Father Tom—surprised by his momentary success—stood frozen, breathing heavily. An eerie moment of silence passed and then the chupacabra charged into the confessional booth. The old drunken priest let out a bubbling scream as teeth and talons sank into his throat. He was only dimly conscious when the creature ate his eyeballs.
««—»»
Downstairs, Joe yelled, “Open up! Open up!” and pounded on the door. He heard Carlos curse behind him as the wounded man fumbled to insert a fresh magazine in his rifle. Carlos was bleeding badly, his shredded guayabera shirt now a gore-soaked rag.
Joe kept pounding on the door as the noise of the chupacabras at the end of the hall intensified. The hissing and screeching grew deafening, ear-splitting. The grate slid open and Maria’s face appeared. Joe stopped pounding and grabbed the bars with his hand. “Maria! Maria, open the door!”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “I told you to leave when you first showed up, but you wouldn’t listen.”
“What?” he cried. “Hey, we were wrong and I am sorry—now open this damn door!”
More chupacabras massed at the end of the hallway. Several tried to make it down to the storage room. Ramón and Carlos aimed carefully and shot them dead with short bursts. The gunfire echoed deafeningly in the enclosed space. The air hung heavy and acrid with gun smoke.
“Hurry up!” Ramón called over his shoulder. “I am getting low on ammo!”
“You wouldn’t listen because we are simple country people,” Maria continued. “You didn’t believe us when we told you about the chupacabra.”
“Jesus Christ! I’m sorry if we hurt your feelings! Now open the fucking door!” Joe pleaded.
From behind him came Ramón’s voice. “They’re everywhere!”
Joe turned and saw a wave of the creatures charging down the hallway, spines on their backs pulsing, changing color from deep blue-green to orange-yellow. The front ranks dropped as Ramón and Carlos blasted them, but more surged forward. Carlos clicked on an empty chamber. “I am out of ammo!” he cried.
Suddenly, the door behind them swung open.
Joe pushed his way in, Ramón right behind him. Carlos turned to join them. A chupacabra plunged down the hall and tackled him, sinking its teeth into the back of his neck. Carlos let out a blood-curdling scream and collapsed to the ground with the gnawing creature on his back. Ramón spun around and fired, blowing the fiend off of him, and reached down and dragged him into the storage room. Joe slammed the door shut behind them and looked through the window as a chupacabra reared up and snarled, exposing powerful jaws, dagger-like teeth, and a devilish forked tongue. Joe raised his rifle, poked the muzzle through the bars, and pulled the trigger. The creature’s head exploded like a balloon full of red cottage cheese, spackling the hallway with blood and bits of cartilage and brain tissue.
Joe turned to Ramón. “When I run out of ammo, you take my place while I reload. We have to keep them away from the door!”
Ramón knelt in a pool of blood beside Carlos, whose head dangled from a thin strand of flesh. “Damn,” cursed Ramón. “He’s dead.”
Joe fired through the grate at whatever targets he could see. “Get his ammo,” he called, without looking back. Ramón grabbed Carlos’s rifle and searched his pockets for spare magazines. Maria sat not far away with Chico whimpering in her arms. The hissing of the chupacabras sounded like a broken steam radiator from Hell.
“Are we going to die?” the little boy asked.
Ramón rifled through the dead man’s pockets, looked up and winked at Chico. “I am too tough to die. How about you?”
Chico’s eyes were wide and frightened. “But they might get in here and eat me. I don’t want them to eat me.”
Ramón held up his rifle. “They will have to eat through me first, Chico. And I am not going to die here tonight.” He turned and joined Joe at the door.
“I am scared,” whined Chico. “I don’t want them to eat me.”
Maria smoothed his hair over his forehead. “Of course they won’t, Chico. Don’t even think that. These men will protect you.” She kept repeating it out loud to the little boy. Privately, she wasn’t so sure.
Joe’s rifle clicked empty. “I am out,” he said to Ramón, who took over at the window while Joe reloaded a fresh magazine. The mob of chupacabras had already reached the middle of the passageway.
Joe looked at Carlos’s corpse lying in a pool of blood. “Cover Carlos up with something,” he snapped at Maria, indicating the sobbing child on her lap, and then the mutilated corpse. “You don’t want Chico looking at that.”
Maria put Chico aside and grabbed an altar cloth from a stack and unfolded it, then spread it over Carlos’s body. Ramón stopped firing. Joe turned around. “What’s wrong? Why have you stopped shooting?”
Ramón shrugged. “The hallway is empty, man.”
Joe joined him at the window. Only the mound of dead chupacabras remained in the hall. The rest had disappeared. “Do you think we killed them all?”
“I doubt it.” Ramón turned to Maria and pointed to the door. “Is this the only entrance to this room?”
“Yes.”
“It’s almost morning,” said Ramón. “The sun should be coming up in a few hours.”
Joe turned away from where he’d been peering through the little window. “We just need to stay put until someone comes to get us.”
Suddenly, a clawed arm flailed through the bars and snatched the barrel of Joe’s M-16. The clutching hand tried to yank the gun through the grate. Joe struggled to hold on. The barrel swung left, then right, then the muzzle centered for a split-second on the chupacabra’s face. Joe pulled the trigger. The chupacabra’s head burst apart and it pirouetted, winged arms flung out like a matador’s cape, before it collapsed in a pile, tail twitching like a dying snake.
“Holy shit!” Joe said as he slid down to sit on the floor. No other sounds came from the hallway. It was as silent as a tomb.
««—»»
The sun was high overhead, blazing like a baleful red eyeball, when a convoy of four Jeep Cherokees, followed by an ambulance and a tow truck, slowly pulled into the main square of La Esperanza.
Puddles of smoking kerosene dotted the street, and broken glass littered the sidewalk in front of the church. Bullet holes scarred the buildings in the square. Heavily armed men, some dressed as police, others in civilian clothes, emerged from the vehicles. Every man toted an automatic weapon.
Paco surveyed the devastated plaza and church entryway. He looked at the Impala, parked askew on the sidewalk with the trunk open, its front bumper resting on the stone steps of the church.
“What the hell happened here?” he muttered and walked up the steps with his weapon at the ready. His men took up positions around the church. He pushed through the broken doors, swinging on their busted hinges. The interior of the church revealed a scorched, bullet-ridden, blood-covered shambles. Keith’s body was barely recognizable; only bloody bones and scraps of clothing remained. His sightless skull grinned up from the lake of dried blood on the floor. Father Tom’s ravaged corpse sprawled out of the doorway of the confessional booth. On the floor, his severed hand still clutched the whiskey bottle.
“Search the building,” Paco said grimly. “Bring anyone you find to me.” He touched Keith’s corpse with the toe of his cowboy boot and shuddered in disgust.
His driver loomed over his shoulder and stared at the pile of gore. “Only an animal would do that to a man,” he murmured.
The driver bent down and picked up Keith’s rifle. The barrel was twisted like a pretzel. An arm that had been gnawed off at the elbow was still clutching the trigger guard.
Paco shook his head. “An animal that isn’t afraid of automatic rifle fire? There is no animal in the world that would behave in this manner.”
The driver tossed away the gnarled rifle. It clattered loudly on the stone floor and Paco frowned at him.
The driver said, “Whatever happened here, these people pu
t up a hell of a fight.”
««—»»
In the storage room, Ramón, Joe, Maria, and Chico huddled in an exhausted slumber. Ramón sat up as a sound penetrated his consciousness. It sounded like someone calling his name. He stood up and called out, “Who is there? Who is that?”
At the sound of his call, Joe jerked awake and jumped to his feet, rifle at the ready. A muffled voice called out from the hallway. Joe lurched to the door and looked out the little window. He started to bring up his rifle when he saw three men carrying MAC-10 submachine guns with sound suppressors coming down the hallway. There was no sign of the dead chupacabras. Only glimmering patches of dried blood mixed with fluorescent goop remained, like psychedelic ink blots in a Rorschach test.
“We are looking for Ramón Esparza,” one of the men called.
Joe lowered his rifle. Ramón crowded next to him at the little window. “What the hell took you so long?” Ramón demanded.
««—»»
Upstairs, Paco wandered the chapel, inspecting the damage, counting bullet holes. There was not a single dead chupacabra in sight. When his henchmen brought the four battered survivors to him, he frowned when he recognized Ramón.
“What the hell happened?” he asked, pointing to the bullet holes in the walls and the destroyed pews and confessional booths. “Did those bastards from the Tijuana cartel do this?”
“No,” said Ramón tiredly. “It was chupacabras. Just like I told you on the phone.”
“Look man, save that shit for the tourists. What really happened? If it was Tijuana, we’ll go to war over this.”
Joe stood over the mutilated remains of his younger brother. Someone had thoughtfully draped a scorched altar curtain over him. “What he says is true,” he said. “It was chupacabras. They killed my brother.”
One of Paco’s goons approached. “Hey Paco, we’ve gone through the whole place. There are no other bodies except for Carlos and the two in here.”
Paco looked at Ramón and the look on his face said, Explain that.
“They take their dead,” Ramón said simply.
Paco raised his eyebrows. “Take them where?”
“How in the hell should I know?” Ramón spat. “But we were the ones doing the shooting and we must have killed dozens of them.”
“Sounds crazy to me, but I’m just the errand boy.” Paco said. “You’ll have to tell El Jefe what happened to his guns and bullets.”
“We’ve got his guns,” said Joe, holding up a rifle.
“Yeah okay, I can see where the bullets went.” Paco waved his hand at the pock-marked walls.
“Let’s go see El Jefe,” said Ramón.
“We are taking Keith’s body with us,” said Joe, and the tone in his voice made it clear that it was non-negotiable.
Paco merely inquired, “Which one is that?”
Joe pointed. Paco snapped his fingers and told his henchmen, “Put him in the ambulance with Carlos.” He swung his gaze to Maria and Chico and regarded them with hooded eyes. “What about these two?”
“They’re with us,” Ramón told him.
Paco shrugged. “Okay, whatever you say.” He turned to go and then pivoted back around. “Hey, what happened to Vicente?”
“I told you last night, they flew off with him.”
Paco and his driver shared a look of skepticism. Then Paco said, “Let’s tow your car back to the hacienda.”
Joe turned to Maria and Chico. “You want to stay here or come with us? I feel bad about getting you mixed up in this.”
Chico stared at the blanket that covered Father Tom. Maria pulled him to her side. “He was an orphan, the padre looked after him. Now the padre is dead.”
Joe bent down, and put his hand on Chico’s shoulder. “Chico, do you want to come with me? I’ve got some business to take care of in Mexico City and then I’m going back to Texas. I think I am gonna start a chupacabra-exterminating company.”
Chico buried his face in Maria’s legs. “He’s dead. The padre is dead. Rolando is dead. They were my only friends.”
Joe squeezed Chico’s shoulder. “I know, kid. I lost my brother and he was my only friend. But you can come with me. And then we will both have somebody to call ‘friend’ again.”
Chico wiped his eyes, sniffled, and smiled uncertainly. “Can I?”
Joe tousled his hair. “Sure thing, partner.”
“I’m coming with you too,” Maria asserted.
“I thought you were pissed off at us.”
“I was, but someone has to look out for Chico. And besides, the chupacabras will be coming back tonight and I don’t want to be here when that happens.”
Joe eyed Maria in her torn dress. She was actually a very attractive woman; he’d simply not had the time to notice until now. “Okay, it’s settled then.”
««—»»
Later, as the convoy slowly pulled out of town, they passed the sign that said, “La Esperanza.”
Joe pointed to it through the windshield and asked, “What does Esperanza mean, anyway?”
“It means hope,” said Ramón.
As they got closer to the sign it was clear it had been vandalized. “La” had been crossed out and the word “no” had been substituted.
Joe smirked and shook his head. “Quite the bunch of comedians around here.”
— | — | —
Book 2:
FURY of the Chupacabras
— | — | —
“I do not like the killers, and the killing bravely and well crap. It is a search for balls. A man should have one chance to bring something down. He should have his shot at something, a shining running something, and see it come a-tumbling down, all mucus and steaming blood stench and gouted excrement, the eyes going dull during the final muscle spasms. And if he is, in all parts and purposes, a man, he will file that away as a part of his process of growth and life and eventual death. And if he is perpetually, hopelessly a boy, he will lust to go do it again, with a bigger beast.”
— John D. MacDonald
“We are in the same tent as the clowns and the freaks—that's show business.”
— Edward R. Murrow
— | — | —
Chapter 1
Okaloosa County, Florida, August 12th 2008
The sun sat high in the cobalt sky. Occasionally obscured by a passing cloud, it cast swiftly moving shadows across State Highway 31 as the blue 1967 Chevy Impala moved across the ribbon of blacktop.
Behind the wheel sat Joe Gifford; late-thirties, weather-beaten, and rough-edged, with buzz-cut brown hair. He was five-foot-ten and one hundred and ninety pounds of lean muscle dressed in blue jeans, combat boots, and a woodland camouflage t-shirt.
Next to him was Ramón Esparza; late-forties and squint-eyed with a face like chainsaw art; two hundred and forty solid pounds of Mexican street-fighter wearing khaki cargo pants, an outrageously gaudy Hawaiian shirt, and a pair of expensive handmade snakeskin cowboy boots.
In the back seat, dressed in green cargo pants and a tiger-striped camouflage t-shirt, sat twenty-six-year-old Lupita Machado. She was five-foot-three and a hundred and fifty-three pounds, most of it in her chest and her bubble butt, a classic hourglass figure, all of it topped by a cherubic face, set off by bottomless brown eyes.
Crammed next to her and languorously panting in the heat were two enormous Argentine Dogos, Duke and Panocha; sleek, majestic, and powerful; one hundred and twenty pounds of pure muscle, resembling giant white pit bulls.
Joe wiped his face with his free hand and felt the sweat dripping down his neck. The humidity was insane in Florida, not at all like the dry heat he was accustomed to in Mexico and Southern Texas. Joe and his younger brother Keith had been born in Austin, Texas, the sons of John Gifford and Bebe Pemberton. Their parents had been professional gamblers, and the family moved often. John and Bebe had divorced when the boys were very young, and John died not long after from a rare form of cancer of the nervous system. Bebe took her sons with her as s
he worked at temporary jobs in Arizona, California, and Oregon, before returning to Texas.
Joe Gifford dropped out of El Paso Central High School in the tenth grade. After a year of hitchhiking across the country, he enlisted in the U.S. Army at the age of 17 just in time for Operation Desert Storm. He saw plenty of action as a member of the 1st Infantry Division, the infamous “Big Red One,” or as the men themselves called it, “The Big Dead One.”
Two years later he was in Somalia—“keeping the peace”—and then a few years later, in Kosovo. After that he decided to call it quits with soldiering and join his brother in Texas; from what he’d seen, war—despite the high-flown rhetoric about “freedom” and “democracy”—was nothing more than a vast and obscene money-making racket for the rich and ultra-powerful. He had no desire to serve as cannon-fodder, fighting and dying for a bunch of bankers, politicians, and generals. He felt his time could be better spent stacking his own mountains of gold. He’d eventually become involved with his brother in gun smuggling and low-level drug dealing. But that was a long time ago. His brother was dead. Now Joe hunted monsters for a living.
In the passenger seat, Ramón yawned and rubbed his eyes. Fast approaching fifty, he felt, at times, that he was getting too old for this life. As a teenager on the streets of Mexico City, Ramón had begun his criminal career by running petty street scams, selling fake lottery tickets and stealing cars. In the late 1990s, he was a getaway driver and then a bodyguard before moving into the cocaine trafficking business. He and Joe had been attacked by chupacabras during one of their smuggling trips into northern Mexico, and Joe’s younger brother Keith had been killed. That’s why Joe sought to make the creatures extinct.
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