Ghost Run by J. L. Bourne Page B

tablet and checked my wrist compass before sliding quietly down the mold-covered keel. My gun was at high ready, its magazines fully replenished from Solitude ’s respectable armory.
    Turning the corner north, I made out a street sign that was nearly covered with debris. The same went for the tall oak trees all covered with gunk at about nine feet off the ground.
    Could the hurricane surge have reached that high? The answer to my mind’s question could be heard in the trees.
    Small branches snapped, forcing my attention upward. A dozen writhing undead were tangled in the gnarled branches, backs broken, arms and legs contorted into horrible positions of pain. One of the creatures had a fence post rammed entirely through its chest, another a small branch growing through its neck and shoulder. Alerted to my presence, they groaned and shook the branches, dropping acorns onto my head and back. I moved swiftly away from the trees of tormented souls, hoping that I’d finally seen it all.
    I was able to go a mile, much of it uphill, before I started to feel tired. Instinctively, I pressed follow on the watch. The GARMR would be a few minutes behind me, so I made for the subdivision just ahead. The surge water didn’t seem to have invaded this far above sea level.
    I picked out a large cottage-style home and started my methodical process. Unkempt palm trees waved in the seawardbreeze. The grass was two feet high in the front yard. Sapling oaks jutted up, vying for sunlight against everything else. Another gap in the clouds illuminated the area, revealing undead that stood unmoving in the dark streets, between cars.
    I slowly climbed the stairs to the wraparound porch. The boards slightly squeaked from the weight they hadn’t borne in ages. In both directions, the porch was covered in leaves, dead palmetto bugs, and palm bark husks. Hurricane shutters blocked the windows, and large sections of sheet metal barricaded the front door. I tried to reach behind the metal to try the door latch, but the sharp edges persuaded me to stop. Tetanus treatments required refrigerated storage, so there would be none to be found—anywhere.
    I walked down the porch, staying low to avoid detection until I made it to the corner leading to the back of the house. As I crept, I heard a bang in the distance, something metallic falling on concrete. I knelt, guarded on two sides by high metal rails. Checking the tablet, I could see the GARMR was okay and advancing. Slewing the camera, I saw the overturned boat from earlier. The machine was getting close.
    I got up and continued. At the end of the porch, I stepped down to ground level and onto the driveway in front of the detached garage.
    A bright spotlight came on, whiting out my NOD.
    â€œ Goddamn security light! ” I grunted under my breath while I raised my rifle.
    I pumped two rounds into the lamp assembly, missing the LED on the first shot but disintegrating it on the next. My NOD returned to its normal state. This happened to me once before, when I was making a run to the mainland not far from New Orleans and was walking down a newly discovered dock. I’d triggered a solar-powered security spotlight, and in no time a horde of highly irradiated undead spilled onto the dock and chased me back to Solitude with my Geiger nearly vibrating out of my pocket.
    Right now, though, I remained in the middle of the driveway, taking advantage of the open area. I waited for the creatures to come, nervously scanning over my shoulder. After some time, I could hear the GARMR’s feet click quietly down the concrete drive.
    I moved toward the massive screened-in atrium that encompassedthe backyard pool deck and back-door area. Branches and pine needles punctured the remaining screens in almost every panel. The pool was half empty, filled with untold sludge and a motionless, bloated corpse. I opened the screen door and propped it open with a coil of garden hose, allowing the GARMR to