Deadman's Tome: Monsters Exist

by Mr. Deadman

  Its paws, both front and rear, like talons. There were three of them, the middle talon longer than the two beside it. Jagged claws, ready to incapacitate its prey. The front talons were colored as though it were treading through blood-soaked mud. The hind-legs, round as its waist, were swollen with lean muscle. Its speed was surprising as it bound toward its prey. Its mandible wrapped over the side of the goat’s neck, gurgling and growling.

  The goat cried out of the side of its throat, softly. Collapsing onto its side, it laid still.

  The predator laid on its stomach like a dog with a bone. Its head tugged from side to side. Then, its movements became drowsy.

  My palms went moist, waiting for the beast to shred into the goat, going for the gizzards and heart. But, no. It whimpered quietly, its head almost still.

  As I leaned against the tree trunk, my feet slid away from under me, loudly. My knee hit the ground and the warm blood left my pants damp. I remained crouched in the darkness as if hiding from the creature, disappointed for having disturbed its meal. My chest remained still as I slowly rose to my feet and glimpsed through the tree’s open eye. Chupas was gone.

  The goat, dead.

  My movements were slothful as I crept out from within the tree. The only noise came from my heart beating in my ears. Still, with every step, I listened. I stopped beside the goat, breathless from my apprehension.

  The monster had left multiple gashes and puncture wounds in its neck, almost ripping through it completely. The wounds, clean. The hair surrounding the wound was smudged like a slobbered cowlick. The main lesions, three puncture wounds in the shape of a triangle. Not a single drop of blood left.

  My heart pounded as I discovered how Chupas created clean death.

  ***

  The fact is our village, and others, will collapse soon.

  Every week after I watched the goat being killed, we found more livestock dead. Soon after, livestock went missing. Small livestock, mostly. Everyone spoke of the Chupacabras. Chupas.

  Today, the beasts ended my village, beginning their own revolution.

  Platoons from both northern and southern front met in my village yesterday, embracing one another, brothers in arms. They were all keeping up the righteous fight. Survivors for the day. They began a celebration.

  Since then, they have been eating, drinking, and assaulting my village.

  Still, we house them and their bandolier-wrapped chests and mustache adorned lips, and their sombrero covered heads.

  My village, my country, my world, pathetic. Cowards.

  I watch in anger in my new house with the family who took me in after my parents were torn away from me. This family has two children of their own. Both of them boys near my age. The two brothers and I are the remaining young adults in our dwindling village. There is one infant and one child of eight years. The village itself is now just under two dozen. The few teenage females that belonged here now belong to my country’s revolution.

  My new household watches the drunken celebration that has crossed into the morning sunrise. Drunken scuffles have broken out only to force a local man to pick at his guitar so they can all out-sing the shouting roosters. Their words are as clear as the rooster’s.

  The guitar player smiles with tears streaking near the creases of his mouth. He plucks away at his six-string, at times being slapped by drunken soldiers for any pause. He knows he’s pathetic. The whole village, pathetic. My country.

  We need a revolution against the revolutionaries, against the government.

  As the sun peaks and crosses into the afternoon, one of the drunk revolutionaries comes running from relieving himself in the woods, diving into the house overrun with rebels.

  A platoon of Federalistas are en route via horseback, he says. Outnumbered, the only smart choice is to hide. They do.

  The Federalistas are notorious for doing random sweeps of villages, searching for hidden rebels. The revolutionaries usually leave their horses tied beyond the edge of the woods and march in for such an occasion.

  Federalistas invade, checking everything. Sweeping the village in their own bandoliers. Eating everything. Drinking.

  It isn’t long before the first gunshot reverberates through the village. A revolutionary is found in a corner of the adobe cow corral. A cow which he has leaned upon, is now covered in bloody spinal fragments, mooing frantically.

  A gunfight consumes what is left of my village. Dead revolutionaries and Federalistas lay everywhere. Few houses are on fire as dusk settles in. The sun gone, the remaining light comes from the roofs blazoned with fire and the dissipating dusk.

  Bullets fly into my new housing. I run. The two brothers follow suit.

  The outhouse behind my new house is the safest place in sight. I slam the door behind me and hold it shut, the brothers claw at it anxiously for a few seconds before I let them in.

  Through a crack in the wooden door, the bullets ignite the air from bursts of flame out from revolutionaries’ and Federalistas’ gun barrels. The brothers cram in behind me, whimpering, holding each other. My village is one of cowards. Allowing death to settle in. For now, I watch. I listen.

  Through the cracked opening, a shadow darts across the war-zone. It’s nonhuman.

  Then another.

  And another.

  Unusual screams pierce the moonlit fires. This scream is different.

  One of the voices yells, “Chupacabra!”

  My blood rushes.

  The brothers cry.

  I tell one of them to run into the house and take a gun from the dead soldier so we have a chance to defend ourselves. I say I'll watch over the other brother.

  In his oversized pants and his button down shirt from a dead elder, he creeps away from the outhouse and into the smoke and ashes. Every step is trembling with panic, hacking burning breaths from the smoke.

  Maybe thirty feet away from the house, he lays into an all-out sprint.

  A shadow springs to life from the smoke, leaping at the brother’s throat.

  A chupacabra. As it digs his fangs into the boy’s neck, the boy’s crying recedes and his struggling movements halt. One down. Only two of us left to survive.

  I tell the remaining brother there is no dead soldier in their house, only his dead parents.

  He cries and shouts.

  The few soldiers which remain, the few villagers all scream, hoping to survive through cowardice. They all run from one house to another before those also catch fire. Or until another gunshot takes away another human from my village.

  Elders all lifeless and abandoned, are all dead from either heart-attacks or bullet wounds.

  I grab the remaining brother and shove him out, telling him to run towards the river. Towards the hollow tree.

  His feet kick at the dirt, praying for speed. For mercy.

  I keep pace just behind him. The smoke is thick, like hair being brushed across my cheeks.

  Countless creatures dart every which way, talons outstretched and attacking soldiers, villagers, and horses. Fewer and fewer fire gunshots and screams.

  More and more are drained of blood.

  We are halfway to the hollow tree.

  I bound over bodies, some drenched in blood, others clean. I pounce over sombreros, some of them on bodies, others strewn across the dirt. Some of them soaked in blood, others covered in greasy brain matter.

  One of the beasts notices our efforts. Its eyes illuminated by the fire. They remain steady with every leap, giving us chase.

  I kick my foster brother’s foot, forcing it behind the other in stride. His arms stretch forward as he falls into the dirt. Soot rises above him with the crash.

  I stride past him, kicking his arm out from underneath him as he attempts to rise again.

  I glance over my shoulder in time to watch as the Chupas leaps towards the terrified, lonely boy. His neck is gouged by filthy fangs.

  As I near the hollowed tree, I attempt to turn sharply into its splintered protection. My feet lose traction at
op the gravel. My knees scrape first on my way down. Then my elbows. Then my ribs.

  I try not to scream for fear of appearing a weakling to the predators. Both my elbows and knees bleed, numb with gashed veins.

  Dirt packs under my fingernails as I claw my way back to my feet, scurrying over the stone barrier I have recently built. It’s poorly built, yet effective. In the core of the tree, clucking all around me, chickens are scared of what awaits them. I've protected them from my village for one purpose. Tonight.

  A goat is also corralled in here, shaking and full of urine, the hair on its rear end knotted with pellets of feces. All of the livestock beg me for mercy, just like my mother begged while being kidnapped half-naked by the revolutionaries. As my village did then, I do now: ignore the whines and cries.

  The eye of the tree trunk is visible to me and no one else. It acts as the sun, light from the emblazoned houses peering into the tree. Through the eye, the madness subsides. Only a few of the humans remain, soldiers, mostly, who had survived behind bullets. Those bullets have diminished, just as the remaining cries taper off.

  The Chupas now clean their mess, satiating their blood thirst, lapping at necks of men, women, and children. They prod motionless bodies with their snouts, searching for more blood. Just like war. They pace around impatiently, their backs gleaming with the fire. Their spinal columns spike at full attention.

  My breathing is heavy. My adrenaline, nauseating. This is my moment to accept what's coming to me.

  I step past the goat and carefully make my way over the various chickens. I stretch one of my legs upward, placing my foot on the stone barricade. With nervous control, I lift myself on top of it. My legs quiver as I squat down and drop to the ground.

  My balance uneasy, I step away from the tree. My senses have heightened with adrenaline. The calming sounds of the river mitigates the crackling fires of the village houses. I step at a steady pace.

  The air is warm. My lungs burn from the smoke I inhale as I steady my breathing. Step.

  The smell of burnt wood and burning adobe is enough to mask the smell of sweat and blood.

  Step.

  Fear and adrenaline dry my saliva. My tongue feels like wool.

  Step.

  The carnage before me is proof of the ignorance of men. Elder, ugly, and clean death have become one. Everywhere. Blood is mixed with the dirt, but the bodies are clean. Livestock and Federalistas’ horses, dead.

  Chupacabras, everywhere.

  My final step is a loud one. I drag my foot loudly against the ground.

  Their eyes all turn and glare, reflecting the dancing flames. Instinctively, they all lower their heads and bare their fangs. Their growls like the gargled moans of a dying man. Their backs raised for intimidation. The spinal columns are spiked and erect.

  Slowly, they close in, encircling me.

  My heart beats erratically against my chest walls as they are ten feet away from me in all directions.

  My back thunders as I straighten my posture, encircled by these demonic looking monstrosities. My head swims with fear and excitement. Sweat drips from my armpits to my ribs, warm and wet. My upper lip, moist.

  The Chupas’ dark, hairless is a dirty black in the fire light. Their snouts and fangs glisten with blood. Filthy burgundy strings from their mouths, droplets of thick blood detaching and falling to the ground. Their eyes as bright as the embers, which fall like snow.

  One of the growls turns aggressive. Violent, repulsive barks.

  I turn in the direction of the snarling in time to see it squat and kick dust into the air, catching unbelievable speed for its strike. I'm not given enough time to flee before it is in midair, talons outstretched and fangs slobbering with bloodlust.

  I close my eyes, accepting the fate which I had hoped to elude.

  A yelp makes me shudder in pain.

  I open my eyes, my forearms up to my face for protection. I am stunned at the sight. Another of its own kind claws at the attacker.

  Once the Chupas releases the other, it circles me, glaring at its surrounding brethren. Its fangs longer than the others. Its body broader, more muscular. The alpha.

  The others step backwards and haunch their shoulders in reverence.

  It was protecting me.

  I pay my own respects in the only that I can. I turn and walk away toward the hollowed tree. From here it looks like a candle. The top burns, luminescent like a wick.

  The animals open a path for me as I walk past. Their eyes, beads of gleaming silver, studying me, now more threatening than before.

  I reach the tree’s opening and lean my chest against the barricade. I reach in and grab a chicken, clucking for mercy, by its neck. With my other hand, I grip the slack from the rope around the goat’s neck.

  My elbows sting with pain as I prop them against the stacked stones to keep myself upright. The rope is taut with fear. I anchor my foot against the stone wall and drag the goat over. Some of the stones tumble to the ground.

  Every one of the Chupas baring their teeth, growling. Hungry.

  I toss the chicken towards them and watch two fight for possession.

  I crouch down beside the goat, gripping one fore-leg and one hind-leg. Grunting, I pull them from under it, dropping it to its side. As it kicks, fighting to get back to its feet, I reach and grab a fallen stone from the barricade, bringing it down upon its head, reducing its efforts to a lazy, painful spasm.

  The rest of the creatures seize the opportunity for more blood, ignoring me while their heavy bodies bang into my thighs as they indulge. Snorting and grunting.

  I step away, the other Chupacabras watch the ongoing feast. Then they all begin shuffling around as if trying to make way for something.

  The alpha Chupas bumps and towers his way through them. His muzzle remains hidden, close to the ground.

  It breaks through the frontline, passing the dead chicken, dragging something past the dead goat, and stops at my feet.

  There’s an odd shape protruding from either side of its snout. It lifts its head and looks straight into my eyes with its own glowing spots.

  Hanging from its mouth, legs dangling from one side, a bald head from the other, is an infant. A lifeless one. An offering.

  Human instinct tells me to have compassion for the dead infant, but I can't. It would have been raised by my village. By mankind. It would have been raised a coward.

  The alpha drops it before me, the dead infant landing with a solid thud.

  Another beast moves up and stops beside me, lapping at the clotting blood on my elbow. Bathing me.

  All around me, every set of glowing eyes are on me, obediently. Every one of us waiting for the other to make a move.

  I think of my village, the cowards. The revolution, the aggressors. Both sides are wrong. Both made horrible decisions out of righteous acts. All of the villages and revolutionaries and everyone else must go. Only the strong shall lead. The strong follow the strong.

  I think of my father, showing me to be a man. Kneeling beside the cow, teaching me to milk it. Teaching me to butcher a chicken and feed my family. Teaching me to fight for what’s right by taking a bullet in order to save the family cow.

  I think of my mother, holding me tightly as a child, nurturing me. Reassuring me that everything will be okay. I remember her fighting to free me from the grips of the revolutionaries. Being taken to help me survive. Standing up for my justice.

  I look at my new comrades and understand. They survive. There are only less than a dozen left, lots of them dead by rifles, but there are more. In the blinding darkness behind them, eyes begin to shimmer as the stars on a clear, smokeless night.

  Tonight, though, is on fire. My heart burns, telling me to leave. I do.

  I walk past the Chupas, my comrades, my new family, and leave. The sound of the hollowed tree collapsing is the only sound left to die. The hollowed trunk thunders to the ground. The entire tree catches flame.

  Heading toward the woods, toward the rest of t
he world, my shadow flickers with the flames, stretching confidently across the ground. Next to my shadow, a legion of Chupacabras’ silhouettes stretch with might and main. Many more come from the darkness.

  We walk tall in our shadows, the undefeated. We are the new revolution. We are the survivors.

  About the author:

  M.R. Tapia has had his short stories appear in several publications including Deadman’s Tome, Empty Sink Publishing, and Hindered Souls Vol 1. His short story “Stella Reign” is a 2016 Pushcart Prize nominee. His novella The Die-Fi Experiment and his debut novel Sugar Skulls are both scheduled to be released in the fall of 2017 through Hindered Souls Press. He writes out of Northern Colorado.

  Table of Contents

  Preface

  Master Vermin

  Legend Trippers

  The Murder of Crows

  Wicked Congregation

  Playing Dead

  Lake Monster

  Never Sleep Again

  The Voice from the Bottom of the Well

  Eclipse at Wolfcreek

  No. 7

  Criatura

  Bitten

  Kelpies

  Bloodstream Revolution