Blood Lust: A Supernatural Horror

by Gurley, JE

  “Why hasn’t the thing killed her?” Capaldi questioned. “It looks like she’s having a conversation with it.”

  Ella wondered the same thing. “Let’s get close enough for the mic to pick her up.”

  Tiptoeing in loose gravel proved more difficult than she had thought, but they found a hiding place behind a vertical support beam close enough to overhear.

  “Be sure you’re getting all this,” she warned Capaldi. Then she listened. Joria was speaking in Portuguese, but it was close enough to her native Spanish that she understood most the words.

  “The doors are sealed by a metal cross bar. I can’t open them,” Joria was saying to the creature. To Ella’s astonishment, the creature responded.

  “I have wounded both of them. They will die soon. I must be free of this place. You must help me.” The creature unfurled its wings, visibly agitated, and danced from one leg to the other. Suddenly, the creature shrieked loudly. Ella clamped her hands over her ears at the piercing sound. “Smoke! They try to burn me!” It leaped into the air and flew down the tunnel.

  With the creature gone, Ella decided to confront Joria. Ignoring Steve’s restraining hand, she stepped out of the shadows and into the light cast by the single bulb. Joria whirled around at her footsteps.

  “What are you doing here?” Joria demanded angrily.

  “The question is, what you are doing here,” Ella retorted. She motioned to Capaldi. Joria’s face turned to a mask of rage when she saw the video camera he was holding.

  “Give me that film,” she demanded.

  Ella laughed. “Fat chance, bitch. That thing has killed over dozen people, not counting the drug smugglers, and you’ve been helping it. Where’s Detective Hardin?”

  Joria smiled. “Do you mean Tack? I think he’s setting fire to the tunnel. My friend has gone to stop him.”

  For the life of her, Ella couldn’t understand how a scientist, anyone for that matter, could choose a murdering creature over their own kind. “Why?”

  “You’re a woman, a reporter. Soon, when your looks fade, they will cast you aside for someone younger. I have found the Fountain of Youth, the Chupacabra. How old do I look?”

  The question surprised Ella. “I don’t know. Mid thirties?”

  Joria laughed. “I am fifty-six. I will retain my looks and vigor lost after you have shriveled and died. That is my reason.”

  She’s mad, Ella thought. That makes her dangerous. “We’ll stop you. You’re coming with us.”

  As Joria backed away, Capaldi stepped up and grabbed her arm. “Not so fast, Doctor.”

  Ella could now smell the smoke. “We have to help Hardin and then get out of here.”

  Capaldi handed her the camera. “Here, you take this. I’ve got my hands full with Miss Brazil here.”

  Suddenly, as Ella reached for the camera, Joria elbowed Capaldi in the ribs. He doubled over from the pain, groaning. She wrenched free, picked up a large rock and brought it down on his head. Ella stared in disbelief and horror as the rock smashed into Capaldi’s skull. He crumpled to the ground. As he fell, Joria stood above him, blood splattered, holding the bloody rock. She glared at Ella defiantly; then brought the rock down on Capaldi’s head again. Ella knew he was dead. She had seen death before. His open eyes stared blindly at her.

  Ella knew she had to flee for her life, but the camcorder would slow her down. She ripped out the memory card and dropped the camera, briefly considering how Capaldi would have reacted to that act of blasphemy to his precious Sony.

  In high school, Ella had been on the varsity track team, placing second in the state finals. Though she still jogged, she had not run full out for years. She tried to remember what her coach had told her about breathing in through the nose and out through the mouth, but the musty air and the scarf made it difficult. Still, her body remembered. She easily outdistanced Joria, running blindly through the darkness, praying she didn’t trip over anything. She didn’t know which she feared more, the creature somewhere ahead of her or the madwoman behind her. She forced back her tears for Capaldi. He had followed her into danger just as he always had, but this time she had gotten him killed. There would be time for mourning later, she hoped.

  31

  The ventilator tunnel was unbearably hot with the fans out of commission and the fetid air was as thick with dust, mold and the foul stench of decades of disuse. I tried a deep breath and regretted it immediately as the retched air etched my throat like bitter acid. I had a coughing fit as I placed my handkerchief around my face. Simmons had already donned his. We sounded like two deep-sea divers as we huffed and puffed along the shaft, but at least we could breathe.

  We had left the others on the surface half an hour earlier, hoping McNeil’s friend, Walmsley made it to the hospital in time. He had been unconscious and uncommunicative by the time the ambulance had left carrying him and McNeil. My own fever had receded somewhat after the antibiotic booster shot. The fever was still there, lurking at the edge of my consciousness, ready to re-impose itself on my body when the antibiotics wore off, but by then, either I would be dead or my task completed.

  McNeil had been as recalcitrant as ever, refusing to rest or lie down in the ambulance. He had insisted upon and had received a shot of whiskey from one of his men, claiming it had saved his life after his first heart attack. He had offered Simmons the second .357 but Simmons settled instead for the extra ammo. As the ambulance driver was closing the doors, he yelled to the crane operator to be careful lowering us into the shaft. Watching the sky disappear for a second time as we descended into the airshaft in the bucket was disheartening, like dropping into the heart of hell.

  I was glad Simmons was with me. In certain ways he reminded me of Lew, big and beefy but quick for his size. Like Lew, he didn’t scare easily. The Homeland Security agent’s dogged determination was a match for mine. Together, I felt we could get the job done. Our time, however, was limited. Simmons had phoned in, refusing to disclose his location and learned that Section One had traced my cell phone, guessed my intent and was sending a live capture team into the tunnel. We had to kill the creature before they arrived.

  We reached the now non-functioning fan. The silence was disturbing, unnatural, our every labored breath magnified by the silence surrounding us. A sticky sheen of perspiration and dust coated my body. The temperature must have hovered near 110 degrees Fahrenheit. Simmons motioned for me to raise the hatch. He held his .357 with both hands, pointed at the hatch. I lifted the handle and stared down into darkness. I shone my light into the hole and played it around the tunnel but could see nothing through the cloud of smoke and dust.

  “Here goes,” I said as I lowered myself through the doorway onto the ladder. Safely on the ground, I crouched and listened before calling up to Simmons. “Clear.”

  Our lights danced along the tunnel walls and ceiling, disturbing but not erasing the shadows that grew like folds of ebony ivy on the wooden planks. As we were deciding which direction to go, I heard a scraping sound came from down the tunnel. It could have been anything, but since the rats had made a mass exodus earlier, I assumed it was the Chupacabra.

  When the fans shut down, McNeil had insisted on shutting down the subway system in case of a buildup of heat and toxic gases. The absence of trains only added to the depth of silence that pressed upon us. In the dark, confined tunnel, immersed in foul air, it was easy to imagine we were wandering the Stygian depths of Hades. In this case, our Cerberus had only one head, but it was still dangerous enough. I shook my head to clear my mind of the decidedly unhealthy images I was conjuring.

  “We might as well get to it,” Simmons growled, reminding me why we were there.

  We walked side-by side, eyes darting about, searching the shadows for our quarry. Our flashlights were inadequate to the task, twin narrow beams of light crisscrossing the inky blackness of the tunnel, illuminating small patches of shadow. The creature could easily circle us without our knowledge.

  “We need more light,
” I said, daunted by the overwhelming darkness. My flashlight illuminated only a small patch in front of us. I felt exposed.

  “How many glow sticks do you have left?”

  I checked my pockets. “Two and a flare.”

  Simmons shook his head. “Not enough.”

  I cursed myself for not bringing more. “There’s plenty of dry wood around. I could start another fire,” I suggested half in jest. Simmons didn’t smile. “Let’s try the breaker box. Maybe we can rig the lights.”

  Simmons scratched his head in thought. After a moment’s consideration, he said, “It’s worth a try.”

  The gate to the storage room was charred and some of the wire mesh had melted and run. The odor of ozone and burnt metal was strong in the room, as was the smell of charcoal. Smoke, thick and unmoving in the still air, clouded our vision. Surveying the damage while Simmons checked out the breaker box, I marveled that that Simmons’ jury-rigged electric fence had held out so long under the fury of the Chupacabra. I stood guard as Simmons examined the breaker box. The circuit he had used for the gate was useless, the old Bakelite fuse holder burned and cracked. Bits of charred fuse covered the bottom of the breaker box. One by one, he pulled fuses, examined them and tossed them aside. I was rapidly growing skeptical of our chances at restoring the lights.

  “Here’s one,” he said, beaming from ear to ear in triumph.

  He replaced the burned out light fuse. I just hoped the circuit box wasn’t beyond use.

  “Cross your fingers,” he cautioned.

  I would have crossed my kidneys if I thought it would help. He threw the main switch with a frighteningly loud click but nothing happened.

  Simmons shrugged. “Well, it was worth a try. There must be a break somewhere in the line between here and the source. Let’s look.”

  I quickly spotted the broken power line a short distance away, the two ends lying on the floor of the tunnel.

  “It looks someone’s ripped it from the wall,” Simmons said as he eyed the damage.

  I immediately thought of Joria. She knew the creature could see in the dark and we couldn’t, but probably she had done it to protect the Chupacabra from the electrified fence.

  “Maybe I can fix it,” Simmons said but he sounded doubtful.

  After a few minutes, he turned to me. “The main like is no good, but I can repair this small 110-volt one. It might give us some lights.”

  I nodded. “Go for it.”

  A few minutes later the overhead lights began to flicker into life up and down the tunnel, decidedly fewer than before, but they looked good to me.

  “What about the fan?” I asked hopefully.

  He shook his head. “The lights are 110-volts. The fan is sixty amps on a 220-volt circuit. Not enough juice.”

  “At least we’ve got lights,” I said with undisguised relief.

  The lights, though mere island oases in an ocean of darkness, fought back the fear of darkness that seems part of the human psyche. The darkness, once unknown and frightening, became tolerable again, a minor inconvenience but certainly no less dangerous. We continued our march down the tunnel. Like children playing around broken fire hydrants in the sizzling summer heat, we lingered near each light, relishing its imagined safe harbor. In reality, the creature could be upon us almost before we could react, but even this iota of false hope lent us strength.

  We had travelled less than half a mile when the lights behind us began to go dark one by one. I pointed this out to Simmons.

  “Yeah, I saw,” he said grimly.

  “Overload?” I asked hopefully.

  “No,” he replied, his jaw set firm. His grip on his pistol tightened. Following suite, I raised my elephant gun and tucked it against my side.

  One light down the tunnel remained glowing. We stood in the only other pool of light in the tunnel. As I watched, our light, too, flickered and died. We were once again in the dark, our flashlights our only source of illumination.

  “Get ready,” I said, realizing immediately how inane my warning was.

  A flash of gray in the beam of my light and a stirring of the dust was our only warning. The creature swooped upon us silently and savagely. We leaped aside in opposite directions as the creature whipped between us. Neither of us could fire for fear of hitting the other. I rolled to one knee and faced the direction the creature had gone.

  “Son of a bitch,” Simmons moaned.

  I turned to him. My flashlight revealed a wound his chest. The creature’s passage had not been without cost. Three parallel, ragged ten-inch long gashes ran diagonally from just below his right shoulder to his navel. His wound was bleeding profusely. I continued to stare after the creature as I asked, “Deep?”

  “Deep enough!” he snapped through gritted teeth. “The bastard caught me as I was dropping and raked me good.” He stuck a finger in one gash experimentally, cried out in pain and withdrew a bloody finger. The finger had gone in passed the first knuckle. Laughter echoed down the tunnel. Simmons stared at me astonished. “The bastard can laugh?” he asked.

  I nodded. “It can speak when it feels the need.”

  “Son of a bitch! I thought it was just some kind of animal.”

  “Much more than that. That’s why it’s so dangerous.”

  He stood up. His face distorted in pain, but he managed to get to his feet. “We’ve got kill this thing.”

  I looked at his wound. “We’ve got to stop the bleeding first.”

  I took off my t-shirt, leaving me with just my undershirt. I doubled my shirt and pressed it firmly against his wound, eliciting another curse from him. It was dirty and sweaty but could not possibly infect the wound any worse than the creature’s talons would. I removed my belt and looped across his chest to hold the makeshift bandage tightly in place.

  “There,” I said.

  From Munson I had learned that the poison acted like a blood thinner, damaging capillaries. The wound would continue to bleed, but hopefully at a slower rate now. I picked up Simmons’ gun and handed it to him. He could barely hold it in his right hand.

  “Pull the trigger,” I said.

  He tried, but the effort made his arm tremble. “I can’t,” he finally admitted.

  I grabbed the pistol from him and shoved it down the front of my pants. Now, I held the only effective weapon, the elephant gun. There were two of us, stumbling around in the dark, only one of us armed and both of us injured. We did not present a formidable threat to the creature. It could attack from any side swiftly and ferociously and it its hunger was increasing by the hour. Soon, it would tire of toying with us and kill us to drink our blood, whereas our chances of killing the creature were almost non-existent. I did not forget about Joria. If, as I suspected, she had killed her father, she would not hesitate to kill us if the opportunity presented itself. I wouldn’t have given us high odds for our survival. We had one chance.

  “I have a plan,” I said, hoping it was not a suicide move.

  “What?”

  “I stumbled upon a way into an underground river and cave system earlier. The opening is narrow. I don’t think the creature can follow us. We might be able to find a way out along the river.”

  “What about the creature? We can’t just leave it here.”

  I sighed. This part of my plan was iffy at best. “We set the place on fire. Smoke it out. The creature has to breathe air. Maybe we can suffocate it or burn it.” I tried not to dwell on the fact I was condemning Joria to the same fate as the creature, but she had chosen sides. It was her life against the Chupacabra’s.

  Simmons chuckled. “You’re an arsonist at heart, aren’t you? In the meantime, what do we breathe for air?”

  “Maybe the air in the cavern is fresher.” I paused at his look of skepticism. “It’s all I can think of. We can’t let your Fed friends capture the creature alive. They don’t know how dangerous it is.”

  “I’m game. I’m not much good with this gash in my side and I suspect I’ll be like Walmsley soon enough.
”

  I took out my wallet and removed receipts, money – anything that would burn. Simmons did the same. He handed me a wad of bills.

  “There goes three hundred bucks,” he groaned. “I hope you know I should arrest you for burning money.”

  I stuffed everything in the gap between two boards low along one wall and pulled out a road flare.

  “Here use this instead,” Simmons said, handing me his lighter.

  It took several minutes for the wood to catch. As the flames danced on the boards, we searched for more loose wood and used Walmsley’s knife to split off long splinters to make a respectable pile of kindling, feeding it to the mounting flames. As soon as the fire was burning satisfactorily, I started a second one a few yards away on the opposite side of the tunnel. When I showed him the opening in the wall, Simmons eyed it suspiciously.

  “It looks pretty narrow.”

  “It’s wide enough,” I assured him, hoping I wasn’t lying. He was going first. If he became stuck, we were in big trouble. “Get in.”

  He started in but stopped when we heard a voice echoing down the tunnel. “Who the hell?” He looked at me. I shrugged.

  “Section One?” I asked, hoping I was wrong.

  “It’s possible,” he said, but looked doubtful. “Whoever it is, they’re not moving very professionally. They’ll attract the creature for sure.”

  We waited. The steps stopped and I heard a loud gasp.

  “Detective Hardin?”

  It was a woman’s voice, muffled by a red scarf over her mouth. It was a voice I seemed to recognize from somewhere. Her face above the scarf was dirt smudged but her bright green eyes peeked over the top. Suddenly, I put the voice and the eyes together.

  “Ella Ramirez,” I said in disbelief. “How the hell did you get down here? The doors are sealed.”

  She ignored my question and burst into tears. “He’s dead,” she sobbed.

  “Who’s dead?” Simmons asked.

  “Steve, my cameraman. She killed him.”

  My stomach did a somersault. “Joria?”