Dead Silver

by Max Florschutz

  “And no one ever put that together?” I asked.

  “No,” Rocke said with a shake of his head. “But I don’t think anyone ever thought to check. Half of these shafts are supposed to have been cemented shut or closed off at some point, but not even the city engineer knew when, or even if they actually were.”

  “Could we check?”

  “Well, we could,” Rocke said as the Rover started past the lone hill with the water tower. It’d taken me a few days to get my bearings without a map, but I was finally starting to feel confident about making my way around town.

  “Or, we could just wait for the city engineer to get back in touch with me after he takes a look at it tonight.”

  “He said he’d do it?” I asked, surprised.

  “Yeah,” Rocke replied. “After all, he had the keys he’d need to take a look anyway, and I guess he’s not supposed to hand them out. So he’s taking a look to see which ones are open now.”

  “Open now?”

  Rock shrugged as he twisted the map back. “Like I said, most of them are supposed to be closed off. He was going to do some more digging for me and see if he could find any record of work orders with dates, too, since that could account for some of the variance in the timeline you put together.” He tapped his finger against the map again, the faint sound almost like raindrops echoing through the car’s interior. “But it still quite doesn’t explain these.” The tapping changed pitch as he moved his finger up, pointing at some of the attacks further north.

  “The mineshafts don’t go up that way?” I asked, stealing another quick glance at the map.

  “There are a couple that do, but they’ve been sealed. He seemed pretty sure on that. The closest one that might actually be open comes out around here,” he said, his finger landing several blocks south of one of the attacks. “I guess the chupacabra might have been widening its range—”

  “Or there were just fewer houses back then,” I said, taking another quick glance at the map. “Things might have been more spread out.”

  “Freg,” Rocke said, his palm making a soft crack as he slapped it on his forehead. “Why didn’t I think of that? I could’ve checked the old zoning ordinances. I’ll bet you’re right.”

  “You can always ask the city engineer for another favor,” I suggested. “Or then again, maybe not. That’s the explanation that makes the most sense.”

  “Occam’s Razor,” he said, nodding. “And what about why they went that far north, instead of hitting the usual areas?” he asked, his finger tapping the subsequent attack arcs I’d mapped out. “I checked. There’s a shaft exit of some kind near each one of these arcs.”

  “And the city closed them off as they moved south?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know. Most likely?”

  I shook my own head in response. “We’re overthinking this,” I said, smacking my palm against the steering wheel. “They’re coming from the south, like you guessed. It’s not the attacks that are moving south, it’s the prey. The city moves south …” I let my words trail off.

  “And moves closer to the chupacabras,” Rock said, finishing my sentence with a nod.

  “Or the chupacabras move further south to stay away,” I said, nodding. “Either way, they move north to hunt.”

  “All right, but why the outliers?” Rocke asked, twisting the map again.

  “Easy,” I said, my mind slipping into its element. “We didn’t know how or why the chupacabras were going so far north before, right?”

  “Right,” Rocke said.

  “But now we know that they had access because the city left a bunch of the old shafts open.”

  “Okay,” he said, nodding.

  “So we’ve got one or more chupacabras, one of the most skittish animals ever acknowledged by science, hunting people’s animals by popping out of old mineshafts. And what’s it going to do if it thinks it’s in danger when it comes to one of its previously used hunting grounds? It’s going to move along and look elsewhere.”

  “So these outliers are just—”

  “A chupacabra moving north, deciding its hunting ground was too dangerous for whatever reason, and then being hungry enough to go a little farther.”

  “That actually makes a lot of sense.” Rocke glanced down at the map. “More than anything I was coming up with.”

  “Well, that’s why you wanted me here,” I said as I spotted our destination—or at least the driveway leading to it—up ahead. I pulled my foot off the gas, the drone of the Rover’s engine dropping as it began to slow.

  “I’m the animal guy,” I said as we pulled into the driveway. “That’s what I do.”

  “Well, you’re doing a good job,” Rocke said. “Now I hope you agree with our next move.”

  “Which is?” I asked as we bounced up the driveway.

  “Looking for a mineshaft entrance,” Rocke said with a grim smile, my map crinkling as he refolded it. “If I read the city maps right—and I’m pretty sure I did—then there’s an exit somewhere on the back end of Mrs. Fimmlewit’s property. If it’s open, is sure as anything where the chupacabras are coming from.” He grinned as I brought the Rover to a halt in front of the house.

  “And if we know where they’re coming from, we can set ourselves a trap,” I said, nodding.

  “Exactly!” Rocke said, looking genuinely happy. “And go down in history.”

  “Not to mention get that ‘live capture’ reward,” I said, giving him a knowing nod.

  “Hey, a guy’s gotta eat,” he said, unbuckling himself from the seat. “And at this point, that reward would go a long way toward helping some of these people replace their lost livestock.”

  “Like Felix?” I asked as I opened my own door. The hot rush of dry, desert air that swept over me didn’t seem as harsh as it had when I’d first arrived, although it was still uncomfortably warm.

  “Like Felix,” Rocke said with a nod. There was another crackle of paper as he spread the massive map he’d tried to unfold in the car across the hood. “I’m going to take another look at this. Why don’t you see if Mrs. Fimmlewit is home? You can let her know what we’re up to, and it’d give you a chance to finally meet her. Crud, she might even know where this thing is.” He bent down over the map, both fingers tracing a bright green line, his attention already preoccupied.

  While Rocke puzzled silently over his map, I made my way to the front door, boots kicking up small puffs of dust with each step before making echoing thumps against the porch steps. I gave the door three quick raps with my knuckles, listening as they echoed through the house.

  Nothing. No calls of recognition or shift of footsteps. The house was silent, completely unresponsive. I knocked again, since Rocke had mentioned she was a little hard of hearing.

  Again, nothing.

  My smile faded a little as I stared at the door. This was the third—maybe fourth—time now that I had come by, and every time, no one had been home. I slid to one side and took a glance through the front window. Everything certainly looked ordinary enough. It was your standard sitting room—or living room or whatever you wanted to call it when you had a room where most people would put a TV but didn’t have one. I could see a couple of knit doilies, some photos along a mantle, and a few well-fluffed couch cushions. But what I didn’t see was any sign of Rocke’s client.

  I knocked for a third time, the sound of my knuckles echoing through the house. Then I waited, the sound of my knock faintly echoing back at me.

  Nothing. No movement. No sound. Nothing from the house but silence.

  “Nothing?” Rocke called out, startling me from my focus.

  “No,” I called over my shoulder. “Nothing. Was she usually home?”

  “Usually,” he said. I glanced through the front window again. Nothing. “But she could be out. It’s not a big deal. We can let her know later.”

  “Right,” I said, narrowing my eyes for a moment and reaching out with my sense, looking for life. Rocke had said she was elderl
y. What if she was hurt, injured in some way? Then again, maybe she was just taking a nap and what I was about to do was a slight invasion of her privacy.

  But as I reached out, I couldn’t detect anything inside the home. I could feel Rocke about fifteen feet behind me and even the goats behind Mrs. Fimmle-something’s home, but from inside the house, nothing larger or more distinct than a few houseplants.

  “Hawke?” Rocke called as I turned around. “Something up?”

  “No,” I said, taking a last glance at the front door. “I guess not. Find anything?”

  “Yeah,” Rocke said, nodding as I walked up. “As near as I can tell, we’re right here.” He tapped a portion of the map about an inch away from a long, blue line. “The mineshaft entrance, exit, or whatever you want to call it is right here.” His finger hopped down a few inches, to a spot where the blue line terminated in a round circle with a red X over it. “So that should be about a few-hundred yards that way,” he said, pointing directly at the house. “And maybe a little to the east.”

  “What does the red ‘X’ mean?” I asked as he took one last, long look at the map, glancing back towards the house occasionally.

  “Richard, the city engineer, said that it probably had to do with whether or not it was sealed, although he didn’t know how accurate it was. A red ‘X’ should mean that it’s been closed off, but like I said, it could still be open. He wasn’t quite sure.”

  “No one kept records, huh?”

  “It’s a bureaucracy,” Rocke said with a smirk as he began to fold the map back up. “Of course it’s written down somewhere. In triplicate. Finding it’s the big issue.”

  “Big enough that it’s easier for him to just go out and take a look on his own,” I joked as I opened the back door of the Rover and grabbed my staff. Rocke let out a dry chuckle as he finished folding the map and tossed it on the front seat.

  “So,” he said as I turned to look at him. “Ready to go spelunking?”

  “Not quite,” I said as he began to move toward the side of the house. “But I’ll settle for taking a look at the entrance.”

  We passed by the goat pen and Rocke let me take point, beating down the heavy overgrowth with my staff so it would be easier to pass. The goats made a couple plaintive bleats at us as we passed, but once it became clear that we weren’t coming back, they settled for the occasional uproar of noise.

  The ground behind Mrs. Fizzle-something’s house was surprisingly rough, rippling up and down as if a giant comb had been pulled across it at some point in the past. Boulders both small and large stuck up from the ground like ancient sentinels, their bases warded by thick clusters of dry, scratchy brush. The desert was certainly home to a lot more green than I’d have thought.

  “Let’s try more to the left,” Rocke said, pointing over my shoulder. I nodded and switched directions, trying to keep to the higher ground so we could get a better look at the surrounding terrain. Or at least what we could make out through the brush.

  I was just about to suggest that we turn back and try another area when Rocke let out a shout and pointed. I followed his fingers, shading my eyes against the sun with one hand.

  “There?” I asked, pointing my staff at a low hill of rock and dirt.

  “I think so,” Rocke said, rocks sliding under his feet and bouncing alongside him as he made his way down the small rise. “I thought I saw some wood.”

  I followed him down, dust trailing in my wake as I kicked up small avalanches of dirt and stone that swept back and forth like dusty rivers of rock. Rocke moved a bit more quickly, hopping from boulder to boulder as his excitement grew. I picked up my pace, ignoring the branches tugging against my jeans. Denim was sturdy stuff; it would hold out.

  Rocke let out a triumphant shout as the hill drew closer. “This is it! I can see the boards!”

  “Boards?” I asked as I came closer. “You’re kidding me.”

  “Nope,” Rocke told me as he dropped down a final slope, leaving only the top of his head visible. “And I think we’ve found the source of our chupacabra problem.”

  I topped the rise and had to agree. A black pit was nestled in the dip between the two walls of earth, an opening much like the one I’d seen at the museum, though this one descended at a much steeper angle. The entrance was shadowed, the sun at its back, which made it hard to peer more than a few feet back into its depths. But even at a distance, I could pick out the splintered wood left behind when something—our errant chupacabra, most likely—had clawed its way out of the mine, leaving a gaping hole in the lower boards nailed over the entrance. Most of them had been torn free, but one had been left hanging from a single rusted nail. Rocke reached out with one hand and tapped at it, letting it swing back-and-forth with a faint squeak.

  “Well, looks like you were right,” I said, putting my hands on my hips as I looked down at the half-opened shaft. “Wherever this little guy is, he’s definitely somewhere on property owned by Henderson Mining, or close to it.”

  “Yeah, well they lost their chance to get in on this,” Rocke said with a shake of his head. “We don’t need Henderson anymore anyway. Now that we know where this little guy is coming out, we can set some sort of trap for him.” Gravel shifted under his boots as he crouched.

  “Actually,” he said, waving one hand over his shoulder for me to come take a look. “We might need a bigger trap than we thought.”

  “What do you have?” I slid down the embankment, kicking up a cloud of dust.

  “Tracks,” Rocke said, tapping the sandy ground at the base of the entrance. “Look.”

  He wasn’t kidding. The sand had been shuffled around, dug at, and scraped up by what had to be dozens of footprints, so many that it was hard to tell where one began and another ended. I crouched down next to Rocke, pressing one knee on the gravel as I checked the numerous depressions. I frowned.

  “What?” Rocke asked.

  “We’ve got a couple of different sizes here,” I said, tapping my finger against the ground, shifting the sand and making little puffs of dust. “The first is these smaller footprints, which I would guess are from our chupacabra.” I circled a few of the clearer marks with my finger, Rocke nodding as he identified them.

  “But these ones,” I said, bringing the tip of my staff down towards a larger footprint just outside the entrance. “I’m not sure what these are. It’s got five claws rather than the four on the chupacabra prints, and it’s longer too.”

  “Could it be a dog or something?” Rocke asked.

  “No,” I said, shaking my head as I shifted my position, trying to get a better look at the print. “No, I don’t think so. It’s human-sized, but a little too narrow to be a human foot. Plus there’s no heel imprint, and it looks like it might have pads behind the claws. Werewolf maybe? What does a werewolf print look like?”

  “Like a cross between a human foot and dog print. Only a lot bigger.”

  “So not narrower then?”

  “No.” Rocke shook his head. “Definitely not.”

  “What about some other kind of were?” I asked, shifting my position again.

  “It’s possible,” Rocke said with a shrug. “There are other types. Lycanthropy isn’t exactly limited, and hiding out in an old mineshaft would be a good way to avoid public attention. But I checked the registry when I came to town. If there is a lycan in Silver Dreams, they’re unregistered.”

  “And hopefully, not our problem,” I said, shifting again. As I did, the tip of my staff lowered, tapping against the ground, and for a moment, I could have sworn it lit up slightly.

  “Did you see that?” I asked.

  “See what?”

  I tapped my staff against the footprint again to no effect. “Never mind. Trick of the light. So, no werewolf then?”

  “Probably not. Any other guesses?”

  I shook my head. “Nope, but I’m not exactly an expert.”

  “Think it’ll interfere with us setting a trap?” Rocke asked as he rose.

&
nbsp; “No idea,” I said with a shrug. “The footprints are pretty intermixed, so whatever it is, it must not be a problem for the chupacabra.”

  “Or they come at different times.”

  I shook my head and pointed at a few of the footprints. “Maybe not. Some of these overlap pretty well. It’s a bit hard to tell, but if it is two animals, I don’t think they’re bothering each other.”

  “‘If’ it’s two?” Rocke asked as I stood up.

  “I’m thinking about the cows,” I said, my mind flashing to the three cows that Felix had lost so far. “The cows still don’t make sense.”

  “Giant chupacabra?”

  I shrugged as we started back up the rise towards our client’s property. “Maybe? I don’t know.” It was an answer I’d been giving myself for days, and I was growing less fond of it by the hour. “I might have a better idea after the vet gets done looking at Felix’s cow.”

  Mrs. Fummle-something’s house wasn’t far, and it only took us a minute or so to cut across the uneven desert and put ourselves within range of the goats’ calls for attention. We didn’t talk much along the way, each involved in our own thoughts. I was still worried about the second set of footprints for the most part, while judging from Rocke’s occasional glances back at rise he was probably debating the best way to lay a trap for our quarry.

  I slowed as we passed by the goat pen, its empty state once again catching my eye. “Rocke,” I said, pulling his attention away from his musings. “Take a look at this.”

  Rocke stepped up to the edge of the pen and followed my pointing staff. “What?” he asked, his brow furrowing as he looked around. “What’s wrong?”

  “There’s no food,” I said, pulling my staff back before one of the goats could get truly determinate with it. “Nobody has fed these goats since we did yesterday.”

  “Are you sure?” Rocke asked, pushing a curious goat aside with one hand. It rolled around his arm, ducking back towards his chest as if he might be made of some edible material. He shoved it away again.