Eddie expected the inside of the Cruikshank farmhouse to have uneven wood-plank floors and maybe even some chicken bones suspended from the ceiling, a la THE TEXAS CHAINSAW MASSACRE. That wasn't the case. In fact, the inside smelled like warm apple pie and was clean and homey. If anything, the décor was ultra-rustic: stained cherry wood from floor to ceiling, villages of hand-painted, wooden knickknacks and picnic-checker curtains. There was an abundance of Thanksgiving regalia no doubt brought up from a cellar with a multitude of identical cardboard boxes arranged by order of holiday. These farmers had some unfortunate genetics, but they didn't seem to be chainsaw-wielding rednecks after all.

Stepping through the hallway door Eddie almost felt ashamed of his expectations…almost. If there hadn't been a rifle resting in the small of his back he would have felt a lot worse.

Back at the chicken coop, Eddie had offered the family the truth, if not the entire story of how they wound up at the farm. Since they were still covered in filth from their ordeal at St. Ingrid's, saying that they had simply broken down on Route 7 wasn't an option. He told them that zombies had attacked them a few miles south of the Cruikshank homestead. When they tried to drive into town an overturned tanker forced them to head north until they could find an exit. Unfortunately they ran out of gas before then. It was the short and sweet version. Let the farmers fill in any blanks they wanted to.

Satisfied, at least for the moment, the Cruikshanks marched Eddie and Foxy to the main house in silence. Over the door was another wooden plaque, this one whitewashed, which read, Peace Be With You - The Cruikshanks.