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out there?”
    â€œI 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.
    â€œShit, I hate it when I’m right,” Bobby said.
    I held up the hand not holding the flashlight as nonthreatening as possible.
    â€œIt’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.
    â€œBobby, what the hell?” I yelled.
    â€œYou would have been dead!”
    â€œYou could have used your light to get him to drop the gun.”
    â€œYou’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.
    â€œLet’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.
    â€œWhat 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