Outer Banks Read Free Page B

here and hurting me.”
    He nodded as I handed him the second bag and started the van.
    â€œThanks,” he said as he bit into it.
    â€œWhat’s your name?” I asked when he’d finished.
    He looked at me like I was crazy. “My name ?”
    â€œYes. You have a name, I’m sure.”
    â€œCorey. Corey Ralston.” It seemed like he hadn’t said it in a while. I guessed he hadn’t felt like a person in a while either.
    â€œI’m Dillon,” I told him to help put him at ease. He stared. I didn’t expect him to say it was nice to meet me. It rarely was.
    We rode in silence for the first half hour.
    â€œNice van,” he finally said.
    â€œThanks. I converted it myself. The safe box in the back is carpeted. It’s pretty roomy,” I told him. “I used to be a mechanic.”
    â€œCool. How did you get this gig?” he asked.
    As we rode down the highway toward the Outer Banks, I answered his question.

Chapter Two
    Bobby Sims had been instrumental in getting me the job. We’d served together in the same unit in Afghanistan before the invasion. He was a grunt and I worked in the motor pool. Bobby was alright, cracking jokes and bringing enough beer for everyone on poker night. But he was also a loud-mouthed, opinionated redneck, who called Haunts all kinds of things and wanted to “wrangle them all up and put them out of their misery.” He was consistent at least—he did the same thing to enemy combatants back in the service.
    â€œA guy I used to know came into the garage where I was working,” I said. “He asked me if I could modify his pick-up truck with a safe box. He told me Homeland Security was hiring independent contractors to bring in Haunts. He put in a good word for me and got me the job.”
    â€œDo you like it?” he asked.
    â€œCapturing kids and forcing them into a box? No. I don’t. I wish no one had to do any of this. I wish the Bugs hadn’t come and I was just a mechanic again.”
    â€œWhy did you take the job then?”
    â€œIt pays well, and I guess…” I didn’t want to upset him needlessly.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œI’d seen others do it. I thought maybe I could do it better. Without hurting anyone.” I shrugged.
    â€œYou didn’t hurt me, and I’ve heard of Hunters killing us if we caused too much trouble.”
    â€œI have a hard time believing a human wouldn’t be able to restrain a Haunt if they really tried. That’s why I hate that they call us Hunters. You don’t really have a chance. It’s like we’re hunting injured rabbits.” I shook my head.
    â€œThis injured rabbit could probably drink another bag if you have one.”
    â€œReally?” I looked at him in surprise.
    â€œI’m fourteen. I was going through a growth spurt when it happened. Plus, yesterday was Sunday. No blood at the butcher shop.” I looked over his thin body. He was tall for fourteen and maybe he would have been bigger if he got to eat. His shaggy brown hair hung dull from lack of nutrition, like the others I’d seen.
    â€œYou don’t get…?”
    â€œFeral?” he guessed what I had difficulty asking. “Once, almost, but not usually. Just really hungry.” He frowned like there was something else he thought about saying, but didn’t.
    I pulled over along the shoulder of the highway and pulled the key before I got out retrieving another bag of blood. Since no one liked referring to their meal as a bag of blood most called it a juice box—which was somehow both humanizing and patronizing. It pretty much summed up where things stood between us and them.
    â€œThanks,” he said when I handed him the bag. “Will I get as much as I want at the Outer Banks?”
    â€œI think within reason.”
    â€œAt least I won’t be starving all the time.”
    â€œHave you ever had to…?”
    The frown