The first thing Thedford saw when he stepped into the barn was the crimson lake that obscured the planked flooring. His eyes darted around the room. The images hit him like a series of snapshots: Equine limbs. Bones. Innards. Hair. Hooves. And the forty young men feeding on it all.

Thedford’s cry brought silence to the guttural feast.

Every eye turned to him.

The boys were dispersed into every corner of the barn. Their faces were ashen masks with clouded marble eyes. Their muscles swelled beneath blood-splattered uniforms. Ropelike veins bulged beneath their skin.

One by one, they dropped what they were eating and came slowly to their feet.

Thedford swallowed the bile rising in his throat. His eyes found Willard standing with a queer casualness in one of the stalls to his left. Splayed at Willard’s feet were the gory remains of a black gelding.

“W-what’s happening here, Willard? What’s all this about, boy?”

Willard approached his father, his cleats creating tiny ripples in the red pool at his feet.

The other players followed Willard’s lead, converging at the center of the barn. Their movement was deliberate, calculated. Within seconds they had narrowed the radius around Thedford to just a few feet.

Thedford ran from the barn at a full sprint. His boots felt like cement blocks in the mud. He went a hundred yards before risking a glance behind him. As soon as he did, something tripped him up, toppling him to the ground. He rolled onto his back. Lightning flashed and he realized that he lay in a mound of entrails. The dead cow that enveloped him had been ripped apart. The animal’s tongue was torn away, its eyes plucked from their sockets. The smell of the fresh kill stung Thedford’s nose.

He struggled to his feet and ran on. Lightning flashed again, offering a glimpse of other mutilated cattle scattered across the pasture.

When he reached the house, he slammed the door behind him and slid the dead bolt closed. He ran into his bedroom and took down the Winchester from the rack above the bed. Ensuring that the rifle was loaded and cocked, he ran back through the house. He made it as far as the kitchen before his terror took a paralyzing hold. He crouched at the base of the refrigerator, biting down on a shaky fist clutched tightly around the rifle barrel.

Minutes passed. The only sounds were the storm raging outside and the stammer of his breath.

Waylon began to bark. The sound came from down the hall, in the direction of Willard’s room. It was not the dog’s usual bark; it sounded more defensive than threatening. There was fear in it.

The barking ceased with a painful yelp.

Thedford came to his feet and aimed the Winchester into the darkened hallway.