“Whoa!” Ryder cried out.
He stepped aside just as the creature tried again, darting its tail at him in quick, insistent lunges. He deflected each strike with the skillet. Bang! Wham! Bong! He displayed amazing technique, under the circumstances.
The creature hissed. Its clawed feet skittered on the linoleum as it moved into the kitchen, bottling him up.
Since he had nowhere to go, Ryder moved forward to meet it, swinging the skillet, screaming like a maniac, letting the beast see his war face and hear his war cry. He smashed the tail away and closed with the creature, getting inside its reach, aiming the iron pan for those eyes. He connected, and the edge of the skillet sank into one of the glowing orbs, popping it like a pimple full of pus.
The creature howled and its arms contracted around Ryder, crushing him to its chest. But Ryder’s good hand was free, and he brought the skillet down again, crashing it into the monstrous face with all his might.
The stinking green arms which were squeezing his breath from his chest loosened. He gave the creature another thumping blow, bouncing the iron pan off its weirdly rubbery head, and it let go of him and slid to the floor. Ryder fell to his knees, raised the skillet high overhead and swung it down in a chopping motion, over and over, pounding the creature’s face to mush, yelling mindlessly, bashing until the head was a mess of pulped cartilage spread across the linoleum like a crushed pumpkin.
What a stench!
He staggered to his feet, stumbled to the sink, and threw up. It rushed up his throat, burning and sour. He was still heaving when he sensed that he was not alone in the kitchen, and turned in time to see two more creatures rushing toward him. The first reached him with a muscular arm raised. Ryder felt the sharp pain of the claws slicing through his flesh, and the hot spill of his own blood erupting from his throat.
The goddamned thing has torn out my throat! he thought in horrified panic.
He coughed, inhaled a mouthful of blood, coughed again, and then took another blow across the face. His lower jaw ripping away in a spray of gore.
This is not happening, his mind screamed. I am a sportsman and a hunter! I am at the top of the fucking food chain! I kill animals! Animals don’t kill me!
Another blow came hurling in, and he tried to duck out of the way. Talons tore a chunk from his solar plexus and part of his shoulder. He wobbled like a punching bag between the two creatures while they batted him back and forth like kids playing with a balloon. Ryder felt no pain, only a creeping numbness. He was already quite insane from shock when one of the creatures clamped his head between its scaly hands and French kissed his eyes from their sockets.
— | — | —
Chapter 10
On the third ring, Joe picked up the phone from the sheriff’s desk.
Ramón’s voice, tinny in the speaker, said, “We must come up with a better method of hunting these things, don’t you think? Maybe get some walky-talkies…”
“Ramón?” Joe blurted. “How the hell did you get this number? And how are you making a call? Your phone is in the trunk of the Impala.”
“No big deal, I’ve got Fish and Game’s phone. She knew the sheriff’s number.”
“Is she with you?”
“Yes.”
“How did you know I was here?”
“I saw you guys go inside.”
“Where are you?”
“In the movie theater across the street. I’ve got Colgate with me too.”
“What about the rest?”
“Hell if I know.”
“You guys okay?”
“We are alive,” Ramón said. “What do you think of the chupacabras digging tiger traps to keep us from leaving town? Never seen ’em do that before. I think they’ve been watching old war movies.”
“You’ve got that tone in your voice,” Joe told him. “Are you ready to retire?”
“Thinking about it.”
“You can cash out when we get home…but first we’ve got to get home.”
“I know. Ain’t this some shit?” Ramón sighed. “What do you suppose is going on?”
“Man, I do not have a clue,” Joe admitted. “I have never known any animal to act like this.” He paused. “We need to step up our game.”
“Yeah,” agreed Ramón.
“How many are we dealing with?” Joe asked him.
“My guess would be a hundred to a hundred and twenty. It seems like more but it’s probably not.”
Joe figured they were dealing with about the same number. He had been trained in the army to extrapolate enemy numbers by a variety of ways and means, but Ramón, with only innate street smarts and native cunning, was just as good.
“You’re good, Ramón, you really are.”
“I know I am good,” Ramon chided. “It’s the situation that stinks.”
Joe stated the obvious. “We ain’t prepared to deal with a hundred of these things. I feel like we brought a knife to a gunfight or something.”
“Yeah, so?”
“So we should just hunker down and wait until sun up.”
“That might be easier for you than us.”
“Why, what’s up?”
“They’re already inside the building over here,” Ramón explained. “I am low on ammo. No one else is armed. We’re holed up in the projection booth. This is a dead end. And this door won’t stand up to shit.”
“Well then you’ll just have to come over here.”
Ramón chuckled. “Sure, and I’ll stop by the car and get the flamethrower on the way. I can’t even see the street from here to know if it’s clear.”
“I can talk you through it on the phone.”
Joe moved to a corner of the office where he could see through the smashed front windows. He saw the street, empty and shining under the glow of the swaying streetlight on the corner. The wind was picking up and the rain had returned, steadily down pouring.
“Street looks empty right now.”
Ramón’s voice was tight when he answered, “Both you and I know it might look empty, but it sure as fuck isn’t. There are at least three to five of them out there—and I wasn’t kidding when I said I was low on ammo.”
“No,” Joe said cautiously. “I think it really is clear. You know, damn, I hate to say this, but I think they’re busy killing everyone in this fucking town!”
He cocked his ear to the direction of the street. It was hard to discern through the sound of the rain, but he swore he heard the ominous pop and crackle of small arms fire and people screaming in the distance. It sounded like a war. Joe knew because he’d been in a few.
“Listen to me Ramón,” Joe said evenly. “When you come out of that place I will be out front here with my shotgun, okay? You guys just haul ass. If there are any of them out there, I can hold them off long enough for you to get across the street.”
“I am going to have to convince Colgate and the ranger,” Ramón told him. “I’ll call you back.”
After Ramón explained to them, Singer said, “The State Police will be here in a little while. Why do we need to go anywhere?”
Ramón gave her a pained smile. “You can always stay here and hope they don’t try this door.”
“But you’re going?” she asked quickly.
Ramón nodded. She looked to Colgate. He grinned at her and then told her, “I trust these guys. They’ve dealt with these things before. If they say we are safer across the street, I believe them.”
She wilted. “Okay.”
Ramón called Joe. “How are the dogs?” he asked when Joe picked up.
Joe gave Duke and Lupita a glance. They had settled down on the floor near the desk. They were calm, but alert.
“The dogs are cool and that’s what I mean, Ramón. Get your asses over here, now. I think it’s clear.”
“Okay, it might be clear outside, but we ain’t sure about the lobby. We can’t see it from here. Can you see the street?”
“Yeah, I’ll see you when you come out. I’ll be by the
front door of the jail, covering you.”
“Okay,” Ramón said with a tired sigh. “I’m giving the phone back to the Lone Ranger here. I am gonna need my hands, I think.” He hung up and tossed the phone to Singer.
“Okay?” he called to Colgate, who was squinting out the projection port and checking the auditorium.
“Not okay,” Colgate whispered. “There are two of them in the theater.”
“Where?” asked Ramón.
“I just told you, in the theater.”
“No, I mean where in the theater?’
“Oh, let me see.” Colgate pressed his nose to the small window, squinting his eyes. “They’re up by the screen, sniffing at it and poking at it with their tails.”
“We will have to be quiet when we get to the lobby.”
“Oh boy,” Colgate groaned unhappily. It would be like walking through a minefield. He wished he had a drink.
They gathered by the door. Ramón clutched the Colt in one hand and reached out and grabbed the door handle.
“Once I open this door, we make our way quietly to the top of the stairs and check the lobby from there, okay?”
They nodded. Ramón scrutinized them. Colgate looked awful. His face was puffy, his eyes bloodshot and red-rimmed. His seersucker suit was muddy and torn at the shoulder. Singer, clutching the scissors in her hand, looked alert; her blue eyes were wide and filled with dread. She was terrified, but that was okay. Her fear would give her an edge.
“If the lobby looks clear, then we will go down,” Ramón whispered. “We must move fast, but more importantly, we must move quietly, got it?”
“I understand,” Singer assured him.
“Got it,” Colgate said curtly.
“Okay, let’s do this.” Ramón twisted the handle and opened the door. A skulking creature filled the doorway. Ramón quickly slammed it shut. He turned and looked at them over his shoulder. “We may be trapped.”
The first blow landed, bumping the door on its hinges.
“No maybe about it,” huffed Colgate, joining him in pressing his shoulder to the door. “We are trapped.”
Another hammering blow jolted the door. Ramón and Colgate braced their feet. Singer joined them, adding her body weight. Still the door thumped open an inch, two inches, with each blow. The wood began to splinter and crack.
“I’ve got an idea,” Ramón rasped.
“Love to hear it,” wheezed Colgate.
“I kill this one and we run for our lives.”
“I can’t hold this door much longer anyway,” groaned Colgate.
“Get back,” Ramón shouted, pushing them away.
The door cracked open and the demonic head burst through. Ramón raised the Colt and blasted it dead center between the eyes, then leapt over the falling body, and charged down the hallway. At the top of the stairs he looked down and saw the other two creatures. They were poised at the bottom of the landing. He snapped off a shot on the run and missed, then stopped and assumed a two-handed stance, aimed carefully, and punched one beast off its feet. The other kept coming, bounding up the steps.
Ramón aimed and squeezed the trigger. The creature seemed to anticipate his move and avoided the bullet by twisting out of the way at the very last possible moment. As it streaked past, it swatted at him but he avoided the blow by letting his legs fall out from under him and sliding down the stairs on his backside. The creature kept going up the stairs—and at the top met Singer’s fist.
She jammed the blade of the scissors deep into its bulbous eye, sinking it to her knuckles. A spray of goo erupted from the wound and the beast tumbled down the steps, clawing at its head and shrieking. She and Colgate leapt past it and followed Ramón to the lobby. They squirmed through the hole in the plywood that the chupacabras had created and then they were free.
Lightning flashed across the sky and they saw Joe across the street on the sidewalk, waving to them in the rain, then running to the Impala, splashing in the puddles that had collected in the gutter.
Ramón, Colgate, and Singer dashed across the street and met Joe as he was opening the trunk. From the doorway of the jail, Duke and Panocha began barking. Damn, thought Joe. No time to grab the flamethrower. It was dismantled and stashed in various hidden compartments in the trunk. It would take him ten minutes to get it assembled.
“Get inside now,” Joe barked.
Along with the rain, he heard the distinctive sound of claws trampling on concrete accompanied by the snap of wings flapping. It sounded close. He had hoped the storm might keep them inside or at least grounded and out of the air. No such luck.
He reached inside the trunk and grabbed a box of shotgun shells, and then slammed the lid shut and hurried inside the jailhouse. As he was turning to close the door, he saw Johnson and Doppler creeping around the corner at the junction of First and Main. Joe beckoned wildly, and Doppler and the deaf soundman ran to him and slid inside.
As the door swung shut, screeches cut through the rain. Very close now. The cries joined the rising howl of the wind. The storm was growing worse. As everyone got sorted out, Joe came close to the broken front windows. The wind was whipping the rain inside, spraying water on the floor. Ramón joined him.
“Hope those bars are solid,” he said, pointing.
“They are.” Joe puffed out a big sigh. “I think we are safe, for now.”
“What do we do?”
“Not much we can do. Wait until morning and then see what’s left of this town.”
“And then?”
“We get busy.”
“Still not ready to give up?”
Joe gave him a fiery look. “We don’t run from chupacabras—we kill them.”
“We did plenty of running tonight,” Ramón pointed out. “Both of us.”
From outside, probably two to three miles away, screams echoed— human screams, followed by the sound of glass breaking.
“They’re going through this town like a hot knife through butter,” Ramón said in an awed tone.
More screams, then gunfire, then another scream, someone shouting inarticulately, one last pop of gunfire... and then silence. Joe and Ramón shared a worried look. It was going to be a long night.
««—»»
Florida State Trooper Michael Leon Wear swung off the Interstate and began the twenty-two mile drive to Dadeville. It had been his bad luck to be in the assigned area when the call came to investigate a “civil disturbance” in the town. He’d heard all about the killer alligator they had that was supposedly snacking on the locals. Whatever was happening in Dadeville, he didn’t think it was any of his business. He was supposed to patrol the Interstate. But orders were orders.
His windshield wipers swung furiously trying to keep the water from completely obscuring the view through his windscreen, but it was a losing proposition. The water fell in sheets, like someone had upended the Gulf of Mexico and was pouring it directly on the badly paved secondary road upon which he drove.
Wear felt the tires on his patrol car begin to hydroplane. He tapped the brakes and slowed his car to 35 miles per hour. A quick check of his wristwatch told him that it was close to midnight. He was off shift in three more hours. He prayed this “civil disturbance” turned out to be a false alarm. He wasn’t in the mood to be calling for back-up and dealing with a bunch of yahoos who couldn’t control themselves when the wind and rain kicked up a little bit more than usual.
The wind pummeled his car as he wound his way through the woods.
He passed the cell phone towers that indicated he was at the halfway mark—only eleven more miles till he came to the town. Lightning flashed, and in the fading whiteness he thought he saw someone standing on the tower.
No, that couldn’t be. Why would anyone be up there, especially in this storm? Then—
He caught a flash of something in the road ahead and hit his high beams. He slammed on his brakes a moment after, just in time to avoid the downed pine tree blocking the road.
“Shit-damn
-piss-hell!” he barked. He was an ex-Marine, and he swore like a drill sergeant. “Son-of-a-bitch!” He slammed his fist into the dashboard. “Why does this always happen to me?”
He squinted through the windscreen. The tree was across the road at a slight angle. Maybe he could get out and move it aside. He put his foot on the gas pedal and inched the car ahead. When he was only a few yards from the barrier, he put the car in park, turned off the engine, and opened the door and climbed out. The wind plucked at him and threatened to rip his cap from his head. He took his hat and tossed it inside on the car seat. It was the last thing he would ever do.
As he turned from the car, a chupacabra swooped in through the rain. Claws like meat hooks sank into Wear’s shoulders and lifted him into the sky. The Trooper’s legs kicking wildly as he left the ground and then he disappeared into the darkness.
Another creature dropped from the sky, landing with a splash next to the car. Growling softly, almost as if it was humming to itself, the beast moved to the rear of the patrol car and smashed out the driver’s side taillight. It pulled the wires from the fixture, playing them out carefully. Then it used its claws to tear the cap off the gas tank. It twisted the exposed ends of the wire together and stuffed them down into the tank. Stepping back to admire its handiwork, the beast hissed in pleasure and then flapped away.
««—»»
Mavis Leonard was sitting in her creaky rocking chair, watching the late night cable news. The wind slapped the windows, rattling them. Lightning flashed, followed by the distant rumble of thunder.
The smarmy news anchor was rehashing the storm for the umpteenth time. “…still a few points shy of being upgraded to a Category One hurricane, but this tropical storm is causing considerable damage in the—”
The news anchor’s voice was suddenly cut off as the power went out, plunging the room into darkness. Mavis grumbled and climbed to her feet, cursing her rotten boy Elroy for not being there when she needed him. She ambled into the kitchen and began pulling open drawers, looking for a candle. She jumped when the doorbell rang.
Fury of the Chupacabras Page 19