Splendid prose, as always, with you! Even something as simple as a flock of starlings becomes poetry: hundreds of starlings swooping and swirling like a single plume of living black smoke - and what they do is chilling. What do the birds know? What are they evading?

We don't know exactly what went down (did our narrator knock on the door first, e.g.), but the short, punchy sentences give us an idea, and I find myself not rooting for this protagonist after all:
I knew the old farmer kept canned goods in the underground cellar and a shotgun by his bed. Oh, yes. I definitely knew that. Now.
Really strong, punchy prose! Oh, and horror - knees (and eyeballs) being the most cringe-worthy of all body parts to injure (for me): *something crunched and twisted in the knee joint. Fresh blood oozed through the bandage - gaaaahhh!!!!!!
#Repetition of keywords is a poetic device, a refrain for songwriters, and your prose often has the quality of good songwriting. This - this - it's more than a refrain; it's the Greek chorus of tragedy! It's brilliant:
I couldn’t see beyond the easternmost rise of the land, but I didn’t have to. The birds had told me. They knew. They always knew.
And the final line... I'd say it's sublime, but it doesn't bode well for the hero. Then again, I don't feel too empathetic toward this guy (not knowing more than we do about the farmer), so, maybe...SUBLIME it is!