Hell's Gate

by Bill Schutt

  MacCready’s eyes widened. He could still see his mother—but now she was swallowing a handful of pills. Now she was about to—

  “No!” he screamed. It’s some type of sonar. They’re in my head—buzzing and whistling inside my head and they’re trying to kill me.

  “No!”

  MacCready tried to make a grab for the Colt, and within that first part of a second he sensed a flinch within the shadows and, still within that small part of a second, he was certain that the shadows would be upon him before the gun was drawn. And it would have ended that way, had MacCready’s haste not cost him his balance and pitched him out of the tree.

  He sensed another flutter of dry parchment before slamming, side-first, into the ground. Keeping his back to the earth, he aimed the .45 in alternate directions, searching for a target. But the shapes were gone—and a moment later, so too was the long, forbidding silence, broken now by the reemergence of insect-and-frog song. It was as if someone had pushed the night sounds “on” button.

  MacCready remained on his back, taking several deep breaths—never lowering his weapon.

  “Gentle, my ass,” he said, carefully rising to his feet.

  He used the flashlight to examine the goat. The collapsed animal continued to twitch, less frequently now. Blood seeped from every body opening, and as a slight breeze began to spread the scent of death and gardenias, a new sound spread with it. The dogs in the village had begun to howl. But this was not the wail of watchdogs straining at their leads. These were animals howling in fear.

  Standing atop the bluff, MacCready stared off toward the horizon, making his best guess at the direction the creatures had fled.

  Straight over the cliff, he thought, as his mind began snapping all the puzzle pieces together.

  Seen from this spot, at this hour, the forest’s treetops were illuminated below him—their shadows deepening in contrast as the moon began to climb down the sky, shifting the angle of light, minute by minute. Mac’s gaze settled more than fifteen miles away, where the cliffs of the Mato Grosso Plateau were blazing out ghostly white against the backdrop of space. They towered over the valley into which, tomorrow, he would descend.

  CHAPTER 9

  Departure

  Now and then, though I rarely admit it, the universe projects itself toward me in a hideous grimace.

  —H. G. WELLS

  January 23, 1944

  MacCready entered the Thorne residence quietly, not wanting to awaken anyone, and not particularly eager to speak about his all-too-close encounter. His friend had set out a hammock in a screen-enclosed front room, and the zoologist fell into it with an audible sigh. Although deeply shaken by his experience in the orchard, and even more so by what he had nearly experienced, he fell asleep quickly.

  Sometime later, MacCready had a dream, born in the dark recesses of the Balloon Man’s hut and in the branches of a haunted Brazil nut tree. And once again, it was a dream about his mother.

  She was bent over a dark shape, back turned . . . beckoning him . . . needing his help.

  “Gentle.”

  But there was something wrong, something very wrong, and instead of approaching his mother, he took a step back. He could still smell her favorite perfume.

  The camera in his mind pulled back even further . . .

  Far enough to reveal her entire body,

  rotting flesh draped in tattered rags,

  crouched over the dead goat.

  Then his mother’s head came up, slowly. And she began to smile.

  Her teeth glistened like tinsel.

  MacCready’s scream woke the Thornes, and Bob stumbled into the room where the hammock had been strung. The sun had not yet risen.

  “Mac, wake up,” Thorne said, shaking his friend’s shoulder gently. Yanni stood behind him, holding a candle.

  “No!” MacCready cried, grabbing Bob’s arm violently. “Please, M—”

  “Relax, buddy. It’s only a nightmare.”

  MacCready sat up in the hammock, steadying himself. He looked around the room, searching the shadows. Finally, he focused on Thorne, who was taking a candle from Yanni. The botanist managed a small wave and something like a smile.

  “Hey.”

  Mac acknowledged him with a nod.

  “I warned you to lay off the goats,” Thorne said, watching him, gauging his response.

  MacCready gave a small laugh that broke into a cough.

  Yanni watched her husband’s shoulders relax slightly. Reading Bob’s body language, she saw that he had it under control, and headed toward the kitchen.

  “You wanna talk about it?” Thorne said.

  Mac rubbed his eyes—which felt as if they’d been sandblasted. “Not particularly.”

  “Then humor me. What happened?”

  “Well, let’s just say I had a little run-in with some of your neighbors last night.”

  “Raza’s crew again?”

  “No, these were decidedly nonhuman.”

  Thorne paused, waiting for a punch line that never came. “You’re serious, right?”

  “Oh yeah.”

  “So spill it. What are they?”

  MacCready swung his legs off the side of the hammock but remained seated. “They’re pack hunters. They’re arboreal. And they’re smart—real smart.”

  “And by ‘they,’ you mean—?”

  “Vampire bats.”

  Thorne held his thumb and index finger about three inches apart. “Vampire bats?”

  “No,” Mac said. Then he held his cupped hands almost three feet apart. “Vampire bats.”

  Thorne pointed toward the space between Mac’s hands. “You’re talkin’ wingspan, I suppose?”

  MacCready shook his head, “No, I am talkin’ body length. Significantly larger than any bat species I’ve ever heard of. Living species, anyway. And sneaky? Shit.”

  “You saw these things?”

  “Yeah, I saw them! Well . . . barely.”

  Thorne looked alarmed. “But . . . how is this possible?”

  “Good question. Sometimes species we thought were extinct . . . aren’t.” Then, almost to himself, he continued. “And these bats can . . . they can—”

  —make you think things . . . do things, he left unsaid.

  “Now wait a minute, Mac, by ‘significantly larger’ you mean—?”

  “Picture a bat with a body as big as a raccoon and a wingspan of about, I don’t know . . . ten feet?”

  “But you . . . you said these things are extinct?”

  “I said we thought they were extinct. Anyway, there were at least three of them—probably four, and they were hunting me last night. Just like they were hunting the animals in that stall and those people in the dead village.”

  “Bats with ten-foot wing spans—alive? Today? Here? How is that possible?”

  Yanni returned from the kitchen with two cups of something hot and aromatic. As she handed one of them to Bob, her calm presence seemed to soothe him immediately. Quietly, she handed the second cup to Mac and sat down beside her husband.

  “Thanks,” Mac said, nodding to Yanni, before turning back to his friend. “Like I said, I don’t know. But giant vampire bats did live in Brazil, and recently, too!”

  “How recently?”

  “I don’t know . . . couple of thousand years. Guess we can revise that number, huh?”

  Although Thorne said nothing, Mac could tell from his friend’s expression that the man was definitely not fully sold on the idea of giant winged mammals. “Look, Bob, I know how this must sound . . . but I think this is them.”

  “And who is them?”

  “Desmodus draculae.”

  “Dra-coo-lay?” Thorne repeated. “And what the hell are these dra-coo-lay doing here in 1944?”

  Yanni broke her silence. “The chupacabra have always been here,” she said, and the two friends straightened their spines, as if they had been touched at the same instant, by the same live wire.

  “Jesus,” Thorne whispere
d. “This is not possible.”

  MacCready stood up. “Think about it, Bob. It makes perfect sense. These creatures aren’t myths, they’re survivors—living fossils.”

  “You mean, like that butt-ugly fish everybody thought was extinct for eighty million years?”

  “The coelacanth? Yeah, kinda like the coelacanth, I suppose.”

  “But why the dead livestock all of a sudden—and that village you wandered into? If people think you’re extinct, why not just stay hidden?”

  “Excellent questions,” Mac said, moving to a window. It’ll be dawn soon, he thought, focusing on the outline of a fenced-in chicken coop. “Maybe it’s about food. Maybe they’re starting to run low on natural prey. Along come your cattle farmers—your chicken pluckers, and, ‘Bang!’ Before you know it there are new blood banks open all over town.”

  “Yeah, could be, I suppose,” Thorne replied. “Or, assumin’ you haven’t flipped your wig, maybe these draculae got driven out of the woods by the same guys who stirred up the Xavante.”

  “You mean whoever ran that sub upriver?”

  “Sure, maybe the Krauts riled them up. Everybody hates those fucks, so why not a bunch of extinct bats?”

  “Bob, let’s not forget, that was a Jap sub that ran aground.”

  “Japs, Nazis, same shit, different uniform.”

  MacCready smiled at the imagery.

  “But I don’t know, Mac. This still seems like a bit of a stretch to me. I mean, what do I know from bats?”

  “Enough to take Yanni and get the hell out of here.” Mac answered. “I need you to get to Cuiabá, anyway. Contact Hendry and tell him about those rocket contrails and the new coordinates we figured out. But for shit’s sake—do not mention giant vampire bats. Last thing I need is for him to think I’ve gone crazy.”

  “Leave . . . here?” Thorne sat down as if his legs had given out. “I know what I said yesterday, but maybe there is another—”

  “There is no other explanation! Believe me, Bob, I’ve seen these things, and whatever kept them at bay for all these years . . . well, they’re not shy anymore. And right now the two of you need to find yourselves a new paradise, because this one’s got a serious downside.”

  Thorne seemed to be waiting for another alternative, and realizing that there would be none forthcoming, he buried his head in his hands.

  Mac turned toward Yanni, looking for support, but she was gone.

  Thorne rose without another word and shuffled slowly back toward his bedroom. Mac carried his cup to the window. He was hoping he’d done a good enough job convincing his friend to leave Chapada, when a strange sound came to him from somewhere outside the house. It was familiar somehow, but at the same time completely unique.

  Without a word, Mac picked up the candle and began to follow it, stopping as he reached the back door.

  Extending his arm, the candle flickered against the predawn breeze, animating the boxes and gardening tools that cluttered the Thornes’ backyard.

  MacCready edged a couple of steps farther, then paused again. Though he was only a few feet from the house, he could already feel the immensity of the forest—a living thing that waited beyond the tiny plot of cleared earth on which he stood.

  The sound came again, and he knew where he’d heard it before.

  He was back in the orchard.

  The Brazil nut tree.

  The branch.

  GENTLE

  It sounds like—

  MacCready squinted into the darkness. There was a figure in the flickering candlelight.

  Is it . . . Yanni?

  It was, and he could just make out her back. She was standing absolutely still, her silhouette barely visible against a forest backdrop. For a moment MacCready thought she was listening to the strange song, until he realized that the sounds were coming from her.

  MacCready sensed Thorne’s arrival beside him. “What is it, Mac?”

  “It’s Yanni.” The zoologist nodded toward the silhouette, which continued to whistle and click into the forest. Her attention appeared to be focused on the dense stands of trees that began barely five feet from where she stood.

  Abruptly, the whistling ceased but Yanni remained motionless.

  For several seconds, there was absolute silence . . .

  . . . and then the forest answered her back.

  An hour later, Thorne watched nervously as MacCready rearranged the contents of his backpack on the porch. Yanni was seated beside him, her face full of concern. “You should come with us instead, Mac.”

  Although his silence said no, MacCready knew that if he were to be totally honest, he would have much preferred to go anywhere with his suddenly resurrected best friend and his mysterious wife. Anywhere but that valley. Instead, he began pulling items out of the backpack—looking for anything that could lighten the load.

  A Brazil nut hit him in the back and he flipped Bob a middle finger without bothering to look up.

  “Yeah, Mac,” his friend chimed in. “Porto do Inferno, what a shithole.”

  Now MacCready looked up from his unpacking job. “Are you guys finished?” he said, shaking his head.

  The Thornes shrugged, simultaneously. Then Yanni rose and went back into the house.

  MacCready decided to change the subject. “So Yanni talks to these things, huh? That’s interesting.”

  “Hey, that was news to me,” Thorne said.

  “Bob, we’re talking about your wife here. You must have some inkling of what all that whistling and clicking was about?”

  “And I am tellin’ ya, Mac, I am clueless. But Yanni has always been kinda . . . you know, spooky.”

  “Spooky?”

  “Yeah, ‘woooo-wooooo’ and all that supernatural shit. It got her kicked out of her own tribe.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, the assholes ’round here think she is some kinda witch.”

  “A witch?”

  Thorne shrugged. “Hey, everyone just leaves her alone, which is fine by me. But witch or no, she is currently mum on any topic related to conversations with giant extinct vampire bats.”

  Mac shook his head. “Well, that’s real helpful Bob. In any event, it’ll give you both something to chat about while you’re packing up for the big move.”

  Thorne looked away. “Jeez, this whole relocation thing . . . where are we supposed to go, anyways?”

  “I don’t know. After you contact Hendry you can look for an apartment in Cuiabá.”

  “That dump?”

  “Why not go back to Brooklyn? Yanni’s certainly primed for it.”

  “Brooklyn?” Thorne said, with a laugh. “And how do we get there—yellow cab?”

  “Look, all I’m saying is that you’ve gotta get out of here.”

  Before Thorne could respond, Mac pushed the Russian submachine gun and a sack full of cartridges into his hands. “And speaking of getting out of here, I need to travel lighter. Can you hold on to these for me?”

  Yanni returned from inside the house and noticed a new and uncomfortable look on her husband’s face.

  MacCready turned to her for support. “Hey, Yanni. It’s gettin’ dangerous around here. I’d like to leave this grease gun with you guys. It’s a beaut, huh?”

  Yanni took the gun from her husband with one hand and the sack of shells with the other. “You shred it, wheat!”

  MacCready smiled at the slang and his tone became more gentle, “So, now that you’re both well armed and all, there’s a question I’ve been itching to ask Yanni since last night.”

  “Spill it, Mac,” Bob said.

  “What’s all this about you talking to these things? Singing to them.”

  Yanni stood silently.

  “Your people chased you out, exiled you because of it . . . didn’t they?”

  Yanni shot her husband a dirty look and he responded with a shrug of his shoulders.

  “There was another like me . . . exiled,” Yanni said, finally. “She went toward the cliffs, like
you will do. Her mother followed. I don’t think you’ll find them.”

  “I see,” Mac said. “But do the chupacabra put words in your head? Thoughts?”

  Yanni nodded. “They can make the people we lost talk to us again. By listenin’ to their voices I learned to speak to the chupacabra. What you call singing.”

  Mac’s face brightened. “Yanni, that might be the best news I’ve heard in years.

  “Why’s that?” Bob asked, noting the puzzled look on his wife’s face.

  “Because I just might not be losing my mind after all.”

  “Well, I suppose that’s good news. But why do you figure these vampire bats are doin’ all this croonin’?”

  “It’s an adaptation, Bob. It’s how they get you to do things. ‘Relax’ and become their prey. Or ‘go’ and leave them the fuck alone.”

  “But how do they—?”

  “Bats echolocate, right? Well, I think this species can do something more, much more. These creatures were scanning me, and I’m betting those scans can trigger the release of specific—”

  “—neurotransmitters.” Thorne finished the thought for him.

  “Bingo.”

  “And what are those?” Yanni asked.

  “Chemicals in your brain, Yanni,” her husband answered. “Some of them cause emotions.”

  “Like fear or a sense of calm,” Mac added. “In this case, I think the bats have found a way to use these emotions, as a tool—a hunting technique.”

  “The chupacabra . . .” Yanni turned to her husband. “They e-volved this, right?”

  “You got it, Yanni!” Thorne replied. Then, flashing his proudest shit-eating grin, he addressed his friend. “So last night in that Brazil nut tree, is this what they did to you?”

  “Yeah,” MacCready replied, shifting his stance to suppress a shudder. “They tried to set me up by making me remember things.”

  “Like the people you lost?” Yanni asked, quietly.

  Mac let out a sigh. “Like the people I lost.”

  Twenty minutes later, having shown the Thornes how to operate the Russian weapon, MacCready stood with them on the outskirts of Chapada. Although the sun had been up for nearly an hour, there was little activity in the village. The pigs and poultry were nowhere to be seen, and even the dogs were quiet.