The 50 Minute Hour
By Hope Sullivan McMickle
Copyright 2011 Hope Sullivan McMickle
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The Hollow Men
Greg Farrier swung from his heels; the Ping graphite and steel driver he was gripping connected solidly with the side of the thing’s head. It exploded in a macabre confetti of brackish blood, brain matter, decaying skin, and thin fragments of skull. The thing collapsed at his feet. He had only seconds to survey his handiwork before another one shambled around the corner of the Walgreens they’d taken refuge in the day before. Greg allowed it to approach, listening to it hiss and moan as it stumbled forward, and dispatched it with a single swing of the golf club.
Until now, the closest to golf he’d ever come was playing putt-putt with his twin sons. All that had changed six months ago. Greg was still trying to figure out how to manage the mess his world had become. He was a therapist, a clinical psychologist, not a killer and certainly not a gun-toting survivalist. His sons had been students at Franklin College, Aiden with a dual major in sociology and theater, Andy in political science.