Wasp Canyon

by Danielle McCrory

  Kilburn continued to pan toward the house and the wall of windows—and the slurping noises. He could see movement. It was partially obscured by an outdoor grill set up, but enough was visible to send a shard of ice down his spine.

  The patio door was wide open, and a man's feet were lying across the threshold. The feet were bare, although Kilburn saw a slipper on its side near the open door. The man was sprawled face up on the patio. Well, if there had been a face, it would have been face up. The amount of blood was immense. It was puddled on the concrete patio, it was splattered and dripping on the glass window of the sliding door, and it was on the man’s bare legs, slick like oil.

  And something was crouched over the body, slurping. Kilburn again thought of the slushy—about how it stained his mouth red. There was so much red now, spread out in front of him like a million cherries had burst.

  The thing on top of Arlington was the size of a small bear, probably weighing in around three hundred pounds—maybe more. It was crouched on all fours, each leg thickly muscled and devoid of hair. Its skin was a darkish gray, and appeared to be tough and calloused. A few dark, crinkled hairs stood out from its elbows and haunches. Large, curled claws extended from flat paws that resembled a bear’s. The claws themselves looked much more feline in nature, coated with a layer of blood that obscured what color they were originally.

  The thing’s spine stuck out at least five inches from its body, the vertebrae grotesquely draped in gray skin. There was no tail.

  Its head resembled a canine, the muddy red eyes looking out over an elongated snout. The teeth were mammoth in size, they seemed to dwarf the size of its head—which was by no means small. Pointed ears, like a Doberman’s, stood straight up from the gray expanse of its skull. One ear cocked suddenly, pointed in Kilburn’s direction.

  The creature was looking down at what remained of Arlington, slurping at his abdominal cavity and the pool of blood that sat there like some macabre soup. It’s drinking, Kilburn thought, fascinated. It’s drinking his blood.

  He was so transfixed by the creature’s slow slurping that he hadn’t noticed when the ear cocked, pivoting in his direction. The creature looked up from the soup of congealing blood and detached organs, its red eyes searching in Kilburn’s direction. The eyes fixed on Kilburn, and he felt his bladder let go.

  His gun forgotten, Kilburn turned and fled along the side of the house. The terror that gripped him was like the terror of a child—suffocating and complete—allowing no reasonable thoughts to enter. All it said was Run! Flee! Escape! And Kilburn did run, blindly through the night, his arms stretching out in front of him as if grasping for someone—anyone—to pull him to safety. His feet thudded on the ground, dwarfed by the sound of something much larger—and faster—thudding behind him. If he could only get to the patrol car, shut the door, peel down the driveway in a cloud of burnt rubber and exhaust. If only—

  It was the mesquite branch that did him in. The same branch that had snared him as he passed by only moments ago once again groped out of the darkness and grabbed him. The thorns of the branch hooked deeply into the fabric of his uniform, yanking him backward and turning him in the direction of the oncoming beast.

  He opened his mouth to scream, but the creature collided with his chest before he had the chance. He was thrown backward, the ensnared portion of the mesquite branch breaking off and coming with him. He was vaguely aware of the smell of the damp soil as he hit the ground. That smell was quickly overpowered by the stench of the creature before him. He was surrounded by darkness, having dropped his flashlight somewhere along the way. Although he couldn’t see it, he could sense that the creature was just beyond his feet as he lay on the cool earth. The only way he knew it was there was because of the smell—sweet and rotting—and the sound of its ragged breathing. There was another smell, too—one of copper and rust. Blood, Kilburn thought, that’s what blood smells like. Not his, not yet. It was the blood from the other man—Arlington. He lay there, waiting for the smell of his own blood to join Arlington’s. They were now bound together—in death and in darkness.

  Kilburn waited for what seemed like an agonizingly long time—in reality it must have only been a matter of seconds. Then the creature was upon him, tearing his flesh and breathing that hot, stinking breath of rot and pennies into his open mouth. Claws tore at his tender midsection. Buttons on his uniform popped off and something burning sunk deep into his stomach. He imagined a firecracker on the Fourth of July, stuck into his stomach and going off with excruciating intensity. Except there were no sparks, and there was no light.

  A firecracker went off on his left cheek, and tore across his face in one clean, ripping motion. His face felt on fire, and yet somehow cold at the same time. Something heavy and wet lay against his right ear. Copper was now pouring down his throat, thick and viscous and tasting like old pennies. He tried to close his lips against the dripping, but found there was nothing there to close.

  Another firecracker exploded on his throat, and something heavy and final shattered in his neck. Blissfully, all feeling below his neck ceased. He could feel his head getting pulled from side to side, and he could feel coldness on his burning face—almost thankful for it. And he could feel what was below his neck getting tugged about.

  He realized he was suffocating, although he couldn’t feel it. His lungs no longer worked, whatever told them to continue their forever inhales and exhales was now severed. That was fine with him, though—he didn’t care to be part of this for any longer. The slurping sounds were now coming from somewhere below his neckline. Endless slurping sounds, like someone enjoying a hearty bowl of soup with no one around to be polite for. Slurp, slurp, slurp. Like a cherry slushy on a blisteringly hot Fourth of July. Kilburn’s last thought was of his childhood self, smiling up from his melting cherry slushy, his teeth and mouth stained red.

  PART III

  FIGHT

  Chapter 42

  Detective Carl Moser stared out his office window as dawn broke across the desert. The expanse of mountains that stretched along the horizon was a dazzling pink, competing with an orange sky. His eyes went up and down the ridges, valleys, and cliff faces without really seeing them. The sun was about to crest the top of the Santa Catalinas, and rays of sunlight reached out from behind a rose-colored mountain peak. The beauty of that August morning barely registered to Moser, though. His mind was elsewhere, swirling around in an endless spiral of frustration, outrage, and fear. Yeah, fear was definitely there.

  His chair squeaked in protest as he reclined further into his seat, interlocking his fingers behind his head. How could such a glorious morning follow such a dark and horrendous night? It was as if the sun was mocking him somehow as it rose steadily over the mountains—as if the desert itself was laughing at him. Moser didn't like it—not the sunrise, not any of it. The situation up in Wasp Canyon was getting stickier by the minute. It was bad when Jasper went down, it was worse when the Cuthbertson woman followed—but now? Two more victims? This was absolutely ludicrous. A string of animal attacks like this was absolutely unheard of. The only other time something like this ever happened . . .

  He let the thought trail off, hoping it would seep into the dark corners of his mind and stay there. It wouldn’t—couldn’t—stay there, though, because he knew the only other time this had happened, and it was in 1987. The Cleary girl had told him so. Curiosity had gotten the better of him after she had left the station that day, taking her sarcastic friend and the Cuthbertson cat with her. Moser had spent the remainder of the evening reviewing old case files from ‘87. And by God, everything the Cleary girl told him checked out. Every goddamn thing. Like everything else he had counted on to wrap up this investigation, his idea that Cleary was just damn crazy had gone into the shitter as well. First the hair analysis, then the idea that the animal would be easily apprehended, and now the 1987 murders. At this rate he could see himself running through the streets yelling ‘El chupacabra!’ right alongside her within a week’s time
. Fucking animal attacks, he thought. It just had to be animal attacks.

  ☼ ☼ ☼

  Carl Moser was only four-years-old when his neighbor’s dog attacked him. His memory of the incident was cloudy, and in parts, completely blank. He was playing with a toy in his front yard when the neighbor's Rottweiler came running over. He was familiar with the dog, so he wasn’t immediately concerned when it started to nudge at him. He vaguely recalled trying to push the dog away, and that’s when it bit him. The bite was to his left shoulder, the dog shaking him back and forth before letting go. He remembered screaming, his father running out of the house, and then red towels being pressed to his shoulder. He wondered where the red towels came from since his mommy’s towels were all white. Stitches were involved, but in the end, he healed up just fine—physically anyway. Emotionally, the wounds had cut much deeper. Although he barely remembered the attack, there was one thing that stuck in his mind: the feeling of getting tossed around like a human rag doll. That feeling of helplessness stayed with him, and even now, so many decades later, he still sometimes woke in the night, sweating profusely and feeling those jaws on his left shoulder.

  He could never watch those Animal Planet shows his kids seemed to be so fond of. They always had some disfigured person talking to the screen—thick cords of scar tissue warping their facial features. Or the camera would pan down and you’d find out their arm was gone. Sick shit like that. The show would then entertain the viewer with dramatic reenactments of carnage, all blurry and red. He could still remember when it was all blurry and red for him—a terrified human rag doll. The thought of watching such crap for entertainment seemed ludicrous—much like his current situation seemed to be.

  ☼ ☼ ☼

  The call came just after midnight on the morning of August 13th—a frantic voice telling him he was needed out in Wasp Canyon Estates. As he lay in bed in the darkness of his bedroom he could feel his stomach drop and his testicles pull up toward his body. His wife had reached for him then, awakened by his muffled conversation, and he had jumped clear out of bed when her hand brushed against his left shoulder.

  Déjà vu danced in his head as he drove up Wasp Canyon Road, still rubbing sleep seeds out of his eyes and feeling the roughness on his cheeks that he hadn’t bothered to shave. He kept looking to the sky, wishing for the light of dawn to start brushing across the horizon and the night to get swept away. It was still far too early for such things, though, even in the summer when dawn came early and dusk didn’t arrive until after the supper dishes were washed and put away.

  The scene at the Arlington house was chaos—far more crowded and hectic than the Cuthbertson case. Despite the hour, the house was lit up like a football stadium. Spotlights and headlights on the ground, and chopper lights up above, panning across the desert. Apparently, it was the damn Super Bowl at Wasp Canyon Estates in the wee morning hours of August 13th.

  Moser killed the engine and staggered out of his car—not a police cruiser this time, but his personal vehicle. He had come directly from home after receiving the call, not wanting to waste time stopping by the precinct before heading to the scene. He was messily dressed in his street clothes, his hair still in shambles from the deep sleep he had been pulled away from.

  Officer Wesley rushed over when he saw Moser get out of the car. Moser sighed with relief, remembering the young, competent officer from the Cuthbertson house. “Wesley, fill me in.”

  Wesley briefed him on the night’s events, beginning with Arlington’s call to the emergency dispatcher, and ending with the state of the two victims, which he described in painfully intricate detail. Kilburn had answered the call to investigate the Arlington house; however, it wasn’t clear why he had never called for backup after arriving. When dispatch was unable to reconnect with Kilburn, another unit was sent to the scene. The two officers that responded found Kilburn’s cruiser in the driveway with the headlights still on and immediately called for backup.

  Once they began a search of the premises, it did not take long for Kilburn’s body to be discovered lying face up along the north side of the house. They assumed it was Kilburn based on his service uniform; however, the face had been removed which made identification difficult. Kilburn was disemboweled and a few of his organs were missing. It was also discovered that he had been internally decapitated. Moser stopped Wesley, wanting to know what exactly that meant. Wesley explained that Kilburn’s neck had been broken and his head was now attached to his trunk only by muscle tissue and skin. Moser wished he hadn’t asked.

  Wesley resumed his report. The caller, Desmond Arlington, was found in the backyard. His body was lying across the threshold of the patio door. He had also been disemboweled and his body partially dismembered. Both men were pronounced dead at the scene. A search of the property and surrounding area did not produce any viable leads. The house was cleared and nothing appeared to be out of place inside.

  Moser thought about his two kids, leaning in during their Animal Planet shows to make sure they didn’t miss any of the gory details. It took him a moment to realize Wesley was staring at him expectantly, waiting for orders. Moser had none to give. He looked back at Wesley with a blank stare. All he could think about was Animal Planet playing in the living room while he tried desperately to ignore the growling sounds and the monotone narrator describing the attacks step-by-step.

  He thanked Wesley and sent him back to doing whatever it was he was doing before Moser had arrived. Wesley gave him a respectful nod and jogged over to a group of men standing near the left side of the house. Moser watched him go, thinking of teeth against his left shoulder and his mother’s white towels that were no longer white.

  ☼ ☼ ☼

  The sun rose into the eastern sky, bringing a breathtaking assortment of colors with it. Pinks, oranges, blues, and pastel turquoise covered the atmosphere, looking like brushstrokes made by the hand of God himself. Moser couldn’t understand how such beauty could exist in a world that also held such ugliness. The night had been so black, so gray, and so very, very red. And now the world was filled with a bouquet of beautiful colors—colors that beautiful women often wore on their beautiful dresses.

  A forgotten cup of coffee sat on Moser’s desk, even the mug picking up some of the orange hues outside the window. Moser felt more like the coffee inside of the mug: cold, dark, and bitter. The bad news kept coming, and the evidence was starting to point a more and more sturdy finger at an explanation that Moser refused to believe.

  There were now four dead, all killed in roughly the same manner. All had been eviscerated, some dismembered, one practically decapitated. All the victims had been found face up—a detail that seemed unimportant, except for the fact that every victim from 1987 had been found face up as well. The significance was lost on him.

  Hairs had been recovered on all four bodies, and Moser had a sinking suspicion that the new samples will prove that the same animal was responsible for all the attacks. What species of animal involved was still inconclusive. Lab had not had time to run a full microscopic analysis on the hairs recovered from last night’s attacks, but after a quick visual inspection they said they were almost certain they would be a match to the previously recovered hairs. And what exactly were they a match to in the broader sense? Other than to each other, the hairs did not match any animal on record.

  El chupacabra, his mind whispered. Moser shook the thought away.

  Then there were the paw prints to consider. Moser thought that maybe, instead of a sick animal, it would end up being some sick son of a bitch human instead. None of the bodies were eaten, which was peculiar for a predatory animal attack. Sure, a few bits and pieces were missing, but nothing like what you would expect from a hungry carnivore. And none of the bodies had been taken away from the original attack site, save for the first victim that was relocated to the hiking trail. His kids told him once—following one of their damn Animal Planet shows—that it is common for carnivores to relocate their prey for later consumption. Yet not o
ne body had been relocated during the recent attacks. There was also no evidence suggesting that the bodies were dragged from where they originally fell—no blood trails, no drag marks (again, except for Jasper). So why kill them if not to eat them? That’s what led Moser to considering a human adversary. First the Co-Ed Killer, then the Night Stalker, and now the Desert Destroyer.

  The paw prints ruined all that. Another one of his theories took its final breath, keeled over, and dropped dead in the dust. Desert Destroyer, indeed. Bloody paw prints were found on the patio, going from Arlington’s location toward the side of the house. The soil beyond the back wall had still been damp from the afternoon rain, and animal prints were also found all the way to where Kilburn’s body lay. No prints were found past the fallen officer’s remains. Moser suspected Kilburn went around the side of the house when he got no answer at the front door, discovered the thing in the act of killing Arlington, and then fled the scene and was chased down. Why Kilburn didn’t call for backup when Arlington didn’t answer the door, Moser didn’t know. Nor did he know why Kilburn never unholstered his weapon. Kilburn had always been a funny one—God rest his soul.

  The prints were large and appeared to be mammalian in origin. Based on the print size it was theorized the animal was the size of a bear—a black bear, not a grizzly. Although a grizzly sounded more appealing than the mystery beast that was wreaking havoc with Wasp Canyon’s elite. One thing was certain, if only one thing, and that was that whatever was causing this was an animal. The Zodiac hadn’t arrived in town and Jack the Ripper must still be somewhere in London, because the Desert Destroyer was most definitely an animal. And a mean son of a bitch at that.