The compass in Andrew's hand vibrated with the frantic energy of a caffeinated squirrel. He glanced at it, hoping it had malfunctioned, maybe from ghost radiation or the sheer absurdity of his life right now. No such luck. The dull plastic shell buzzed like a second heart, unwaveringly pointing toward the end of the street, where the old municipal graveyard stood silhouetted like a jagged scar against the bruised twilight.
"Great," he muttered. "Of all the cursed places in the world, it had to be that place."
Behind him, the 'Turned' grew louder, their moans rising like a haunted choir practicing off-key. He didn't need to look. He already knew. Faces from the neighborhood. Faces from memory. Faces that now looked like they'd been blended with a meat grinder and then politely reassembled.
