Fury of the Chupacabras

by Raegan Butcher

  Well, the next night had passed too, pretty painlessly, as far as Charlie was concerned, and the guy was still dead and hadn’t moved—so what was the big deal? Why the hurry? He’d get to it tomorrow. And he’d do it at night. It was just too damned hot during the day to do anything except sit in his blessedly air conditioned house with his aged mother and drink cool beer after cool beer and watch the NASCAR finals.

  Now the night for action had finally come, and he decided he was drunk enough to deal with Mr. Sorensen. He’d collect the old coot (Sorensen had only been twelve years Charlie’s senior) and then drive him over to the morgue in Delmore Beach. Before heading home he’d have time to stop for a few beers at a nice little after-hours seafood shack he knew of that also served a delicious shrimp boil.

  Now he stood next to his station wagon and stared at the body of Fred Sorensen. His ten-speed bike was still propped up against the boards of the welcome sign. It had been Fred’s job to give the sign a new coat of paint—the town did it every year, their one concession to keeping up appearances—and old Fred had apparently dropped like a stone, all alone out here.

  It was probably the heat that killed him, mused Charlie.

  He shrugged. They took a man’s time, the very minutes and hours which made up his life—and gave him a pittance in return. And a man was supposed to be satisfied with that? As far as Charlie could tell, slavery had never been abolished, merely expanded to include all of the races. What was work but another name for slavery?

  So he did his work grudgingly.

  And slowly.

  He ambled back to his station wagon and retrieved a box of rubber gloves from the glove compartment. As he was slipping them on, he heard a high-pitched squeal from behind the welcome sign.

  Squinting into the darkness, he felt his first pang of fear. Now he recalled that the sheriff had said that some sort of wild animals were loose. Charlie wondered if he was being foolish ignoring the sheriff’s curfew. But no, those animals were on the south side, at least two miles away, with the whole downtown between him and the danger zone.

  Charlie crossed himself and silently uttered a prayer. That squawk was probably just a bird or something. But that’s when he noticed that the forest had gone silent; that weird, unnatural silence when even the cicadas and mosquitoes and horse flies don’t make any noise, like the whole forest is holding its breath. All the clicking, buzzing, whirring and crackling; all of the hooting and squawking and chirping sounds that the forest in the steamy Florida panhandle was capable of making had ceased, leaving an eerie void. Charlie strained to hear what wasn’t there.

  Something whooshed through the air above his head and he ducked. What the hell? Was that a bat?

  The flapping sound of leathery wings reached his ears from out of the darkness. Too big to be a bat. Then came another shriek, louder than before. He saw shadows pass across the moon, circling in the sky, far above.

  “Okay, screw this,” he said out loud.

  Casting a quick glance at the corpse in the ditch, Charlie decided once again that Sorensen wasn’t going anywhere, so it wouldn’t hurt to come back in the morning. Something weird was going on out here tonight. Best to get inside.

  Another squawk from the darkness made him jump.

  He opened the door of the station wagon and plopped down behind the steering wheel. Peeling off his rubber gloves, he inserted the key into the ignition and started up the motor.

  He flicked on the headlights—and was greeted by six bulging insectoid eyes staring at him in the sudden illumination. The reptilian creatures squealed and raised their arms to shield their eyes from the glare. Charlie thought of gargoyles from a gothic church come to life as they hissed at him with their tails brandished in the air above their heads.

  He slammed the car into reverse and peeled out, throwing gravel at the squalling creatures. They lunged forward, arms outstretched, teeth bared. One beast hurtled through the air and crashed down on the hood with an impact that shook the whole car. Long nails dug furrows in the metal as the beast clawed its way to the windshield. Like a vision from the depths of Hell, it crouched there, staring at Charlie through the glass with bulbous, shimmering eyes.

  Charlie stepped hard on the accelerator and the car zoomed backward. He desperately twisted the wheel and the car slid from one side of the road to the other, but the creature on the hood stayed fast, gripping the metal with superhuman strength.

  Charlie’s eyes widened in terror as the beast drove a scaly fist through the windshield, talons groping for him. Charlie cursed and tried to shrink back. The claws grasped the front of his shirt and pulled him forward, nearly yanking him over the dashboard. His chest thudded against the steering wheel, and he woofed sourly as the air was driven from his lungs

  He pressed on the gas pedal and felt the car lurch as it slammed backward into the ditch, throwing the beast from the hood and almost turning the car over. Wheels on one side left the ground and spun in the air, then bounced down again as the station wagon crashed to a halt in the shallow drainage ditch.

  Charlie struggled in his seat. The car’s engine had stalled. He twisted the key in the ignition.

  Too late.

  Spiked shadows streaked for the car, ripping the door from its hinges. Powerful arms pulled him from the driver’s seat. He weighed two hundred and thirty pounds, but he was lifted as if he were a bag of groceries. Clawed hands with impossibly long fingers held him by the sides of his head, steadying him. Green lips peeled back, drooling saliva. The hungry mouth jutted forward and fangs pierced Charlie’s eyeballs and then ripped them from his skull, trailing veins and nerve endings like strands of wire.

  Charlie’s agonized screams split the night, echoing up and down the empty road. But the curfew had done its work; no one was out on the streets to hear his pitiful cries. His shrieking faded to wet, blubbering noises as the three creatures settled down in a semi-circle and began to feast, mouths sucking hungrily.

  — | — | —

  Chapter 3

  Joe was twisting in his bed under the influence of his usual nightmares when he was pulled to consciousness by a rapid knocking. Stumbling up, he mumbled, “Who is it?”

  He swung open the door.

  A seedy-looking old man in a wrinkled seersucker suit with a straw pork pie hat perched on his balding dome grinned at him. “Good morning, Joe. It’s another beautiful day in the Sunshine State.”

  “You’re a long way from Seattle, Karl,” Joe said, rubbing sleep from his eyes. “Are you lost?”

  Karl Colgate brushed past him and strode briskly into the room and then spun around and said, “Ah, those schmucks in Seattle wouldn’t know a real story if it came up and bit them in the ass.”

  “So you got fired again,” Joe sighed and closed the door. “Are you freelancing now, or what?”

  “No, no, I’ve got a job at the Daily Sentinel in Orlando. There are still some places that appreciate a real journalist. They sent me here to cover the story.”

  “What story?”

  “What story?” Colgate harrumphed and began to pace the small room. “Oh, that’s good Joe, real good. Two deputies and five—or is it six?—citizens killed within the span of a week, and you ask me, ‘what story?’” He harrumphed again for good measure. “They’re saying an alligator might be responsible.”

  Joe shrugged. “Well, Karl, you know what I do for a living.”

  The old man’s head bobbed up and down. “That’s why I’m here. I know the alligator story is pure bullshit. I plan on getting pictures of these things so people will stop calling me crazy.”

  Joe sat on the edge of the bed. “You’re welcome to follow us around and try to snap some pics, but you have to promise to stay out of the way. We almost got the sheriff killed last night.”

  “Say, that’s news.” Colgate stopped pacing. “What happened?”

  After Joe told him, Karl whistled. “Sounds like a close one.”

  “It was.”

  Karl rubbed h
is hands together. “Well, let’s get cracking. Daylight’s wasting, isn’t that what you always say?”

  “Yeah, yeah, what’s the rush?”

  “I want to beat that reality show douche bag to the punch and get some pictures of these beasties before his crew does.”

  “Huh?”

  “Jet Ryder is in town.”

  “Who?”

  “Jet Ryder…the rock star.”

  Joe shook his head. “Never heard of him.”

  “Oh, come on,” Karl protested. “You can’t tell me you’ve never heard ‘Big Brown Buffalo,’ ‘Wang Dang Doodle,’ or ‘Squeal Appeal.’ Those were big hits.”

  “When?”

  “Back in the 1970s…” Colgate admitted.

  “I was too busy playing with my G.I. Joe dolls back then to listen to the radio. Jesus, how old is this guy?”

  “Oh, well, of course he’s older than you.” Colgate rubbed his chin. “You’re just a pipsqueak. You are not even fifty yet, just a babe, a wee lad! But he’s about a year younger than me.”

  “So that makes him, what, nine-hundred?”

  “Ah, knock it off,” Colgate grumped. He was touchy about his age. He’d sworn once to win a Pulitzer before he was fifty. He was sixty-three now and that prize was still very far away. Colgate wandered into the bathroom and caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror, bedraggled and haggard. And to think, he’d once been touted as a young man with promise! He spun around and marched back out to stand in front of Joe.

  “Ryder has his own reality TV show, Armchair Warriors. He hunts with a bow and arrow, you know?”

  “No, I don’t know. Why should I care again?”

  Colgate spoke slowly, as if to a child. “He is in town to shoot an episode of Armchair Warriors.”

  “What’s that got to do with—wait.” Joe grimaced. “Don’t tell me: he’s gonna hunt chupacabras.”

  “Now you’re awake.”

  “Oh fuck me,” Joe groaned.

  “You’re not my type,” Colgate told him. “Lacking a vagina and all.”

  “Where is this idiot?”

  “His producer is sucking up to the mayor over at the River View Café right now.”

  “What time is it?”

  “Nine-thirty,” Colgate said, and then added, “Figured you’d be up by now.” He knew Joe liked to get up early so he could take advantage of the daylight. Bright light was something chupacabras tended to avoid.

  “It was a busy night last night.”

  “Well, brush your teeth and take a crap and then we can get the hell out of here.”

  Joe let Lupita and her dogs sleep, but he rousted Ramón and brought him along with Colgate to the River View Café. As soon as they were through the door, Joe found his way blocked by a big woman in her late twenties with dark hair braided in pigtails and pouty, bee-stung lips. She was dressed in black from head to toe.

  “Um, excuse me,” she said importantly. “Can I help you?”

  Joe looked her up and down. “Yeah, get me two eggs over easy, hash browns, and toast. Bacon if you got it.”

  He moved to go around her and she countered his progress with her bulk, pushing her face into his. “Um, I am not a waitress, okay?”

  “Okay, Elvira,” Joe said pleasantly. “Then get out of my way, so I can go get some breakfast.”

  “The café is closed right now.” She paused dramatically. “For negotiations.”

  “Ah, well, that’s perfect because I need to talk with the mayor,” Joe told her, and then moved to go around her again.

  Once again, she blocked him. “The mayor is busy at the moment.”

  Joe shared an exasperated yet amused look with Ramón and Colgate. Folding his arms over his chest, he asked her sweetly, “Who are you?”

  She puffed up, swelling out her chest. “Dyndi Doppler, associate producer. I am in charge of production on Armchair—”

  “Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Joe interrupted. “You’re in charge of the circus, and I am here because the mayor hired me to do a job. I’ve come a long way, and you media types don’t scare me.” He let the steel show in voice. “Step aside. This is work for the grown-ups.”

  A light of recognition flashed in her eyes. “Oh wait! You’re the guys who were originally supposed to kill these things, right?”

  “Uh, yeah,” Joe said, clenching his jaw. He gave her a cold smile and brushed her aside. Ramón winked at her as he walked past, followed by Colgate, who grumbled that he hoped he could get a decent Bloody Mary.

  “You never know with these southern towns. Might be a dry county.”

  As she watched them go, Doppler thought, Those guys are monster hunters? And then she had another thought: I must get them to sign releases. They would make awesome guest stars!

  Joe, Ramón, and Colgate found the mayor sitting with a twitchy bald man in the dining room. They were quite a pair. The mayor, mid-fifties, looked like Jabba the Hutt squeezed into a powder blue polyester pantsuit. He was grossly overweight, with a white Stetson over a meaty, florid face.

  The other guy—could it be Jet Ryder?—looked like Charlie Brown after a heavy round of chemotherapy. His flesh was doughy, shapeless, with a soft-bodied creepiness. His head was round and bald as an egg. He was steaming, literally pouring sweat, and he kept shifting in his seat like a man with ants in his pants.

  The mayor’s face split into a wide grin when he saw them enter, and he lifted a chubby hand and waved them forward happily.

  “Well, well, it must be the monster hunters,” he chortled as they approached. “I am sorry to say Mr. Ryder cannot be here for this meeting, he is in his tour bus, buried facedown in a beaver, or so I am told, but he has left young Mr. Cavcey here as his representative.”

  He pointed one of his fat sausage fingers at the bald guy before continuing. “I am happy to see you all alive and in good health, but you should’ve been more careful with my sheriff. He’s the only one I got after my deputies were called to the Great Beyond.” The mayor gestured to the empty chairs at the table. “Have a seat, gentlemen, and we can discuss this new venture.”

  Joe said, “Nothing new to talk about, as far as I can see, Mayor. We’ll get busy and clear the—”

  “Whoa, now hold on Hoss,” Sexton drawled. Indicating Cavcey, he explained, “There is a new player on the field.”

  “We don’t work with anybody else, Mayor Sexton,” Joe said tersely. “We are here to do the job you hired us to do. We had an agreement.”

  “Hell’s bells,” the mayor protested, “an oral agreement ain’t worth the paper that it’s not written upon.”

  Sexton punctuated the statement with an oily smile and fished in his breast pocket and found a cigar. He bit the head from it unceremoniously, spat the end onto his plate, and scratched the flame from a Zippo. Puffing the cigar to life, he snapped off the lighter and said, “I hired you, and so I may dismiss you.” He waved a thick hand. “You are dismissed.”

  “Not without paying us half of our original fee,” asserted Joe. “We drove here from Mexico.”

  “You ain’t done a thing so far except get my sheriff damned near kilt. Now you wanna press me for money?” Sexton’s chins waggled as he chuckled. “My lord, but you a cheeky bunch.” His face hardened like melted clay flash-frozen in a freezer. “You come a long way for nothing.”

  “For half,” Joe insisted. “Call it a consultation fee.”

  “Consultation for what?” Sexton gasped in amazement. “I knowed they was monsters in there, that’s why I called you. But I found me a celebrity who can do the job—an’ not charge me a damn penny, mind you. Well, my momma didn’t raise no dummies. I go with what’s free.”

  Joe was thinking, If this is the guy these people elected as mayor, then this town is already fucked. Maybe it’s time to cut our losses.

  Joe signaled to the others and turned to go. The mayor’s voice reached out for him.

  “Now wait, hold on. Y’all jus’ wait a minute—” his voice sweetened again “�
��and listen to my proposal.”

  Joe and the others waited. The mayor cleared his throat, puffed a quick puff, and blew it out. “I will pay you a third of your original quoted price.”

  “No dice.” Joe turned to go.

  “Okay—half!”

  Joe turned back around. “I am waiting to hear the rest, Mayor.”

  Sexton waved a desperate paw at them, waggling his fingers. “Sit down, all of you, please, and have some breakfast. We can discuss this like gentlemen.”

  Colgate plopped down. Ramón grinned, and sat down next to Colgate, knowing he was irritating Joe, but enjoying it more than a little. Ramón was always watching Joe, always seeking to test him and gauge his reaction. Joe sighed and took a seat.

  A perky young waitress appeared. Colgate smiled at her expansively. “Hello my dear. I would like a Bloody Mary, heavy on the Tabasco, and four beers—Modelo Negra, if you have it.”

  She looked at Colgate and then at Joe and Ramón. “That’s five drinks, and there are only three of you.”

  Colgate waved at the others dismissively. “I don’t know what these bastards are having!” he barked. “Just bring me the goddamned drinks!”

  She flushed as red as a strawberry while Joe ordered eggs and bacon and Ramón opted for a cup of black coffee and some dry white toast.

  When the waitress had scampered to the kitchen, Cavcey edged forward and said, “We can pay you a substantial sum as well, Mr.?”

  “Gifford,” Joe said guardedly.

  “We can pay you a fee for tracking these creatures, Mr. Gifford.”

  “And when we find them?”

  “Then you step aside and Jet Ryder will deliver the kill shot.”

  “For the cameras,” Ramón snorted.

  “Naturally, for the cameras.” Cavcey twisted to the side, and for a moment, Joe thought he was cutting a fart, letting loose with a one-cheek sneak, but he was simply fidgeting again.