by Anson Barber
“What’s with all the cussing?”
“I’ve been turned into an alien, Dillon. Spare me the lecture on appropriate language.” He had a point. “So, tell me about the first time you captured a Haunt.”
“It definitely didn’t go as easily as it did with you.”
He sat there patiently waiting to hear the whole story. With miles of dark road in front of us, I decided to tell him.
When I originally became a Hunter, I was nervous and excited. Living in Nowhere, Kentucky, meant the only Haunts I had ever seen were on television.
I had to ride along with Bobby the first time so he could show me the ropes. He had only been doing this job a few weeks longer than me, but he already acted like an old hand at it. His experience overseas dealing with insurgents seemed to carry over, but not always in the best possible ways.
There were a lot of Haunts on the run at first. As soon as word got out that people were getting picked up when they went to a clinic they stopped going and made a break for it. Paranoid rumors weren’t limited to us worrying about what they might do in the dead of night, they were afraid the government was going to make them disappear.
My first run with Bobby was to pick up a man and his teenage son. They were in Northern Pennsylvania at a hunting cabin. They were still hunting, only a bit different than before.
I was surprised when Bobby took his time getting to their makeshift camp. Since there were two of us I assumed Bobby and I would get there mid-day, cover the men with UV enclosures, and load them up while they slept. It seemed the most efficient way. But Bobby wasn’t interested in efficiency.
“Won’t they be awake?” I asked as I glanced out at the dark sky.
“Should be.”
“Why didn’t we get here earlier so we could just load them up?” I didn’t understand.
“What’s the fun in that?” he said with a sniff. I’d heard Bobby’s stories when we were in Afghanistan together. I knew he was rough with the locals, and even worse with the prisoners. I’d allowed myself to believe the worst parts of his stories were just bullshit. Now I wasn’t so sure. “It’s time the grease monkey finds out what it’s really like.”
Bobby pulled out a sawed off shotgun with a UV flashlight strapped to the top.
“You ready?” He smiled. His eyes gleamed with excitement.
“Is that really necessary?” I pointed to the gun.
“You’re issued a permit to carry for a reason.”
“Yes. I realize that. But they don’t know we’re here. They can’t outrun us. Where are they going to go?” I tried to reason with him.
“They might put up a fight. You need to be ready for anything. Just like Afghanistan.”
“Fine.” I pulled on the tactical vest I was issued when I took the job. I wasn’t sure of the logic behind these vests. Some kind of surplus stock, no doubt. They were bulletproof, which I thought made sense, but they also had a multitude of pockets that were filled with things I couldn’t imagine ever needing.
A folding saw, a small camera—which took honest to God film—and my favorite; a flare gun. In case I chased a Haunt to a deserted island and needed to send out a signal, I guessed. The vest didn’t come with an instruction manual, just as there were no instructions for this job.
I followed behind Bobby with my UV light ready. It broadcast enough in the visible spectrum to light everything in a purplish glow. We stepped up on the dilapidated porch, and listened as the two occupants talked to each other inside. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but they sounded calm. For the moment.
Bobby kicked the door open with a crash. He quickly ran into the room flashing the light around.
Immediately, everything was chaos. The men screamed in shock as the light touched their skin.
“Get down on the ground now!” Bobby demanded, sounding like some bad police drama.
The men backed away. I could see the burns on their arms where they tried to protect themselves from the UV light. They weren’t trying to attack us.
I switched out my UV light for a regular flashlight and held it up. “Bobby, knock it off!” I hissed at him.
He didn’t listen. He continued to dance the light around them. “Alright, ladies. How many more of you are hiding under a rock out there?”
“I said, knock it off!” I shouted as I pushed him, causing him to drop the gun by his feet.
He turned on me, punching me in the face, and causing me to reel back. “Don’t you ever pull shit like that during a takedown, you hear me? What if one of them was packing, huh?” I dropped my light. It aimed out toward the wall. I couldn’t see anything, but I could hear a lot of shuffling, and I tasted blood in my mouth while my head throbbed. “These are hostile combatants, you got that? You assume they are a threat until they are secured.”
After a second, I shook away the fog, and grabbed up my light.
The father was standing in front of us a rifle in his hand aimed at me. His son stood behind him. Terror in both their eyes.
“Shit, I hate it when I’m right,” Bobby said.
I held up the hand not holding the flashlight as nonthreatening as possible.
“It’s okay. Put the gun down. We’re not here to hurt you.” This was true. We weren’t there to hurt them. The fact that they had been hurt was a big mistake. “We’re here to take you someplace safe.”
I heard two separate and distinct sounds.
The almost silent click of the trigger being cocked, and the loud crack as the butt of Bobby’s shotgun came down hard on the man’s skull.
The man crumbled to the ground as thick black blood oozed from the wound. The boy dropped next to his father, screaming.
“Bobby, what the hell?” I yelled.
“You would have been dead!”
“You could have used your light to get him to drop the gun.”
“You’re the one who fucked up by interfering! This is a war zone, Dillon. Remember that.” He frowned as he reached down for the boy’s arm and pulled him roughly to his feet. “He’ll be fine.”
He didn’t say anything more as we loaded them up. I checked for a pulse and nodded to Bobby when I found one. He seemed relieved. I wanted to think he felt bad about what he’d done, but I was pretty sure it had more to do with getting less money for a dead Haunt.
I got in the truck and looked at the rundown shack as the head lights crossed over it. There hadn’t been much inside. Three rooms. No electricity or water. It wasn’t much of a way to live.
“Let’s go get something to eat,” Bobby suggested as my stomach still flipped.
He drove us to a diner in the closest town. He was unusually quiet. He didn’t brag or share any of his stories about his other captures, for which I was grateful. It was late, so the diner was nearly empty. He got out of the truck, leaving me alone as I stared down at the black blood that had dried on my hands.
Inside I excused myself to the bathroom. I ended up stalling there, washing my hands a second time as I looked at myself in the mirror.
“What are you doing, Dillon? What are you thinking?” I asked my reflection.
I knew what I was thinking. I was thinking I got paid a minimum of eight hundred dollars per Haunt, and according to Bobby, I could take in at least two or three a week. Since the invasion I was having trouble making ends meet and this would put me on the fast track to owning my own garage someday. The economy was still a mess and everyone needed to find a way to survive and get ahead. This was going to be mine.
I frowned at my reflection as I dried my hands. “Money? You’re going to hunt people for money?” I looked away and went back out to the table, unable to eat.
Bobby didn’t have that problem. He smiled as the waitress carried over his order of meatloaf and mashed potatoes. No regret. No remorse. He’d hurt innocent people and didn’t seem to care. It was pretty
clear he didn’t see Haunts as people anymore. They were a paycheck. They were cargo. It just reminded me too much of the things that had happened here during World War II, like the Japanese internment camps. And I was starting to wonder if it might get a lot worse.
Up to that point I thought this would be my last experience hunting Haunts. I was certain I was not cut out for this line of work, and hoped I would be able to go back to the garage and not think about this night ever again.
But when Bobby shook his head at me, and said, “It’s easier if you don’t care.” I changed my mind. I wanted to care.
I decided I was going to keep this job. I was going to find a way to do it better. I was going to do it so the Bobbys of this world wouldn’t have it all their way.
“That is why I still do this.”
“Wow. Can I just say I am so glad you’re the one who found me? I never thought I would ever feel lucky again, but, dude.” He shook his head.
I hadn’t told him that story so he would think I was a great person. I wasn’t. Sometimes I drank too much and had, on occasion, slept with women I had no intention of ever speaking to again. I was no saint.
What I was trying to convey to Corey was that some people still cared about how he was treated. I was one of those people.
He let it go thankfully.
He started singing along with an old song on the radio. It was cutting out. That happened a lot since the invasion. Cell phones and other electronics were affected by some kind of interference. They would cut out for no reason. It always seemed worse around the times the Haunts woke up.
The song was one I barely knew, I was impressed that someone his age knew it.
“You like classic rock?” I chuckled.
“I like all music. My parents used to fight constantly so I spent most of my time with my ear buds on to block them out.”
“Did it work?”
“No. The volume didn’t go up that high.”
We started playing Name That Tune with the radio for a few hours. He was very good.
Come daybreak he requested to stay in the van again. I kept driving for a while until the sun in my eyes got on my nerves and I found a place to crash around ten.
That evening after dinner, I let Corey out and gave him two more juice boxes.
He was quiet. We didn’t play games or talk like we had before.
“How long until we get there?” he asked.
“About four hours.”
“I heard about the latest trial going wrong when you stopped for gas last night.”
“Yeah. I heard about that too.” I let out a slow breath.
“At least this time it wasn’t fatal,” he added.
“They’re volunteers, you know.” I felt I had to say that much, and it was mostly true. There usually wasn’t a shortage of those willing to risk everything for a cure. But at the end of the day, this wasn’t something you could test on lab rats first.
“Do you think if I died and then they figured out the cure because of me, I would be remembered as a hero, or would I just be another person who died as a result of the invasion?” he asked in all seriousness.
“Corey, I think you’ve gone through a hell of a lot. You’re already a hero in my book.”
“And who’s reading your book?”
“No one.” I chuckled. “Well, me.”
“That’s enough then.”
While he seemed content with my answer, I was suddenly uneasy. Usually there wasn’t a shortage of volunteers, but sometimes there was. He wasn’t a coward. But he also wasn’t a lab rat. He was a child.
I had an idea, and pulled over to the shoulder rather abruptly.
“What are you doing?” he asked. I didn’t answer. Instead I jumped out of the van and went to the back.
I searched through the box of first aid supplies—there was stuff in there I wouldn’t know how to use if my life depended on it, let alone anyone else’s—and found what I was looking for.
Coming around to his door I yanked it open, making him flinch. I quickly pulled the sleeve of his tattered T-shirt up a little and swallowed.
“Hold still. This might hurt.” Might, like hell. I jabbed a large gauge needle into his arm. He shrieked for a second in surprise, and then I pulled it back out, watching the black blood ooze out of the wound.
“Sorry about this,” I said, and repeated the process two more times, making a tiny distinctive triangle. This time he grit his teeth and took it.
He looked at his arm and then back to me. “You didn’t squeeze anything in.”
“No, but now they’ll think you’ve had the reversing agent.”
“Oh! Hey, thanks.” He rubbed his arm vigorously and smiled in relief.
His arm healed over quickly, leaving a scar in mere moments. The first batch of tests had been applied in three separate injections, and this tiny scar pattern was the telltale sign that he wasn’t eligible for further testing.
As we made our way to the first bridge to the Outer Banks we had to pass a group of activists. They held up signs and yelled things like, “Kill the Evil Demons!”, “Earth First!” and “Hybrids Aren’t Human!”
Corey twitched when someone pounded on the glass. I honked my horn to scare them away.
“Assholes,” I muttered.
We got to the first set of security gates on the Washington Baum Bridge at almost ten, and I could see Corey stiffen.
“It’s going to be okay. It’s not a bad area. They’ll find you a place to stay, and you’ll get food when you need it. If you get placed in one of the hotels, someone even does your laundry.” He looked down at his ragged clothing. “We can get you new clothes.”
He nodded as I held my permit out the window as one of the guards came to examine it.
I grouped the guards at the Outer Banks into three categories:
First, the ones who just saw it as a job. Impartial and tolerant of whom they were keeping out and who they were keeping in. They went home every night the same as if they had spent the day at a factory or a car lot.
The second group were those who were in it for the politics. They took personal interest in making sure Haunts never left the island.
The third—and smallest—group, were the guards who also took a personal interest in their job, but for a completely different reason. They had someone they loved living here, and it was the only way they could still be close to their families.
The guards at the first gate were of the first two varieties.
One, Sam, I had met on other runs. He was a strictly business guy. The other, someone I’d never seen before, would have fit in better with a sign at the bridge than a guard’s uniform. He looked over at Corey sitting in the passenger seat with disgust.
“Aren’t they supposed to be restrained during transport?” he asked Sam.
Sam didn’t get a chance to answer. “His name is Corey,” I said, “and he is restrained. He’s wearing his seat belt.” The other guard handed me my papers and opened the gate without saying anything else.
I rolled my eyes as Corey chuckled.
We got to the second gate a few minutes later. No one said anything about Corey being in the front.
As we reached the final gate I could feel the tension rolling out of Corey like a wave. He was frightened, but he was trying to hide it. I remembered being the same way at fourteen. Got to impress the adults.
“I know a few people here. I’ll introduce you and hang around until you get settled if you want.”
“That would be awesome.” He seemed relieved. I shrugged it off like it was no big deal.
I parked in the spot outside of the Roanoke Island Visitor’s Center. I guess on some level it was still a visitor’s center.
Corey followed behind me while he looked around anxiously.
“It’s not what I expected
. It looks like a regular town.”
“It is for the most part. None of the grocery stores have food anymore. The arcades don’t need quarters. If they put you in Kill Devil Hills, you can visit the Wright Brother’s Museum. That’s pretty cool,” I sounded like a realtor trying to sell him a condo.
A friendly face came to greet us, carrying a tablet computer, and I waved her over. “Hi, Tina. This is Corey. Corey, this is Tina.”
I saw Corey look her over and take her in. Well, he was a teen and she was certainly easy on the eyes.
“Welcome, Corey,” she said in her friendly tone. “How was your trip?”
“Fine,” he answered.
She started tapping on her tablet. “Where are you from originally?”
“New Orleans.”
“Date of infection, first day?”
“Second.”
“Okay. Let’s see if you have any relatives here.” She started tapping again.
“Are you guys still using that GeneTree software?” I asked.
Tina smiled. “Yep. It’s more thorough than the census reports. Gives us a broader selection.”
“How far does it go back?”
“Pretty far.”
“Can you do a search on me and Corey?”
“Sure.” She tilted her head to the side as she typed. “So, how have you been, Dillon?” she asked.
I got the feeling there was a bit more than small talk to that, but didn’t want to go there. “Fine. Keeping busy. You?”
“Same. Hmm. That’s interesting.” She turned the tablet around for us to see. “Says here you have the same great-grandfather.”
Chapter Three
“No shit!” Corey erupted at this news. I raised my brow at him. “Sorry, ma’am.”
Tina shook her head. “What are the chances of that?”
“It’s a small creepy world,” Corey joked.
Tina started asking a bunch of questions about his immediate family, to see if there was anyone here more closely related to him.
He seemed somewhat comfortable, so I excused myself to get a bag of M&M’s from the snack machine.
“No other relatives,” he said when I came back. “Just you, cuz.” He nudged my arm.