Arcane

by Nathan Shumate

  Cal gave him a shove, but Yap only snored louder. Then Cal noticed Donna wasn’t keeping watch on their left flank, either. She too was sound asleep. “This is odd.” He winced, squinting up at the moon—which had started to go blurry on him. And now that he noticed it, his head was swooning something fierce. It wasn’t even midnight yet. How could they all be so completely exhausted? “How…?”

  The hillside toppled over as he tipped onto his side. The last thing he saw was Manuel dumping the canteen of tequila into the dust, and the last thing he heard was Manuel saying,

  “Duerme bien, señor.”

  5. La Chupacabra

  Big Yap didn’t know where he was or how much time had passed, but he sure knew he had to relieve himself something fierce. So groggy he didn’t even notice who was still keeping watch, or if the horses were where he’d last seen them, he stumbled up the hill a ways until he came to a yucca standing out in the frosty moonlight like some kind of bizarre scarecrow. It was far enough from camp for a little privacy and downwind in case things turned out to be more serious than a pesky bladder.

  But as he came to the yucca and prepared to unbutton his fly, he grew acutely aware of somebody moaning just over the rise. He reached back for his sawed-off shotgun, slung across his shoulders in a makeshift scabbard of tanned leather, and thumbed back the hammers on both barrels.

  Gonna have to leave the wee for later. He crouched low and started climbing toward the outcropping of rock atop the hill.

  The moaning intensified as he approached, building in waves. Somebody was in serious agony. Yap shook his head with a jerk to keep his vision focused; it was going all fuzzy on him, and the hillside kept leaning to the right. He had to stagger off-kilter just to keep his balance. He hadn’t felt this out-of-sorts since the last time he’d gotten himself drunk as a skunk, and that had been some years ago. Long before he’d joined up with Coyote Cal to right the wrongs of the Wild West.

  When had he last touched a drop of whiskey? He couldn’t even remember. But there had been Manuel’s canteen of tequila…

  Big Yap trudged toward the hill’s summit, the cold night air blowing into him and rattling his bones—that’s what it felt like, anyway—bringing him into the urgency of the moment, reminding him there was some kind of monster out here, and that whoever was doing all the moaning wasn’t about to find much in the way of mercy at its hands.

  He steeled himself for what he’d find. Blood, guts—he’d seen plenty over the years. He would do what had to be done. Send two rounds of buckshot through the beast’s head and then put the victim out of his misery, if he couldn’t be saved. Yap could be strong like that when he had to be.

  But nothing could have prepared him for what he found on a level sheet of rock, cavorting in the moonlight: Manuel, their guide from Paseo Grande, buck naked in the middle of some serious mating ritual underneath a creature from the pits of Hell. Black as night and slick as that baby monster from the barn, this thing had tight-muscled arms and long spines like a porcupine running along its back. From the large, oblong head, gaping eyes stared down at Manuel in the middle of his agony and ecstasy. The thing’s mouth hung open with a mass of needle-sharp teeth exposed, with two longer fangs that stood out from among the rest. The hands of the thing gripped Manuel’s head between them, sharp talons drawing beads of blood like juice from a small grapefruit.

  Yap tasted bile as his stomach turned over on itself, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away. Some things are just that awful. Gritting his teeth, he aimed his shotgun at the thing’s head and came out from hiding, pulling the trigger as he stepped into the open.

  The resounding clink of empty chambers startled both the creature and Manuel. But no one was more surprised than Yap himself. He always carried a loaded shotgun.

  The creature turned on him with a violent hiss, arching its back like an aggravated feline. It let go of Manuel and advanced on Yap with claws and fangs glistening.

  “No!” Manuel strained to sit up, raising his hand in the universal gesture for Stop.

  The creature halted but continued to hiss, fixing Yap with eyes so black he couldn’t begin to fathom their abysmal depths.

  “You should not be here, mi amigo,” Manuel said quietly.

  “Me?” Yap coughed. He could feel his knees wobble in their sockets as images of all those drained animals along the trail flooded his mind’s eye. He kept his shotgun trained on the horrific face of this monster, even though he knew it was a futile gesture. “Hey now, I’m not the one up here fornicating with this whatchamacallit!”

  “Chupacabra,” Manuel said with an awestruck sigh. “Isn’t she asombrosa?”

  “If that's Mexican for ‘gruesome,’ then yessirree.”

  The monster lashed out with its claws, coming within an inch of his impotent muzzle.

  “Cálmate, mi amor,” Manuel soothed. “No te preocupes. He cannot harm you.”

  “Yeah, about that.” Yap licked at his lips. “You wouldn’t happen to know what became of my shells, would you?”

  A sheepish grin overcame Manuel's expression. “Lo siento, mi amigo. But I could not have you shoot her. The shells, they are mejor conmigo.”

  His Spanglish was a little tough to follow, but Yap found he could understand it for the most part. “So I’m guessing you’ve known all along what’s been responsible for your town’s livestock.”

  “Isn’t it obvious, amigo?”

  It sure was. “And those—uh…” Yap shifted his shoulders awkwardly. “Back at the barn, those were—”

  “Sí, sí. Qué lástima.” Manuel’s joviality collapsed. “They were our young.”

  Yap nearly choked on a surge of bile.

  “Intestinal distress, amigo?” Manuel's eyebrows arched upward in mock concern.

  “Sí,” Yap muttered. “So, you slipped us something in that tequila to put us down for a while, so you could—uh…”

  Manuel’s grin returned. “Make up for our loss, sí. La Chupacabra, she cannot bear her own young. She must have man’s seed to mix with her eggs, and she must put them into hosts—”

  “The cattle.” Those pulsating bags of flesh.

  “Or your caballos will do.”

  Yap ground his false teeth. “I don’t think so.”

  Manuel chuckled softly. “You have no say, amigo. You will not interfere. You try anything, and la Chupacabra, she will suck out all your blood.” He dismissed Yap with a wave of his hand. “So adios, amigo. We are too busy for guests.” He beckoned for the creature to return to him, and it sidled his way hissing, black eyes never leaving the intruder.

  Big Yap knew he couldn’t stay and watch—he’d start puking for sure. But he didn’t know what else to do. The empty shotgun left him unarmed. So he scampered back down the hillside past the yucca to where Cal and Donna lay fast asleep in the moonlight. He tried rousing them, but they wouldn’t even stir. He checked their pockets and belts for shells. None to be found; Manuel had been thorough. Their horses and Manuel’s mule were nowhere in sight, either.

  Then Yap thought of something, and he rolled Donna over—not at all carefully, just in case she might wake up in the process—and there it was, sheathed at her belt: the buck knife she’d used to gut that carcass in the barn. Quickly he drew the blade, gleaming in the moonlight, and gripped it tight.

  “Looks like you’re on your own, Yap,” he muttered.

  6. Solo Mission

  Kill the beast. Tie up Manuel. Find the horses. And just one old timer with a buck knife to get the job done. Not the best odds, but not the worst Big Yap and Coyote Cal had ever been up against.

  No, Yap took it back. They were the worst, because this time he was all alone.

  Why hadn’t the tequila affected him as strongly as it had the others? Was it his iron gut? Probably. But he was pretty sure it had more to do with his bladder than anything else. At his age, taking a leak every hour or so was a mandatory procedure. There wasn’t anything on God’s green earth that could interfere with t
hat.

  He trudged up the hill as fast as he could, armed with Donna’s dagger, with his empty shotgun in its scabbard across his back. He grimaced as he neared the top of the rise, expecting to hear more horrible sounds from Manuel’s bestial fornicating, but the summit was silent. As Yap approached the flat rock where the foul deed had been consummated, all he found was Manuel’s corpse, drained dry with two puncture wounds at his throat and a very surprised look frozen on his ashen face.

  “Adios,” Yap said, reaching to close the dead man’s eyelids but keeping his own peeled for any sign of the monstrous creature.

  Fresh tracks led north along the ridge, and fresh blood that had to be Manuel’s lay in scattered drops. The monster had taken more than its fill, apparently. Buck knife gripped at the ready, Yap followed the trail, wishing with everything in him that Coyote Cal would show up to save the day. Honestly, he couldn’t recollect a story in recent history where the sidekick ended up being the hero. It just never worked out that way. And he had a suspicion that didn’t bode well for him.

  Kill the beast. Find the horses. Maybe give Manuel a decent Christian burial later on, whether the fool deserved it or not. What could have induced him to partake in such abominable debauchery? Yap’s skin crawled at the thought of it.

  Wet, sloppy sounds came from up ahead, just beyond a patch of tangled brush. Hooves stomped and horses nickered anxiously, tied up nearby. Yap tightened his grip on the knife and advanced, praying the Good Lord would send an angel in the form of Coyote Cal at any moment. Or even that witch, Donna Jamison. He’d be awful glad to see her right about now. Three a crowd? Never!

  He crouched low and parted the branches to step through as quietly as possible. The nauseating noises of digestion continued; the creature was slurping or spitting or devouring something, but he couldn’t tell what it was. Until he saw for himself.

  La Chupacabra had chewed the head off Donna’s mount, and as the animal’s muscled body twitched with nervous spasms, the beast vomited blood and mucus, black in the moonlight, down the horse’s open neck. While Manuel’s mule and Cal’s Thunder and Yap’s Blossom stamped and pulled nearby, tied down to the shrubbery and watching wide-eyed at what was being done to their compadre, the monster paid them no attention, fully engrossed in depositing its spawn.

  Yap had seen enough. He broke through the brush as la Chupacabra reeled to face him, and he plunged the blade up into its throat, just under the chin of its oblong head. Not a kill strike, he knew, but enough to slow it down while he drew his sawed-off shotgun and swung it as hard as he could up the side of the creature’s face. But with one swing of its brawny arm, it sent Yap flying to land hard at Thunder’s dancing hooves.

  The monster released an unearthly shriek and tugged the blade out, letting it drop as black ink gushed from the open wound. It staggered straight for where Yap lay. He crawled to his feet, keeping himself between the monster and Thunder. La Chupacabra stomped forward, no hissing this time, fangs glistening, ready to drain his blood. Yap could only hope that’s what it would do to him; he didn’t want any part of its other activities.

  He backed up against Thunder. “Steady,” he said to the magnificent animal and considered untying him, riding off hell-bent-for-leather. But there was no time to untie Blossom too, and he wouldn’t leave her to this monster. “Steady, boy.” His shoulder bumped into Cal’s rifle boot.

  Had Manuel thought to unload Cal’s Winchester?

  The monster’s fangs drooled, overflowing with blood, yet it looked insatiable, like it hadn’t already taken near its fill. One handful of talons swept out, and Yap ducked. The razor tips raked along Thunder’s flank—just a flesh wound, but Yap knew he’d have to make it up to the mighty steed if they both survived the night. As Thunder jerked back with a pained whinny, Yap tugged Cal’s rifle free and whipped it around to face the beast. His finger found the trigger and pulled it before he had a clear kill shot.

  The round exploded in the night, blowing off the creature’s left arm. Time seemed to stand still as the monster surveyed the damage. Yap realized he might have a chance at actually getting out of this alive.

  “Adios, Chupacabra,” Yap said, chambering another round.

  Then he blew the monster’s ugly head off.

  7. All's Well

  Coyote Cal awoke to the warmth of the early morning sun and the smell of coffee brewing over a smoky fire. He sat up with a start.

  “Yap?” He frowned, suddenly woozy.

  “Right here, Cal.” The loyal sidekick handed him a cup steaming with fresh brew.

  Cal blinked at it. “Thanks.” He squinted in the sunlight, looking first at Yap then at Donna, who sat beside him nursing her own cup and seeming just as out of sorts as he was. “Where’s Manuel?”

  “Right there, Cal.” Yap gestured to the body rolled up in heavy wool blankets, tied to the back of the mule. “We’ll need to bury him and read some words once you’re feeling fit.”

  Cal nodded slowly, accepting the news at face value. “And the goat-sucker?”

  “Dead. No need to bury that thing.”

  “Right.” Cal’s lips parted, but he didn’t know what to say. He’d never felt so disoriented in all his life.

  “Where the hell’s my horse?” Donna spoke up at length, glaring at where Thunder, Blossom, and Manuel’s mule were tethered nearby.

  “You can ride Blossom,” Yap offered. “She won’t mind none. That is, unless you’ve got a broom stashed somewhere I don’t know about.” He winked at her.

  She watched him, and some kind of unspoken understanding seemed to pass between them. Maybe it had to do with her mastery of the dark arts, but Cal could have sworn she’d been able to read Yap’s mind.

  “You had quite a night, didn’t you,” she said.

  The old sidekick took a deep breath and let it out real slow. “Yessirree, that I did. But I reckon it would make a fine story for another time.”

  Cal nodded, eyeing his friend with appreciation. “Fair enough, Yap. For now, let us bury our friend and inform his people that the town of Paseo Grande should no longer live in fear. The curse has been lifted!”

  Big Yap’s gaze wandered to Manuel’s wrapped remains. “Amen to that,” he said, and in his eyes, Cal could see that they might never hear the whole story of what happened last night.

  THE DELIVERY

  A.A. Garrison

  Before this latest delivery, John visited his secret place, a far field beyond the city and himself, where the Darkness couldn’t find him. Childhood awaited him there, and Laura. A place before the corruptions of adulthood, before the terrible processes of a God that cannot be known. A place before pain.

  “It makes me think of the guy in the woods,” he told Laura, supine in the bracken. “The Darkness does.”

  “The guy who killed himself?” she asked, from in his brain. She was like an outside person but not.

  “Yeah,” John said. Laura was fading some so he smoked more egg and that fixed her. “It kinda pushes this button in my head, makes me think of him. Trying to make me end it.”

  “That’s not an option,” Laura said, stronger now. “You know that, right?”

  John said he did, watching the timothy grass sway, the staring hedge of woods. The egg made them brighter, more alive, like it did Laura.

  “I was young when I found him, six or seven or thereabouts,” he said dreamily, in audience of that living earth and his phantom lover. “He was down in a holler where I played sometimes, very private. It was summer so the light was low, from all the leaves, and I didn’t at first know what I was seeing. I could tell it was a man, a naked man, sitting along the bank, but to me, he just looked to be in this delicate kind of balancing act, like yoga or somethin’. Then I saw the shotgun, his toe on the trigger. I started to shout, but didn’t get it out in time. He never knew I was there, I don’t think.”

  Laura soothed him with the giant blue eyes he knew she had.

  He continued: “Then it happened—pow.
I’ll always remember how he went lax right after, perfectly lax, I can’t even describe it. It came with the gore and the noise, all at once. That’s what it—the Darkness—that’s what it always digs up, that weird flounce of movement, what I guess was his soul shooting out.”

  There were tears now, and Laura used his hand to brush them away. “Shhh, it’s okay,” she said, smoothing his hair with same. “Shhh.”

  John sniffled. “It’s always there, the Darkness. Always picking, trying to get in. And I can fight it for a while, you know, keep it at bay. But it always wins. Always. Because it’s stronger than me. And it’s hungry.”

  “But not today,” she said, loud in the field’s gilt hush. “I’m here, it’s okay.”

  John held the body she didn’t have, the breasts large and full and she putting his hands on them, saying, “It’s okay, it’s okay.” She started fading in her way, but when he went for more egg he was out. He hated seeing her go, loathed it, but she’d be back. He could always get more egg. He’d have to get more egg.

  ***

  John approached the ironic high-rise where he was appointed to receive the delivery, in the heart of the dying city. The building was gray and phallic, a tribute to tall, the doomed about it in number. Dead and dying jumpers littered the perimeter, some mounded in wait of collection. Bloodstained marble steps serviced a crop of revolving doors that saw constant use, diseased bodies streaming in ones and twos. Mendicants of all manner camped the receptacles, the hands cupped and outstretched in postures of prayer. A troubadour in rags and checkered tattoos accosted John, and John donated a penny found in his pants pocket. The beggar accepted it kindly and scampered to what pleasures awaited. The inside air was politely unscented.