by Beth Hersant
The storm did not linger over Cáscara, but pushed on to the north leaving clear skies and pleasant temperatures. It also left power outages and localized flooding. The phone on Sheriff Manolito’s desk was ringing. He picked up the receiver, ready to hear a complaint about another impassable road or looters sniffing around the flooded houses on the waterfront.
“Abran, it’s Sebastian.” Sebastian Garcia, who bred chickens on a farm just north of the village, was an affable, talkative man. This abrupt greeting made the sheriff sit forward in his chair.
“Hi Sebastian, everything ok?”
“No. Something got into the coop last night and killed the chickens.”
“Ok, we can deal with that,” Abran said soothingly, imagining half a dozen dead birds. “How many did you lose?”
“All of them.”
“What?”
“All of them,” Sebastian’s voice shook. “All 200.”
“I’ll be right there.”
The large outbuilding that housed the chickens was hot and the air was close. Dead birds lay strewn all over the floor. Donning a pair of gloves, Manolito stooped to examine one of the bodies. Its feathers were matted with blood from two ragged bite marks — one on a wing and one on its throat.
“They’re all like that,” the farmer said quietly.
“It must have been wild dogs.”
“No,” Sebastian shook his head. “I’ve seen what stray dogs can do — they’ll just rip a chicken up. Whatever did this just bit a few times and then moved on. And there’s something else…”
“What?”
Sebastian grew terribly pale and the sheriff noticed he was trembling. “These chickens are my life, Abran. I don’t just let them run around unprotected at night. Before sundown, they each go into their own cage here in the barn.”
Manolito inspected the cages — they were all intact. There was not one hole in the chicken wire, not one loose nail or splintered bit of wood. “Somebody opened the cages?”
“It’s the only explanation.”
“That means it was a person. But those aren’t human bite marks on the chickens.”
“Now do you see why I’m so freaked out?”
The sheriff was nodding. “Yes I do.”
The attack on Garcia’s ranch was only the beginning. Backyard chickens were slaughtered in their coops. Hector Osvaldo lost half a dozen goats in one night; the carcasses were not only covered in bite marks, but were also dismembered and partially devoured. Small pet dogs vanished and some larger canines came limping home with terrible injuries for the local vet to sew up.
Between the disruption left by the hurricane and the spate of animal killings, the inhabitants of Carite were already on edge. Then one night, as Alondra Ruis drove home from her shift at Café Lechero, something leapt out in front of her and was caught, transfixed, in her high beams. She slammed on the breaks. It sat in the middle of the road, no taller than her infant son, Jorge; but unlike her one-month-old baby, it stood confidently on two feet. Its patchy fur made her think of mange and its long, boney fingers were hooked into claws. The thing turned to look at her. It had a simian face … sort of … but it had lost all the fur from its cheeks and nose and forehead to reveal the wrinkled, gray skin beneath. Grinning at her, it flashed a mouth full of jagged teeth. And then, quite suddenly, it was gone.
Alondra sat there for a moment breathing heavily and then finally hit the gas pedal. Nothing happened; she’d stalled the car. Kicking it into neutral, she turned the key and thanked all the angels above when she heard the engine turn over and catch. As she pulled forward, something else darted out of the woods in front of her and this second shock tore a scream from her throat. Again she slammed on the breaks to avoid hitting it. This time, however, it was a man — he’d come into the Café a few times… the American who’d taken over the old airbase. His clothes were muddy, his hair disheveled and his eyes were wild. In one hand, he held a gun of some sort. And then he too was gone, running off in the same direction as that thing. Later, when she told her friends and neighbors what she’d seen that night, the myth of the Cáscaran Chupacabra was born.
For the second time Sheriff Manolito paid a visit to Pickman’s facility. And for the second time, the doctor met him outside. He doesn’t want me to come in, Abran thought. What the hell is he hiding? He did not voice these suspicions, only whistled as he surveyed the damage to the lab.
“You got hit hard.”
“We did indeed.”
“That’s an awful shame,” Manolito said, although he didn’t sound too upset about it. “You must be very busy, what with the clean up and all the repairs. That’s why I was a little surprised to hear you were out hunting last night.”
“What?”
“At nine o’clock at night, through a waterlogged forest, with a dart gun! What were you hunting, Dr. Pickman?”
“Monkeys.”
“There are no monkeys on Cáscara … unless you were keeping more than dogs in that lab of yours.”
“They’re mine,” Pickman said quietly.
Manolito nodded, swallowing back his anger. “Let me guess, they escaped during the storm and are now loose on the island.”
“Yes.”
“And what did you say you were working on here? Rabies? Are they infected?”
Dr. Pickman would never know quite why, but in that moment he opened his mouth and the word “No” came out. He could have said yes. There was already rabies on the island; a couple of infected animals more or less wouldn’t make any difference. But he said no. His instinct was still to protect the project and if he told the truth — the whole truth — about what those monkeys were carrying, then he’d discredit everything he’d worked for. Every advance in technique and understanding would be dismissed as the ravings of a mad scientist, a Jekyll, a Frankenstein.
“Dr. Pickman?”
Aaron looked up, startled. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”
“I said: I think you’re lying. There is no reason to keep monkeys here unless you are using them in your tests. Are you working on anything other than rabies?”
“No.”
“You damn well had better not be, because …” Aaron tried to interrupt here, but Abran’s hand shot out and grabbed the doctor by his collar. “Because,” he hissed, “those escaped animals are scaring the hell out of you. Why else would you be idiot enough to chase them through that forest at night? What do they have?”
“Just rabies!”
“Tell me the truth!”
“It’s just rabies, I swear!”
Abran released his grip and the doctor staggered backward.
As the officer turned to go, Pickman shouted after him: “Sheriff, please! Could I get them back alive?”
Manolito paused with one foot in his cruiser. “I’m going to kill every last one of them, doc. And then I’m going to run you off this island.”
On the other side of the village, Juanita Pimental let her German Shepherd, Manso, out to do his business. Her backyard was fenced in so she could leave the dog to sniff around the hibiscus and bauhinia shrubs, knowing that he’d scratch on the door when he wanted back in. She washed her supper dishes, pressed tomorrow’s work clothes and was about to curl up with a book when she remembered that the dog was still outside. That wasn’t like him. He never stayed away from her for very long. The way he followed her from room to room, she should have named him “Sombra” (shadow) instead. And lately it had gotten worse. Ever since he tangled with some mongrel in the park, he’d been very clingy. For a breed used by the military and police, he was such a big baby.
She opened the door and was surprised to find Manso standing there, staring at the house. His bandaged front paw quivered beneath him and she made a mental note to give him one of his antibiotics from the vet once she got him in and cleaned the mud off his paws.
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nbsp; “Manso, ven.” The dog didn’t move. “Venga! Come on!”
Manso, so named because he was gentle and meek, growled and bared his teeth.
The woman was taken aback. Her dog never growled. For heaven’s sake, he let Juanita’s little niece dress him up for tea parties. The poor thing would just sit there with a look of long-suffering patience on his face.
“Manso, what’s wrong?”
And that is when he came at her. Juanita hopped backward and tried to slam the door. She almost made it, but the dog managed to get his head through the gap and in one quick movement sank his teeth into her arm. The woman screamed and slammed the door on the dog’s neck again and again until he finally withdrew. As her beloved pet attacked the shuddering door, Juanita dove for the telephone. With shaking hands, she dialed 911.
Sheriff Manolito had had a hard night. The call from Juanita Pimental had come in before he’d managed even a bite of his dinner. He was running solely on coffee which gnawed at the lining of his stomach. He’d had to shoot the dog, which was just horrendous, and then drive a hysterical Juanita to the clinic to get stitched up. Based on the circumstances, the doctor prescribed a course of rabies shots. And there it was again: rabies. He was on his way home when the second call came in — another domestic animal attack. And on it went — four in all and one of them quite serious when a family’s Labrador mauled a five-year-old child.
Morning found him standing over Travis Montgomery’s bed with a bucket of water. Rosemalia, the owner of the boarding house, had let him in and helpfully provided the pail. He’d kicked the hooker out despite her pleas to be allowed to stay and watch. The girl found the situation hilarious.
“One for the money,” he sloshed the bucket. “Two for the show, three to get ready and four to …”
“Aargh!”
Abran smiled down at him. “Good morning, Mr. Montgomery.”
“What the fuck?”
“We need to talk. Now.” He threw the spluttering man a towel and sat down in the room’s one chair. “It doesn’t make sense.”
“What?”
“What’s happening on Cáscara.”
Travis groaned and sat up.
“Rabies was already here and it didn’t cause much of a problem. Then your boss comes here to study the disease. Four monkeys — rabid monkeys so I’m told — escape and now all hell is breaking loose.”
“What’s happening?”
“There’s been a spate of attacks on pets and livestock. And now four cases of family dogs attacking their owners… That’s four cases in one night.”
Travis gaped at him.
“Now you’re going to tell me what the hell is going on.”
Montgomery’s mind was reeling. New Rabies, he’d called it the New Rabies. And it’s out now — in the animal population and in … people? Could it be passed to people? No cure. Fuck. No cure no no no no…
Travis leapt from the bed and grabbed a waste paper basket as a wave of nausea swept through him. There was nothing in his stomach and so he dry heaved for what seemed like an eternity. By the time it stopped, he’d broken out in a cold sweat and his chest and left arm hurt. At first he thought it was just muscle cramp from the violence of the retching, but then it hit. The pain. It felt like a giant hand had reached into his chest, grabbed hold of his heart and squeezed.
“Mr. Montgomery?” the sheriff was saying, but he sounded very far away.
Travis heard Manolito swear and then everything went dark.
“When it rains, it pours,” the sheriff muttered as he stood by his cruiser later that day. Manolito had gone out to the lab, not only to inform Pickman of Montgomery’s heart attack, but also armed with a search warrant. He was going to find out what the doctor was up to once and for all. When he got there, however, every remaining building of the old airbase was on fire. He’d called it in, but there was no way the town’s only fire engine (manned by scattered volunteers) could reach the scene before it all went up. Pickman had neatly covered his tracks and now appeared to be missing.
He got back on the radio. “Miguel?”
His deputy answered, “Yes boss?”
“I want you to contact every pilot and boat owner on the island and tell them that Dr. Aaron Pickman is not to leave Cáscara.”
“Will do.”
He might be able to hide for a while, but Manolito was going to get him yet.
Cáscara is a small island with one village (the town of Carite) nestled around La Herradura Bay, so named because the inlet is shaped like a horseshoe. Behind the village, the land rises in gently sweeping hills dotted with small farms and one large coffee plantation owned by Juan Valdez (and yes, he took a lot of ribbing over the name). Why the hell would his parents name him after a character in an American coffee commercial? It was an act of cruelty. Anyway, having driven out to check on his crops, he was pleased to see that the bushy plants were now taller than him as they stood in neat lines across the hillside. He walked in a few rows and stopped to inspect the crop. The “cherries” that held the coffee beans were densely clustered on the vine, but they were still pale green and small. They would not be ripe for picking for another few… Something moved nearby. It wasn’t much, just a rustling of leaves spotted out of the corner of his eye.
Normally, he wouldn’t think anything of it, but there had been quite a few dog attacks in the village lately and some damn fools were insisting that it was really the work of El Chupacabra. Which was bullshit. Nonetheless, he did not relish the idea of a course of rabies shots. He backed out and away from the high plants that obscured his vision. All was quiet and suddenly Juan felt silly. It was probably a bird or something, and here he was picturing Cujo. He turned back to his truck and stopped short. A small monkey sat on the hood.
“Hey, where did you come from?” he asked.
The animal’s mouth formed an exaggerated “O” that Juan misinterpreted, thinking that the creature was blowing him a kiss. He laughed and blew a kiss back and that is when all hell broke loose. Enraged, the animal shrieked and flung itself at him, attaching itself to his face. Juan staggered backward and tripped over something that had not been there before — another damn monkey. He fell hard. As he struggled to tear the animal off his head, he felt a sharp pain on his ankle and then one on his arm. Managing finally to pull the creature from his face, he saw for the first time that three other monkeys were on him now, holding on like grim death, and biting. J. Fred Muggs wriggled free of the man’s hands and leapt again, this time burying his teeth in Juan’s throat. His jaws closed on something tough and he shook his head to tear at it. He was rewarded by a warm, dark flow of blood that tasted better than any banana or apple slice. Valdez, his eyes wide with shock and horror, clutched at his throat as he bled out. As he lay there twitching, the monkey drank.
Chapter Eight
Coming Home
to Roost
“Our lives are never free of grief … [when] a pestilence of terrible ferocity has come into our midst like a great rage.”
Llywelyn Fychan, writing on an outbreak
of the Black Death in England
“There are universal laws at work, even here. The Law of Attraction; the Law of Correspondence; and the Law of Karma. That is: like attracts like; as within, so without; and what goes around comes around.”
H.M. Forester, Game of Aeons
Sheriff Abran Manolito was exhausted and, for the first time since the hurricane, he took a night off to relax. In the two weeks since the storm, he’d managed to coordinate the clean up operation, kill three of the escaped monkeys (and he was pretty sure he’d hit the fourth) and enforce a cull of every stray dog on the island. There had been no more livestock killings, no more missing pets and no further animal attacks on humans. In doing so he’d calmed the near-hysteria that greeted the news of how Juan Valdez had died. Once again his town was peaceful.
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nbsp; Tomorrow would be busy: the twelfth of December was the Feast Day of Our Lady of Guadalupe and there would be church services in the morning followed by the Festival de la Madre Sagrada. The main street of town would be all noise and music and pageantry. The locals would wear vejigante masks — hideous creations, really, that represent all the demons of hell that challenge the reign of Our Lady. Carried in the procession, towering placidly above them all, you will see the statue of the Virgin in a deep green robe bedecked with stars. It is a strange and wonderful spectacle that draws in many tourists and hence many needed dollars for local businesses. And it had almost been canceled. Rattled by recent events on the island, Manolito was worried about public safety. But Louisa Gaultiero, the Mayor of Cáscara, convinced him that if they could cull the stray dogs, then it was right to go ahead. The town, she said, had had so much anxiety. It needed something positive, something fun so that it could settle back down to normal.
And so on the twelfth of December the festival went ahead. Many faces were obscured by masks made from gourds and coconut husks and papier-mâché. Enormous work had gone into these facades to make them as intricate and colorful as possible; and pale-skinned tourists laughed and shrieked whenever a local came up and nudged them with one of the mask’s many horns. Watching the parade, Juanita Pimental wiped the sweat from her brow. It was a mild day and yet she was burning up. Well, that was just the cherry on top of the whole rancid sundae that was her life right now. She grieved for Manso as if she had lost a human friend. But he was such a vital part of her life. She had no husband, no children; she was shy with her co-workers and Manso was the one living, breathing thing that made her feel connected to this world. And now he was gone. She’d stormed into the veterinary clinic and demanded to know why the hell the dog’s rabies vaccinations had not protected him. Her vet could only guess that, because other animals were similarly affected, the island must have received a bad batch of the vaccine. He was going to sue the pharmaceutical company that made it, he said, and get compensation for his customers and the damage done to his business.
