Tyler had been issued the light machine gun. Without hesitation, he emptied a two-hundred round box at them without hitting a thing. The barrel glowed red after he depressed the trigger, but this was not the time to worry about wear and tear on his weapon. Instead, he loaded another drum before spotting something.

They were not interested in him. Since they did not view him as a threat, that gave him some leeway, but without a plan… wait! Are those crates of grenades by the fuel point?

Tyler may have been a recent addition to the platoon, but he knew these were not the locals. These things could move from one side of the compound to the other in the blink of an eye. Not even the buffest of gym rats could throw a kitted-out infanteer across the compound, nor tear one limb from limb.

These things also knew exactly what they were doing. They took out the LT in the first strike and systematically dismantled the command-and-control structure of the platoon. Those remaining were panicked, disorganised, and unable to mount an effective defence.

They ordered Tyler’s platoon to take over a forward operating base. Orders came from high up the chain, and the LT was uneasy about it. Word was this site had been used by special ops. That would explain why there were no signs of it on the map.

Upon reaching the base, Tyler found it peculiar there were no sentries. As a precaution the platoon did advance to contact manoeuvres to secure the location. There was no one at the site. It was as though they all just walked off into the wastes. So, why was their gear, munitions, and heavy weapons left behind?

Throughout the ages, people sought reassurances that their life choices yielded some sort of reward. Perhaps a paradise for the good, while damning those who strayed. Unfortunately, as a soldier, he had seen things that made him question such beliefs.

Every time I close my eyes, I find myself back there…

While the basement also served as their makeshift studio, today they were here to lick their wounds. They spent a week investigating rumours surrounding an old farmhouse. Local legends supported by historical records confirmed there had been several gruesome murders in the home’s one-hundred-and-fifty-year history. Despite there being thousands of hours of footage, they came back with a big fat goose egg.

Die-hard fans of this genre were patient with them, there were limits. Bealzabook fans were by far the most fickle and they would drop off soon unless their luck improved. Other shows made mountains out of mole-hills, like turning a chair moving an eighth of an inch by itself into the incontrovertible proof of their being life after death. They had to be better than those other shows to draw in an audience.

Tyler envied the host of their show. That man had the charisma of a cult leader and the rugged good looks of a Hollywood actor. That chiselled body, piercing blue eyes and sandy hair were like ambrosia, and his personality was the cherry on top. His swagger alone could have made it far in this world. Alas, there was no drive, everything he wanted was at his fingertips and that included women.

“Here we are,” Kyle said while they pulled into his parents’ driveway.

Given their budget, lack of patrons and popularity, this was their base of operations. Kyle’s parents were corporate lawyers who gave their thirty-year-old son a wide berth. As long as he stayed out of the six-o’clock news, and did not max out the credit card, they could not care less what he did.

From his parent’s point of view, being the frontman of a television show was preferable to a career as a coked-out musician. It was an improvement over following the lead of popular television and starting his own criminal empire. As long as he doesn’t tarnish their good names…

“You guys suck!” Yelled a man as Tyler’s van turned a corner.

This was not exactly news to him, at least not from one of the loyal and dedicated fans of their competitors. For them, the Ghoul Hunters were yet another copycat paranormal investigation show that gave everyone a bad name.