Ghost Hunters by Sam Witt Page A

technician stared up at Dick, eyes bulging, mouth hanging open. “You could have shot me.”
    Dick shoved the gun into the back pocket of his jeans, careful not to burn his back again. He crouched down, wincing at the pain in his back and hooked his hands under Troy’s arms. “Already did that today.”
    Troy laughed, a long, crazy sound, and Dick joined in with him. They made it across the ledge without incident; the groping hand vanished back into the darkness to nurse its wounds.
    When they reached safer ground, Dick released Troy and sank onto his haunches. His back ached as if he’d just been through a tug-of-war with an NFL team. He groaned and wrapped his arms around his knees. He needed to rest, for a couple of years at least. His heart hammered against his ribs, his breath sawed its way in and out of his lungs.
    He smelled bubblegum and opened his eyes. Amy was grinning at him, a stick of the pink stuff extended toward him from between her fingers. “Have some gum,” she chomped on each word, “trust me.”
    Dick snorted, but took the gum. It tasted like plastic, but its smell reminded him of autumn carnivals, of cotton candy and pink lemonade. He was surprised to find it worked, that the mechanical act of grinding the gum between his molars helped settle his nerves and relaxed the snarl of his thoughts. He hated to admit it, but Amy was on to something. “Thanks,” he said and went back to chomping on the gum.
    They sat in silence, the four of them lined up against the wall, looking out over the chasm, listening to each other breathe. Dick knew they were waiting for him to say something, waiting for him to tell them where to go.
    The only problem was he had nothing to say. He didn’t know how far they could drag Troy, didn’t know where to drag him. The freak could have taken Mickey anywhere. There was no convenient blood trail or footprint to show them where the bad guys had gone.
    Worse, he didn’t know how much longer they could survive the ambushes. He didn’t think there were more than a few of the freaks, but they seemed able to come from anywhere they wanted. They’d already taken Mickey, and nearly killed Troy. Anywhere the lights weren’t, the pale arms could come and snatch someone away, gnashing teeth could come and bite chunks out of the unwary. He let that last thought roll around in the emptiness of his skull until it bumped up against another idea. He leaned over to Randall and whispered his idea into the big man’s ear.
    Randall rubbed his chin then nodded.
    Dick struggled back to his feet and spat the wad of tasteless gum into the chasm. “Come on, kids. No more lollygagging. Amy, give me a hand with our boy here.”
    Between the two of them, they were able to get Troy onto his good foot. He held his injured leg up, bent at the knee, and hopped along with them. It was a hell of a lot better than dragging him, but Dick was still worried about Troy. He was pale and sweating like crazy despite the chill air of the tunnel. His leg wasn’t gushing blood, but he was losing the red stuff at a steady drip. Troy caught Dick’s look of concern and forced a weak smile. “I’m good, man. Let’s find Mickey.”
    They started walking, and Dick almost felt bad about using Troy as bait.

11
    T he ledge widened as it arched up and around the chasm, allowing Amy, Troy, and Dick to walk alongside one another with plenty of room to spare. Randall brought up the rear, keeping the camera on his friends while he shone the light ahead of them to shred the darkness from their path.
    Dick licked his lips and tasted nervous sweat. He liked Troy, and he was going to feel like shit if he got him killed.
    Not that he didn’t already feel like shit for what he’d done to Troy and the others. It had all seemed like such an easy out—use the credit cards to finance the shows, sell the shows, pay off everything and get back in the black. But every pilot piece ended in the same disappointing nothing that kept