Free The Beginning of the End (Book 1): Toward the Brink by Craig A. McDonough

Remington 870 and brought the barrel level with Brandt’s head. Mulhaven took a giant step backwards.
    “Cindy, no!” Elliot shouted.
    The twelve gauge roared, Cindy staggered, Brandt’s head shattered, and his body fell limp to the ground. Elliot ducked as best he could, but a portion of Brandt’s head tissue still splatted on top of him.
    “Ah Jesus, what the …”
    “I told you to get out of the way,
didn’t I
?” she said.
    Elliot wiped blood, bone, and brains from his shoulders, all the time noting the steely resolve she had; Cindy wasn’t to be taken for a fool. Several officers appeared from the doorways of nearby buildings.
    “Hold it right there!” and, “Drop the weapon!” they called.
    Four officers had their service pistols trained on Cindy, and each one looked as nervous as a virgin on her wedding night.
    # # #
    The Tall Man looked about him and saw nothing but farmland. There were a few houses and barns that had cars parked out front, and he knew he’d have to walk up the driveway if he wanted to take one. After the attack he’d just escaped, stealing a car from someone’s front yard was child’s play.
    “What the fuck was that thing?” he asked as he trudged up the slight incline of the driveway. “That was the ugliest fucker I’d ever seen in my life. Those red eyes … like the eyes of a demon, and … and …” His voice trailed off.
    A white Saturn, probably a late nineties model, sat by itself in front of the family home. It wasn’t his first choice of car by any means, but he didn’t want to walk the half-mile or so to the next farm house. He took out his Desert Eagle and checked that there was a round in the chamber. He hoped it wouldn’t be necessary, but most of these farm people owned weapons themselves, and if they were aware of him, he might find himself looking at a double-barrel shotgun from the wrong end.
    “Fuck it!”
    The Saturn was locked; he’d have to break the window. Looking around the yard, he saw no tools available. He’d have to use his hand or the butt of his gun.
    Smashing the window is a sure way of bringing attention to myself,
the Tall Man reasoned. Still, it had to be done. He grabbed the Desert Eagle and pulled the sleeve of his jacket down over his hand. It took two swipes to shatter the driver’s side window. He grabbed the lock button and pulled it up, opening the door, and went into a crouch behind the car. The Desert Eagle was at the ready and aimed at the front door of the residence should anyone alerted to the sound of breaking glass come out. When a minute had passed and no one had come outside to confront him, the Tall Man became suspicious. Had what affected Mrs. Dennard affected the inhabitants of this house? Curiosity killed the cat, they say, and it also seemed to be winning against professional killers. He had to check it out; he just
had
to. He climbed the two steps of the veranda of the house and moved cautiously toward the front door. Then the smell hit him. He had smelled it on many occasions himself and knew exactly what it was: death.
    Not knowing what to expect, he kicked the front door of the farmhouse in. The stench was overpowering. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and held it over his face as he burst through the door into the kitchen. A few knocked over chairs, some pans and silverware were in view, but nothing out of the ordinary except for the unmistakable sound of flies coming from the hallway. He eased his tall frame to the hallway entrance and took a peek. The double-action Desert Eagle was in his hand with the safety off. Three bodies lay sprawled on the floor. The blood was so thick it had formed into sticky, wet pools. Smears of blood on the wall next to blast holes from a shotgun told part of the tale. Flies swarmed over the open wounds of the dead and swam in the pools of red. The nearest body appeared to be a man. It was difficult to be certain with the head no longer present. He loosely held a