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THE RED CHURCH "You ain't going in there," Tim said, his eyes wide behind his glasses. "Now, why in the heck would I want to go in there?" "You just had a funny look in your eye." "Shh. Listen . . ." The singing stopped, and a silence settled over the mountains. Then, a soft sound. A scratching, fluttering sound. Not inside the church. Above. In the steeple. A shadow moved, a lesser gray against the church bell. Tim gasped. Ronnie swallowed hard, and some of the blood from his nosebleed snaked down his throat. It smells the blood. The thing with wings and claws and livers for eyes . . . "Run!" he shouted at Tim, but his little brother was already a step ahead of him. They dashed be-tween the cars and hit the gravel road, rocks flying as they scampered away from the red church. They were exposed, vulnerable in the open, but Ronnie didn't dare head into the forest. The pounding in his ears almost sounded like laughter, but he didn't stop to listen. Instead, he ran into the night, hunching his shoul-ders against the monster that swept down from the blackness. . . . ONE The world never ends the way you believe it will, Ronnie Day thought. There were the tried-and-true favorites, like nu-clear holocaust and doomsday asteroid collisions and killer viruses and Preacher Staymore's all-time clas-sic, the Second Coming of Jesus Christ. But the end really wasn't such a huge, organized affair after all. The end was right up close and personal, different for each person, a kick in the rear and a joy- buzzer handshake from the Reaper
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