be armed as well, good sirs,” I said, “But how shall I see them? What form do they take?”