Johnny Dovecrest was dicing onions for a stew when he heard the scream coming from deep within the woods. He paused, his knife poised in mid-air, and listened intently. But there was only silence now.
He put the knife down, walked to the window and looked into the blackness of the forest. His experienced eyes bore into the darkness but saw nothing. It might have been his imagination. But the hair on the back of his neck tingled, telling him it might have been something else. Something he didn’t want to think about.
He had tried to tell them not to build here, that it wasn’t safe. But they had refused to listen. Just like they always refused to listen. Now he feared the worst.
Either way, he had to know. He took his old M1 Carbine from its case in the closet, stuck his.45 caliber Beretta Mini Cougar into the waistband of his jeans, and went outside, praying to God that it wasn’t happening again.