by Gurley, JE
“Helen, dispatch a recovery unit to the old monastery site. Nothing lethal. Be certain they realize the importance of a successful hunt.”
Faber hung up satisfied he had done all he could do for the moment. The rest would be up to the creature.
****
Clad Simmons eyed the profile of the old monastery and shook his head. The weathered cross sitting slightly askew atop the tower and the shadowed profile of the buildings reminded him too much of a mausoleum. He felt a sudden chill, as if someone had stepped on his grave. He had been one of the crew that had had recovered the two corpses of the juvenile creatures and had searched the basement for the adult. The entire time they had prowled the winding bowels of the building, he had felt eyes on him, as if the creature was there watching them, waiting.
The creatures’ eyes, though dead, had been the most horrible part. Crimson red, they appeared almost demonic, like ancient drawings of gargoyles that he had seen in old books, but they also looked as if intelligence had once resided behind them. He had not seen the girls’ mutilated bodies; the police had already removed them by the time they had arrived, but the pools of congealed blood were still plainly visible marking where they had lain. The creatures were a deadly threat.
Simmons hailed from Braxton County in central West Virginia, heart of coal mining country. His father had worked himself to death at forty-seven, coughing up coal dust, mired in an endless cycle of poverty and ignorance. At sixteen and large for his age, Simmons, with no yen to follow his father’s example had lied about his age and joined the army. Homeland Security had recruited him from an elite Ranger squad in 2002 and Section One Chief Tray Faber had quietly asked him to join his small band of specialists a year later.
His two companions, Denny Pryce and Lenny Horowitz, known as the Twins, though one was a wiry black youth from Atlanta’s Summer Hill neighborhood and the other a tall, lanky non-practicing Jew from Boston, methodically removed equipment from the van.
“I tell you this bug hunt is strictly above and beyond, if you know what I mean,” Denny complained, his high-pitched voice almost squeaky with worry. “I mean, I know we’re supposed to protect and defend against foreign attacks and all, but Man, this thing ain’t even human.”
“It’s foreign. It comes from South America,” Lenny reminded him.
“From hell you mean,” Denny shot back. “I saw those two dead ones they brought back and they were just babies. Man, mama’s gonna be really pissed.”
Simmons agreed but kept it to himself. “All right, you two. Keep it down. We’re supposed to be sneaking up on these things.”
“Yes, father,” they said in unison and laughed.
The corners of Simmons’ lips lifted in a smile before tossing it aside like an old familiar toy of which he had grown weary. His weariness showed in the dark circles under his eyes and in the slump of his broad shoulders. He was only a few years older than his companions were, but he supposed he did treat them like his children. He had been the same way with his Special Ops squad in Iraq, close to him men. “Check your weapons.”
Each of them was armed with a powerful tranquilizer pistol capable of knocking out a rhino is two seconds. They had been forbidden to carry lethal arms. Having seen the dead juveniles, Simmons was leery of that order. He knew Faber wanted a live creature or else they could just follow that Detective Hardin around and clean up after him. Going in unarmed seemed foolhardy at best. Pryce carried a steel mesh net fired by a compressed gas canister. The net was a special lightweight metallic fabric composed of a series of interlocking rings, capable of collapsing upon itself when charged, effectively shrink-wrapping the creature. Horowitz carried a second canister, as well as a collapsible fiberglass electric cattle prod that delivered an 80,000-volt charge at low amperage. The lab boys believed it powerful enough to stun the creature. Simmons hoped so.
He had seen similar such devices used for torture in Iraq, the most popular being known as a ‘picana’. In the right hands, it could be quite effective, delivering a powerful, painful electric charge without causing visible physical damage. He knew this from firsthand experience at the hands of a pair of Iraqi intelligence officers. Two days and nights of torture had seemed like years. If not for a timely rescue, he wondered if he would have eventually spilled his guts.
Pryce reached for his .45 Magnum, his ‘good luck charm’ as he called it. Simmons spotted him.
“Forget it, Pryce. You know the rules. No lethal weapons.”
“Damn it, Clad. I feel naked without my good luck charm. It’s saved my life several times in Hotlanta.” He held the pistol out in front of him turned sideways like a gangbanger. “I ain’t got a good feeling about this shit. Shouldn’t we be carrying silver bullets or something? I could run get us some garlic.”
“I’ll protect you,” Horowitz offered. Tall, wiry and bookish, Horowitz looked more like a librarian than a college wrestling champion, but his thin frame and easy smile belied his hidden strength.
“Hell, Lenny,” Pryce moaned. “You can’t hit shit.”
“I’ll watch out for both of you,” Simmons interjected to stop their bickering.
He led the way into the church, pausing at the door long enough to quickly cross himself. The trio spread out and searched the nave as they moved deeper into the old church. As he walked through the door into the monastery’s sanctuary, he was surprised that the smell of death still lingered so strongly with the bodies removed. It was as if the building was incorporating the deaths and the memory of death into its stone and mortar soul. He shuddered at his morbid thought. He had read of the dark history of the monastery. If, as some believed, buildings became saturated with the memory of events, and then the monastery was surely an evil place.
Simmons noted the twisted steel frame of the demolished gate leading into the basement, a good indication of the strength of the creature. The juveniles, only a few days old according to the lab, were still bigger than a human and more powerful. Hardin, whatever else he may be, had balls the size of coconuts to confront them alone.
In spite of the late afternoon light outside spilling in through the damaged roof, the sanctuary was cold and dark. Simmons pulled out his flashlight and descended the steps into the basement. He motioned for his team to be vigilant. The clutter of crates and old furniture could easily hide one of the creatures. He didn’t expect to find them asleep in their coffins, as Pryce had earlier joked. When confronted with the two openings, Simmons decided against splitting up and chose the left-hand catacomb-like opening first. He knew it ended in a peculiar room that looked like an old flourmill. He wanted to examine the room in more detail. It seemed a likely spot for the creatures’ lair.
The narrow winding corridor smelled like old death, with its niches filled with old bones and broken ossuaries. The stale, musty air was thick with dust. Simmons fought back the urge to sneeze. He grumbled to himself that the Jesuit monks who had carved the catacombs must have been small men. Some of the twisting passages were so tight he had to move sideways to avoid getting his wide shoulders stuck. Moving single file reduced their effectiveness. He hoped they didn’t encounter any of the creatures in such a confined space.
“Yo, Clad,” Pryce whispered. “You smell that?”
Simmons took a deep whiff of air and nodded. “Ammonia.” He cautioned them to silence. The creature was somewhere nearby or had been recently. He panned the flashlight around and saw they were in a large room filled with stone sarcophagi stacked three deep. A few were broken and crumbling, spilling their mummified contents irreverently onto the floor. Simmons shook his head in disbelief that any religious order would simply abandon the dead when they had abandoned the monastery. That didn’t seem right to him. He had been raised Methodist but had found Catholicism later in life, drawn to its centuries’ long, almost military-like traditions.
“They should have moved the bones to a consecrated site,” he whispered.
“They’re dead. They don’t care,” Pryce answered
.
A scraping sound to his left drew Simmons attention. He swung the light and caught a brief glance of a creature’s wing darting behind a row of sarcophagi. He brought up his dart gun to fire but it was too late. Pryce had been quicker. He fired his canister at the creature. The released air raised a cloud of dust and the loud whump popped Simmons’ eardrums, but the steel mesh settled neatly over the creature’s shadowy outline.
“Got him!” Pryce called out. He pulled tight the lanyard he held in his hand as he pressed a stud on the control box. The creature screamed shrilly as the mesh began to tighten around it.
“Hold him!” Horowitz yelled in encouragement, readying his tranquilizer gun.
Simmons danger sense kicked into high gear. It all seemed much too easy. Things generally didn’t work out so well in real life. He quickly scanned the room for danger just as a second shadow pounced from the corner and enveloped Pryce. Pryce’s muffled scream echoed throughout the room. Simmons fired his dart gun at the creature, hitting it in the wing. He had counted to ten before he realized the tranquilizer wasn’t working. He pulled out his knife. Damn the orders! Pryce was dying. He charged the creature.
Pryce’s screams ended abruptly as the adult creature released him and dropped him to the floor amid a pool of his blood, his throat gaping obscenely, his eyes wide with surprise. Blood dripped from the creature’s muzzle. Horowitz screamed and fired his canister. He missed and the net bounced away harmlessly. He started toward the creature barehanded but Simmons stopped him.
“He’s dead!” he screamed in Horowitz’s ear as Horowitz struggled to break free of his grip. “You can’t help him.”
The adult rushed to its young’s aid and with one slash of its talon, sliced through the steel mesh net that held it. Freed, the juvenile screeched its anger and faced the two men. Simmons went to his knees and grabbed the electric prod Horowitz had dropped. Now, it was their only weapon. When the juvenile lunged at them, he shoved the prod in its face and pulled the trigger. With a shower of sparks and the smell of burned meat, the creature fell back, alive but now leery of the prod.
“Let’s get the hell out of here,” Horowitz cried out, tugging on Simmons’ sleeve.
Simmons brushed his hand away. “If we turn to run, we’re dead.”
Horowitz stared at Simmons. Fright and fury fought for dominance in his brown eyes. “Damn! I wish I had my gun.”
“I don’t think it would have mattered,” Simmons said. He tried to think. “We back out slowly keeping the prod between them and us. Get behind me.”
He reached out and roughly pushed Horowitz behind him and faced the two Chupacabra, parent and child, now almost equal in size. He knew there were too many places on the way back out that the creatures could surround them, but he could think of no other option. In the narrow, confining corridor, he could hold the creatures at bay while Horowitz retrieved their weapons from the van. He was tired of playing by the rules.
They retraced their steps, carefully avoiding some of the side tunnels and finally reached the entrance to the basement. Then he turned to Horowitz.
“I’ll hold them here. You go to the truck and call for back up. Bring back some weapons.”
Horowitz held his ground. “Man, I ain’t leavin’ you here. We still got our dart guns. I got four darts. Let’s fill them full of juice and knock their asses out.”
Simmons considered Horowitz’s idea. He had seen how ineffective one dart had been, but he had been more concerned with capturing than in killing the creature. Now, their very lives depended on escaping and he wasn’t certain he could hold the creatures off until Horowitz returned with weapons.
“All right. Let’s do it.”
He allowed the creatures to back them into the basement where the creatures could spread out, allowing a better shot at both of them and readied his dart gun. When the juvenile screeched and lunged at them, he knew they had to act.
“Fire!” he yelled.
The dart guns were automatic. He pumped his remaining three darts into the adult while Horowitz emptied his into the juvenile. He almost cheered when the juvenile staggered and fell down. The adult backed away but remained on its feet. Simmons held the prod in front of him to remind the adult he was still armed.
“What now?” Horowitz asked when he saw the adult still standing. His voice was edged with panic.
“We keep moving back and get the hell out of here.”
“What about Denny?”
Simmons shook his head. He remembered what Pryce had said about the sarcophagi. “He’s dead. He won’t know.”
The adult eyed them warily, but made no move toward them. It stood protectively over the juvenile, gently prodding it with one leg. When they reached the steps to the sanctuary, Simmons yelled, “Run!”
They raced through the sanctuary, down the corridors and out of the church. When they reached the van, Simmons jumped in, cranked it, threw it in gear and sped off, barely giving Horowitz time to leap in. Simmons suspected they would not get away cleanly. He was right. At the edge of the gravel lot, the adult Chupacabra slammed into the passenger side, broke out the window and quickly dragged a screaming Horowitz through the opening. Simmons grabbed Horowitz’s leg with his right hand while he steered with his left. He looked into Horowitz’s pleading eyes and saw stark fear before the creature’s jaw snapped shut on Horowitz’s head. The Chupacabra’s strength overpowered him and yanked the already dead Horowitz from his grip. Through the windscreen, Simmons stared in horror as the creature swept Horowitz into the evening sky and disappeared. Simmons slammed his fist into the steering wheel until it began to bleed, but he kept driving. There was nothing else he could do.
13
I spotted the unmarked police car a block from my apartment with two men watching my building. I crossed the street, went through an alley and entered the building next door. I went to the fourth floor where I knew the apartment across from mine was being renovated. I had watched the painters working earlier. I pressed my shoulder to the door and shoved. The pain it caused brought a tear to my eye but the door gave.
Inside, I grabbed a piece of aluminum walkway from a pile of painters’ scaffolding and maneuvered it across the eight-foot space between the two balconies. The building shielded me from prying eyes on the street and the closed curtains in most of the building's windows made me confident no one would observe me. I was no aerialist, but I managed to suppress my vertigo long enough to crawl the short distance between buildings. My balcony door was unlocked. I went inside and checked to see if anyone was stationed outside my front door. As I had expected, there wasn’t. The captain could not afford to tie up too many men on my account.
I changed from my suit to jeans, a t-shirt and light jacket. I wanted to lay back down and sleep, but couldn’t risk it. Rummaging through my closet, I found a flashlight, a couple of road flares and a stun grenade I had ‘borrowed’ from the weapon’s locker some time back. I grabbed a small gym bag and placed the items inside, along with a couple of bottles of water. Then I sat down to wait.
Waiting gave me time to think. Mostly I thought about Joria and the danger she might be in. I hadn’t known her long, but I was drawn to her. Sure, she was an exotic beauty, great in bed and twice as smart as me, but those things were just window dressing. I felt a deep connection with her, much more than I had with either ex-wife. She seemed to offer me everything I wanted. The cynic in me doubted it was all real, that she gave me what I wanted just to use me in her game of catch-the-monster. Lew would have told me to stop bitching and get to pitching. Maybe when all this was over, provided either of us survived, I’d take her to my cabin, now my latest ex’s cabin, for a well-deserved vacation.
I surmised the men tailing me in the black SUV had to be Feds after the creatures. Had they known about them all along or became aware of them as I had, by chance. If they were watching me, that meant they wanted the creatures, probably alive. I would have to interfere with their plans.
Just before
sunset, I re-crossed my makeshift bridge, pulled in the scaffolding and hoped no one had spotted me. I left the building by the rear entrance, walked two blocks and hailed a taxi. I intended to reach the monastery early in the evening before the creatures left to feed, pushing aside the image of Joria with her throat slashed. They wanted her alive, at least until I showed up.
I made one more stop, a service station, where I bought a two-gallon plastic gas container and filled it with gasoline. I intended to set a trap for the creatures, one that would ultimately cleanse the abandoned church of their presence and of their stench.
Capturing one of the creatures live or preserving its corpse for science did not concern me. I didn’t care about its reasoning or its origins. It was a murderer, and as such in my opinion had forfeited any rights for consideration, intelligent or not. The Constitution concerned the rights of American citizens and legal visitors to our country, but I doubted even the most liberal application covered blood sucking Chupacabras. Any judge who disagreed, I would gladly place in a small room with the creature to allow them to discuss the merits of the case.
As we pulled up in front to the monastery, the driver turned to me and eyed me suspiciously, “Ain’t this where them dead girls was found? You sure you want out here, mister?”
I said nothing as I paid him off and got out. He shrugged and sped off. I stood for a few minutes outside the yawning gate of the monastery watching the sun slowly set, wondering if it was to be my last sunset. Then I grabbed the gas can and my bag of goodies and walked in. Inside the church, I removed the Pfeifer from its case and used a strip of cloth ripped from one of the filthy mattresses lying around to make a strap and slung it from my shoulder. I stuffed the flares, the stun grenade and the extra ammo in my jeans pockets. I carried the flashlight and the gas can both in my left hand so I could use my right hand to fire the Pfeifer in a hurry.