Five months later

Blood was everywhere.

Sticky gore was on his face and in his hair, hot little rivulets of it trickling down from the gash behind his ear and the larger wound at the crown of his skull. The salty tang of it stung his mouth. Dean wiped more blood from his eyes with a shaking hand and saw bright red splotches on the dirty hardwood floor of the old farmhouse. He lifted his head and saw yet more blood on the nearest wall, huge crimson smears. It looked as if a crazed housepainter had splashed several cans of dark red paint all over the fucking place. Here, in the foyer, all over the goddamned floor. On the front door. And over there, the staircase bannister, it was covered with a slick film of red.

…blood everywhere…

His blood. Some of it. More blood entered his mouth. Check that. A lot of it. Lisa’s blood. A fuck of a lot of Lisa’s blood. John’s blood. And don’t forget Debbie. Some of the biggest splashes had erupted from the stump of the poor dimwit’s neck when the crazy woman with the axe lopped her head off.

The air was pungent with the combined stenches of spilt blood and recent, violent death, with underlying aromas of piss and shit, the ripest of the latter emanating from the seat of his own soiled britches.

So much blood.

So much motherfucking blood.

Here.

There.

Blood…everywhere.

Then, the absurd capper to it all, the guitar riff from AC/DC’s “If You Want Blood, You’ve Got It” began to echo in his head. He closed his eyes again and gritted his teeth, trying to will the old song away-but it just kept playing on an endless loop, that maddening, relentless riff and the dead singer’s voice on the chorus.