Highway to Hell

by Rosemary Clement-Moore

  “Jorge.” Bud Man spoke kindly, but firmly, to the bald man. “My family were Velasquederos—five generations, just like yours. We have to work with the family.”

  Jorge pressed his lips together, but didn't back down. “Well, maybe you don't mind losing your cattle to el chupacabra, but I do.” He turned to the crowd. “Who can afford to lose another two head of cattle? Maybe it will be three tonight, or four. We need to go out and patrol our herds.”

  I glanced at Hector. “They're not serious.” “Fraid so.” A worried frown lined his face.

  Bud Man made a grab for the reins of reason. “El chupacabra? Come on, Jorge. You're talking about a fairy tale….”

  “Doesn't matter what it is.” It was Dave, the young guy who'd told me about the two-headed snake museum. “A forty-five slug will put a hole in Ol' Chupy, same as in a coyote, same as a bobcat.”

  His cocky statement met with rousing agreement. The easy acceptance that this was what they should do—ride out as an armed party in the middle of the night, like Wild Wild West meets Dracula— rang my alarm bells. It wasn't just the freaky gene talking; this plan had disaster written all over it.

  “This is crazy,” I said to Hector. “What do they think they're going to accomplish?”

  “They're scared, Maggie.”

  “Which is exactly why they shouldn't be riding around in the dark with an arsenal.”

  “Well,” said Hector calmly, “if you think it's such a bad plan, then stop them.”

  “Me?” The suggestion, posed so reasonably, made me blink. “I'm just a city girl who's never gotten closer to a cow than unwrapping a hamburger. How am I going to convince them that rushing out of here like a bunch of Transylvanian peasants with pitchforks is a really bad idea?”

  I didn't notice how the noise had fallen off until my own voice was the only thing I heard. I glared at Hector, who should have warned me.

  “You've got a better plan?” Teresa's scorn dropped heavily into the well of offended quiet.

  My gaze went around the room. I needed a logical argument, a reasonable alternative. Something that kept them out of danger, but didn't sound like inaction.

  “Wouldn't it be easier if you rounded up your herds?” I judged from their expressions that this wasn't complete nonsense, so I pressed my luck. “Your stock is all spread out over the Velasquez property, right? If you consolidate them tomorrow, during daylight, then you can patrol more efficiently.”

  “But the chupacabra only comes out at night,” said Teresa.

  Which was my point. Bud Man nodded at me in approval, and turned to Jorge and his friends. “She's right. With all our stock spread out, we can't cover everything.”

  Teresa flashed me a thwarted glare, then addressed the assembly like Patton marshaling his troops. “If you are afraid, then stay home and wait to see what turns up dead tomorrow. But I'm telling you, el chupacabra won't stop until it destroys all your herds. If you want to try and kill this thing once and for all, you should go now. Don't waste any more time.”

  Jorge took up the flag. “My dogs are out in the car and my horse is in the trailer. I'm going out tonight, whatever the rest of you do.”

  Dave stood up, scraping back his chair. “Anyone who's scared to go out alone can ride in my truck.”

  Men rose to go, teaming up or striking out on their own, making haphazard arrangements based on local place names like Lady Acre and Back of Morrow Creek. I pulled my cell phone from the pocket of my shorts and flipped it open.

  “Who are you calling?” Hector asked.

  “Lisa. She's with Zeke at some seafood place up the road.”

  “They'll never get here in time.” He nodded to the door. “Folks are heading out now.”

  This was my dilemma: I knew there was something out there, animal or monster. Maybe even a demon. Whatever it was, anything capable of gutting a cow was going to be bad news for a human.

  So how could I let these people go out there after it? If something happened to them, wouldn't that make me responsible? I, at least, had some idea of the possibilities. They had none.

  My mouth seemed to come to a decision before my brain did. “Hey, Dave,” I called across the quickly clearing room. “Can I ride shotgun with you?”

  He looked me up and down in amusement. “You serious, city girl?”

  The mass exodus to retrieve trucks and guns and dogs had all but emptied the bar. Mostly it was just Teresa and Hector and the Old Guys at their table. And me.

  “What does a girl like you think you can do against el chupacabra?” Teresa's scorn could have peeled the wood veneer off the walls.

  “Maggie.” Hector's voice was full of bemused concern. “This wasn't what I meant by doing something to stop them.”

  Determined, I hopped down from the barstool. “I'm a re-porter.” It was as good an excuse as any. “This could be a story. I'm going.”

  Dave sized me up again. Behind him, the Old Guys were watching avidly what happened next. “A reporter, huh?”

  “Yeah. I can't really fire a shotgun, but I've got a camera and a knack for getting the picture.”

  Teresa started in. “This is serious business, missy. No one should make a profit on el chupacabra.”

  “Why the hell not?” Dave asked. Then to me, “You really think you can get a picture of Ol' Chupy?”

  “No one has ever gotten a picture of el chupacabra,” Teresa said. “Its hide is as black as the night and it hides in shadow. It can disappear on the wind and—”

  “If anyone can get a photo,” I told Dave with certainty, “I can. And I'll give you ten percent of whatever I sell it for.”

  He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Fifty.”

  “Twenty-five.”

  “Go get your gear.”

  As I headed out the back, I caught Hector shaking his head. If he cared to lecture me, he'd have a point. Instead of stopping the runaway horse, I'd jumped right on its back.

  Figured. It had been that kind of day.

  When I returned—wearing jeans and a T-shirt, my backpack slung over my shoulder—the Old Guys had gone and Hector was waiting for me with a fat turkey sandwich and a thermos of coffee. “I figured you hadn't had any dinner.”

  “You are my hero.” I stuck the plastic-wrapped sandwich in one of the side pockets of my pack.

  I hadn't realized until he was out from behind the bar how tall and lean he was. He held out a denim button-down shirt, worn but clean. “You'll need long sleeves. The mosquitoes are fierce.”

  “Thanks. Is Dave out front?”

  “Yeah.” Hector studied me soberly. “Do you really know what you're doing, Maggie? Whatever they call it, this thing is a dangerous predator. Folks won't have reckoned that it may not be easily killed with a man-made weapon.”

  It was strange—stranger than my usual strange, I mean-that his grasp on the situation didn't surprise me. Doña Isabel's ability, her supernaturalness, had hit me the moment I'd met her. Even before that, if you count my dream. But Hector's otherness worked its way into my subconscious with a dozen shared looks and chosen phrases. He was more than met the eye.

  “Do you know what the chupacabra is?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “No. I'd tell you if I did.”

  “Would you tell me if I was an idiot for going with Dave?”

  “Yes.” His smile was small and quick. “Dave is all right. Don't let his big talk fool you. He knows his weapons and he knows the land.”

  “Okay.” I grabbed the thermos from the counter and tucked it under my arm.

  “Just keep your head, and you'll be all right.” He walked me to the door and held it open. I glanced out to see Dave waiting by a large, late-model pickup. On the other side of the parking lot, the Old Guys were still watching events unfold.

  “Teresa's keeping the Duck open all night for those coming and going from patrol.” Hector glanced down at me, his expression sober but reassuring. “I'll see you when you get back.”

  I realized
why I'd taken an instant liking to him. With his soft-spoken confidence and long, grave face, he reminded me of Bishop, the android that Lance Henriksen played in Aliens. Which doesn't sound like a compliment to his character unless you love that movie as much as I do.

  Did that make me Ripley? That was a grim thought before I headed out into the dark with a creature capable of eviscerating two thousand pounds of beef. What could it do to a hundred and twenty pounds of slightly psychic college coed?

  15

  Four hours later, I'd had a historical and sociological revelation. The dominant role of the male in the rise of Western society was, undoubtedly, a result of their ability to pee outdoors. They took it completely for granted; otherwise why would Hector have thought it a kindness to give me such a large thermos of coffee?

  “You okay there, city girl?” Dave and I sat on the hood of his pickup, which gave us a panoramic view of the pasture. It wouldn't have been comfortable under any circumstances, but given my saddle-sore rear end—not to mention the other thing—I was past discomfort and sliding toward misery, with agony yawning below.

  “I'm fine,” I lied, trying to shift so that the metal wouldn't dig into my bones and my jeans wouldn't squeeze my bladder. “But I've ruled nature photographer and surveillance operative out of my career plans.”

  Dave chuckled and swept the terrain with the night-vision scope on his rifle. The man was a serious hunter. He'd told me all about it during the first hours of our stakeout: deer, wild turkey, duck, and boar. The truck was full of saddle tack and fencing wire, but he also had a GPS locator, the night-vision scope, and, of course, the gun rack.

  As he scanned the landscape, I did, too. The same way that my eyes grew accustomed to the moonlight, my sixth sense had begun to discern discrete patterns in the night, separating them from the background. There was a large group of cows to our left, and a smaller group over the hill. Not far away was the rhythmic movement of a pump jack, like a heart sending blood through the vein of the well.

  I checked my watch. Twelve-thirty. I hadn't heard from either Justin or Lisa, but that wasn't a surprise, since I wasn't getting any cell reception in the pasture.

  “So, Dave. You really think that—what?—twenty men will be able to keep watch over thousands of acres of pasture?”

  He sipped his coffee and considered the question. “Well, Ol' Chupy never liked to come near people. I figure just our being out here might keep him away.”

  One could always hope. I gestured to the rifle in his hands. “Are you good with that?”

  “Hell, yeah. I was a sniper in the army. Wanted to be career, but my dad got sick and I came back to work the cattle.”

  His profile, lit by the three-quarter moon, was easily visible. “Why not just sell them off?”

  “Nah. It would have broke my dad's heart. Every time one of the kids from here moved off to the city, he would talk about how the cowboy is a dying breed.” Setting the rifle across his knees, he reached for the thermos. “By the time he died, I figured I was kind of invested. Maybe I'll sell off someday, but it's not bad for now.” He winked at me over his cup. “Ladies think cowboys are sexy.”

  “Sure. Because the smell of cow crap and horse sweat is so hot.”

  “Well, some people think so.” He put the empty cup back on the top of the thermos. “You ever fire a weapon?”

  “No. My family are pen-is-mightier-than-the-sword types.”

  “Peaceniks. I gotcha.”

  I'd held my own in a catfight with a demon. But that was more explaining than I wanted to do, so I let it pass.

  Dave jumped down from the truck. “Come on. I'll teach you the basics.”

  I stayed where I was and gave him a dubious look. “Why would I want to learn how to shoot a gun?”

  “A rifle,” he corrected me. “Lesson one is: Don't call it a gun unless you want to sound like a newb.” When I still didn't move, he held it out like an invitation. “Might as well. What else are we going to do?”

  With a suffering sigh, I slid off the hood, my sneakers sinking into the sandy soil. Dave put the rifle in my hands, standing behind me to position it properly.

  It was heavy. My arms felt the weight. My instinct, though, felt its deadly power.

  “Don't be afraid of it.” He adjusted my stance so that the weapon was closer to my body. “Put your cheek against the butt and close one eye. Look here, through the scope.”

  I did as he said, lining up the crosshairs on a mesquite tree. With the night-vision on, I could clearly see a rabbit peeking out from the cover of a thorny bush. “Cool.”

  Dave took the rifle back and demonstrated the next steps. “Make sure the safety's off, pull it into your shoulder so the recoil doesn't bruise you, and squeeze the trigger.”

  “No problem,” I drawled.

  He set it on the hood and opened the truck door to get another gun—weapon—from the rack inside the back window. “This is a shotgun,” he said, bringing it back to me.

  “Not a shotweapon?”

  “No, Miss Smarty-pants.” It was like Elmer Fudd's gun, with two big barrels. Dave broke it open and pulled out one of the cartridges. “These are the shells. They're filled with buckshot— actually, these have birdshot in them—and gunpowder.” He reloaded the shell, closed the gun, and held it out to me.

  I brought it into position the way he'd shown with the rifle. Dave corrected me. “Don't put your face so close to this one. It's not a question of aiming so much as just pointing in the general direction.”

  “Okay.”

  “It's got a big kick, so hold the butt in tight. That way it'll just push you back instead of slamming into your shoulder.” I adjusted my position; strangely enough, I did feel more powerful. Not because I could blow something away, but because I could maneuver this dangerous instrument and make it do what I wanted.

  “That's it,” said Dave. “You're a natural.”

  “I don't think so.” I handed the weapon back to him.

  “Why not?” He took the shotgun and laid it on the bench seat of the truck, then closed the door. “Because it's not politically correct?”

  I climbed back onto the hood with a shrug. “I guess that's just not my kind of power.”

  After the cab light had come on, my eyes needed to readjust to the darkness. Dave sat beside me, the rifle across his knees, and leaned back on his braced hands. “Isn't this more fun than getting drunk with a bunch of frat boys on South Padre Island?”

  “Oh, yeah. It's a real dream.” I stared into the night and tried to concentrate on something serene and dry, like the desert. “Getting eaten alive by mosquitoes, with my bruised butt on this truck and my bladder about to pop.”

  “Is that why your leg is jitterbugging? Why don't you just go?”

  At first I thought he meant go home. But he nodded toward a mesquite bush and I realized he meant go.

  “What … outside?”

  “No, I mean at the rest stop just over that hill. Of course outside.”

  “I can wait.”

  Dave took another look, all the way around us. “Nobody here but the cows, and they won't mind.”

  “I'll mind. What if there are snakes?”

  He held out the gun in his hands. “Want to take the rifle?”

  I shook my head. I reminded myself that I was a competent and strong woman. I'd faced down killer demons and the cheerleading squad. Now I even knew—basically—how to fire a rifle. I had no intention of going all girly at this point, so it was a total surprise when I heard my own voice asking, “Will you check for snakes first?”

  “Sure.” He was clearly the kind of guy who gets spiders out of the bathtub, like my dad did for my mom.

  I fished in my backpack for a flashlight and some tissues and stuck a bottle of Purell in my pocket. Just because I'd never peed outside in my life didn't mean that I wasn't prepared.

  “Don't use the flashlight,” Dave said. “It'll ruin your night vision.”

  “You're the expert.�
� I dropped the flashlight back into my pack. We headed for the cover of the mesquite bushes, Dave with his rifle slung over his shoulder.

  “So, seriously,” he asked conversationally, “how much do you think you could get for pictures of Ol' Chupy? A thousand dollars?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “How much for its carcass, I wonder?”

  “You know, if it really is some kind of undiscovered species of animal”—which I didn't really believe anymore— “then it would be criminal to just shoot it.”

  “But if it's a space alien—”

  He broke off in the same instant that I noticed the ground vibrating under my feet. The rumble ran up through my legs, shaking my vitals and finally reaching my ears. Holy crap. That was the last thing I expected. “Earthquake!”

  “Stampede,” Dave shouted, and shoved me toward the pickup. “Run. Get to the truck.”

  “But—”

  “Run!” he repeated, and unslung his weapon from his shoulder.

  I stumbled toward the truck in a surge of adrenaline. The rumble grew to a roar, like a violent rainstorm pounding on a shingle roof. I glanced back once, as the cattle crested the rise to the east, a living avalanche of meat and hoof and horn, their wide eyes reflecting the moon.

  The herd bore down on us, their fear flying out ahead of them like a cold ocean wave, icy on my skin. Something terrible drove them.

  I fell against the pickup; Dave grabbed the back of my jeans and hoisted me up onto it. Vaulting up beside me, he faced the oncoming stampede, kneeling with his legs braced apart for stability.

  “Hang on to your hat,” he said as the truck was swamped by kazillion tons of hamburger on hoof.

  Calling with terrified voices, the cows flowed around the truck like a river rushing around a rock. I clung to the hood as the pickup bucked and swayed like a raft on the rapids.

  “They're going around!” Dave shouted.

  I must have looked as terrified as I felt, but it wasn't all my own fear. I felt caught up in the animal panic of the herd. “It isn't that. It's what's coming after them.”

  The stampede roared past and wheeled to the west, the dust in their wake thickening like hot, dry fog. My head was full of the echo of their pounding hooves, the musty smell of cow, and the feel of the pickup's hood buckling under my knees. But none of my senses was as alert as my sixth, which said we weren't done yet.