Twenty-SevenSmoking like a poorly extinguished campfire, a portion of his head missing from his gunshot wound, oozing green rot, dripping b****y gore, and covered in burnt and bubbling flesh, the Cross-thing came to a stop at the edge of the clearing. He spotted Angela with his deteriorating yet still dimly glowing eye, gasped, then rose to his full height and let fly with an otherworldly shriek.
Terror registered on Angela's face, the blood froze in her veins and, as pathetic as the cliché might be, the horrifying events of the past twenty-four hours flashed through her mind like a picture on a theater screen. It was her dream, come to life in every detail; the island, the hill, the sheer cliff to the pounding river, and this screaming creature of destruction. Her prophecy, though she ha
