The Isles of Elysium

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I should have stayed on the Trident.

That thought rushed through Keo’s head as he watched water from Galveston Bay pool around his boots. The only thing standing between him and the bottom of the Gulf of Mexico at the moment was the fiberglass hull of the boat that had been his home for the last three days and two nights.

And the morning had started off so well, too.

He was halfway through a bag of roast beef MRE, and Santa Marie Island-the place he had been chasing for half a year-was finally within sight. There were times when he didn’t think he’d ever actually make it here. After all the days and nights, weeks and months, and the pile of trouble that he’d had to overcome, there it was.

Pollard, Song Island, and ghouls.

Lots of ghouls.

A hell of a lot of ghouls.

But there it was, at last, and he was so close he could almost feel the sharp edges of the rocks that haloed the ridgeline of the island. The rooftops of houses poked out from one side to the other, and there was a raised hill in the center of the place with a couple of residences on top of it. One of those homes would have made a perfect sniper’s perch.

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