Uncle Hank's Cabin and the Citrus County Zombie Apocalpse

A flash of light followed by a thundering boom shook the old cracker-shack. Hank cursed the summer storm and prayed he wouldn't lose his cable TV again. Not during his favorite show...Dang, Colonel O'Neal was just about to...bang, something big and heavy hit the side of his house.
Now what, Hank thought. He got up and walked to his front door. On his way he snags his 12 gauges Remington pump and chambered a round with his thumb took the safety off.
Hank always had a shotgun ready. His theory was you never knew when one of those Ghuy-oloes might show up at Ripple Point.
An armed Hank jerks opened the door and scanned the porch. Rain poured down in sheets and the porch spotlights are lost in the torrents of rain. Nothing.
Suddenly, to his right a giant shape stumbled toward him. It moaned, or was the sound a growl?
Growl? That isn’t right. It was all the invitation Hank needed. Shotgun ccame up with a practiced ease and roared. Double ought buck smacked the flesh of the dark mass full in the chest, but the shape staggered on. What?