Fury of the Chupacabras

by Raegan Butcher

  As he stood there, he said to Pete, “Can you show Ramón where the tunnel comes out in C wing? I want you guys to cover that exit. If anything except me comes out, blast it.”

  Ramón nodded, hitched up his Ithaca, and followed Pete out. Colgate took a picture of Joe standing hip-deep in the tunnel entrance.

  “Cut it out, you old fart,” Joe growled. Jerking his chin at the TV crew he snapped, “It’s bad enough I have deal with them. Don’t you start. Take pictures of the chupacabras, not me.”

  “Shouldn’t someone go with you?” Colgate asked.

  “You volunteering?” piped Lupita.

  Joe cut off any banter. “No. There ain’t much room in here. It’s a one-man job.”

  The light from Cavcey’s camera snapped on. “Any last words?” he asked as he got a good shot of Joe about to go down the hole.

  Joe blinked in the glare, thinking, Thanks, asshole. It’ll take five minutes now for my eyes to adjust to the dark again.

  He tried to think of something witty. “Remember: it’s not the cough that carries you off, it’s the coffin they carry you off in,” he said cheerily.

  He was not Shakespeare, but it was better than nothing. Bending at the knees, he winked at them and disappeared into the darkness.

  “Hey,” Ryder said, grinning. “That was pretty good.”

  “Better than your crap,” Colgate muttered.

  Ryder cupped his hand to his ear. “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  Lupita ignored everyone and kept her eyes on the tunnel. No telling what would come out of there now. It all depended on Joe.

  “How many are supposed to be in there?” asked Colgate.

  “Four or five,” said the sheriff. “At least.”

  — | — | —

  Chapter 4

  There wasn’t much room in the tunnel. Joe had to crouch with his legs slightly bent as he shuffled forward. It was incredibly uncomfortable. The light stabbing down in a fat white beam from the entrance faded as he made his way down the shaft. Its walls were strangely shiny. He reached out and touched one—and then drew his hand back quickly. It was slimy, covered in some sort of…saliva?

  Weird. The saliva seemed to act as an adhesive, sealing the dirt in the walls and making sure they didn’t collapse. It gave the walls a bizarrely organic texture, lumpy and bulging, yet smooth, like the folds of an intestinal tract.

  He had never seen the creatures do this before. Sure, they liked to move underground—subways, sewers, train and utility tunnels—any form of dark subterranean passageway—but he’d never seen them make their own before. How long had it taken them to dig these?

  He sat on his haunches while he waited for his eyes to adjust to the dark. This was true darkness—a total absence of light. It was different than night. In the night there was still space, room to breathe, to move around. This was tight and confining, like a grave.

  He came to a fork where the tunnels branched off in three different directions and paused at the turn, trying to remember the layout of the school. He looked to his right. Was he turning toward C wing if he went that way? He began to regret not taking Duke or Panocha with him. They would know if any chupacabras were near. Joe sniffed the air. The creatures had a very rank odor, sour and boggy, a dead fish reek of open sump, sewage, and swamp gas. He could detect only the gritty smell of freshly turned earth. He touched the wall again and sniffed the goop sticking to his fingers. Just the faintest trace of fishy odor.

  Duke and Panocha could smell them from half a mile away, depending upon conditions. Even if they were upwind, the dogs could detect the creatures much earlier than any human could.

  Why didn’t I bring one of them with me? And he knew the answer was because he’d planned to send Ryder down here, figuring his pride wouldn’t allow him to say no, that he’d have to do it to save face. But Ryder wasn’t shy about his cowardice—only shy about sharing it with his television viewers. It figured. What a showboating phony.

  Joe’s eyes were as adjusted to the darkness as they were going to get. He checked the shotgun to see that a shell was chambered, and then edged around the turn and moved to the right, legs aching.

  He crab-walked another twenty yards and stopped. Squinting his eyes against the gloom, he thought he could make out the dim cone of light coming from the tunnel entrance above.

  He wanted to call out, to ask Ramón if he was up there, but he dared not make any noise, just in case he wasn’t in C wing. Crawling forward awkwardly, he slid to within a few steps of the shaft. He could see dust motes dancing in the radiance filtering down. A shadow moved across the light.

  Joe tensed and whispered, “Ramón, are you up there? Don’t shoot, it’s me.”

  There was movement above him as a monstrous shape dropped down the vertical shaft. As the creature landed with a heavy thud, Joe let loose with the shotgun, blasting it point blank in the chest, throwing it back against the dirt wall. Instantly another dropped down to take its place. Joe fired a blast into the thrashing figure as it sprang at him with its powerful legs. Joe turned his head to the side just in time to avoid the spiked tail as it buried itself in the tunnel wall beside his face. He pumped another round into the Ithaca and centered the barrel between the two glowing eyes. The detonation of the shotgun in the small space was incredible. The chupacabra’s head disintegrated in a pulpy mist, spackling Joe with gore.

  Joe didn’t wait to see what else would come down the hole. He turned as swiftly as he could and began scooting back the way he came. His ears were ringing so badly that he couldn’t hear if there were any of them following him. He didn’t dare pause to check. He knew how fast a chupacabra could move.

  He came to the turn and followed it back the way he had originally traveled—at least he hoped that was the direction he was moving. If not, then this might get very interesting, very quickly. It was easy to get turned around in the dark. It was easy to get lost.

  He stumbled and fell heavily, knees screaming in protest as he dragged himself up and risked a quick look behind him. The darkness bristled with spikes and glowing eyes. Joe stood up in a half-crouch, banging his head on the tunnel roof. He leveled the shotgun and fired into the on-rushing mass, then turned and ran with his legs bent in an unnatural and uncomfortable angle. Joe didn’t feel it, he was awash with adrenaline, and he felt only white-hot fear.

  Up ahead light beckoned. Joe reached it in seconds. “I am coming out hot! They’re right on my ass! Get ready!”

  He hit the shaft and blinked in the light and tried to jump up and grab the lip of the hole. But something was wrong. This tunnel seemed deeper, the light above farther away than it should have been.

  “Help me, goddamn you!” he screamed.

  No one answered. Had he taken another wrong turn?

  Joe was out of time. Slinging the Ithaca over his shoulder, he bent his legs and sprang with all his might. His feet scrabbled, kicking wildly, fingers locked, digging into the edge. Shoulders straining, bones crackling, he pulled himself up and rolled clear of the hole and scrambled to his feet. He had time only to register that he was not in the administration building before a squalling, fang-filled face appeared, hands clinging to the edge, muscular green arms moving to pull itself effortlessly up from the hole. Joe brought his shotgun into his hands, pumped the action, aimed, and pulled the trigger. Click!

  He was out of ammo.

  Slinging the empty weapon over his shoulder, Joe risked taking his eyes from the beast for a quick look at his surroundings and saw that he was in the gymnasium, the tunnel entrance sitting directly in the center circle on the half court line of the basketball court.

  With one graceful leap that would have been the envy of every NBA player in the league, the creature cleared the hole and landed with an echoing slap on the floor. It oriented itself and spun to Joe, teeth bared.

  Joe’s hand flew to the Colt .45 on his hip just as the beast sprang at him. He ducked to the side and his aim was spoiled and his first shot w
ent wild, and ricocheted in the bleachers. He reacquired his target and snapped off two quick shots, and knocked the beast off its feet. No sooner had it hit the court than it rolled smoothly to the side in a superhuman display of agility and then sprang up to face him again. Another demonic figure erupted from the hole, with still more coming up behind it. There seemed to be no end to them.

  Joe turned and ran. He heard their cries as they gave chase, high and screeching, like a band saw cutting through a truck fender, echoing throughout the auditorium.

  Up ahead he saw the entrance to the showers and the locker rooms. He bolted for the passageway, boots thundering on the basketball court’s wooden floor. Behind him, bedlam followed.

  Joe unslung the shotgun and hurriedly loaded fresh rounds as he hit the shower area—no place to hide there—and kept moving. Turning around a corner he found himself in the locker rooms. The coach’s office beckoned at the far end, enclosed in safety glass—and with a door that had a lock on it!

  Joe dashed to it and flung himself inside. After locking the door he crawled under the metal desk and hunched down. He knew chupacabras had great hearing and even better eyesight.

  He clutched his shotgun and waited. He could hear the creatures in the locker room, padding up and down the concrete floor, banging on the metal doors, making an ungodly racket.

  He scrunched up as tight as he could and rolled himself into a ball. He tried to calm his wildly beating heart, blood pounding hard inside his head. Over the raucous din of locker doors being wrenched from their flimsy hinges came the sound of angry screeching—like fingernails on a chalkboard.

  Something bumped against the door to the office.

  Joe’s jaw muscles worked. His finger tensed on the trigger. He took a deep breath. Another experimental bump and the door rattled, jumping on its hinges. A heart-stopping moment of breathless silence followed...and then a sound that brought relief flooding through him: the clickety-clack of retreating claws on the concrete floor of the locker room.

  It grew very quiet. Joe didn’t dare move. He strained to hear any noise, any sound at all. These creatures were devious. They were expert stalkers as well as ambush predators. They had the patience of a spider, waiting for a victim to come blundering into their clutches. They had enormous strength and seemingly inexhaustible energy; at least, he’d never seen one grow tired. They were rarely found alone; usually in groups of three to five. Sometimes they seemed to swarm, drawing hundreds from god knows where. He prayed that wasn’t what was happening here. Maybe it was time to call in the second team?

  He’d left half his team back at their shop in Chihuahua. He didn’t think he would need them on this job. Clearing out four or five chupacabras—dangerous, yes, but not a major job. Dividing his forces—a classic blunder. Today—and more importantly—tonight, he would find out if the blunder would prove fatal.

  He hoped not.

  He didn’t think he would enjoy being dead.

  — | — | —

  Chapter 5

  The sound guy heard it first. Johnson stood up from where he had been crouching with his back against the wall. Next to him the ranger stiffened. She’d heard it too.

  “Did you hear that?” she asked

  Lupita scowled at them. “Hear what?”

  “It sounded like gunfire.”

  “Are you sure?” Colgate asked and then pointed to the ceiling, where the sound of rain drumming on the roof resounded throughout the room. “Maybe it was just thunder.”

  Then they all heard it: the muffled boom, boom, boom of someone firing a shotgun somewhere in the tunnels.

  “Shit,” muttered Lupita.

  Ryder was near panic. “What do we do?” His eyes kept bouncing from Cavcey, to the hole in the floor, to Lupita, and then back again.

  Boom! Boom!

  Two more shots came echoing out of the gloom.

  Lupita braced herself and kept Joe’s Winchester aimed at the dark hole at her feet. She wished she had her dogs with her. They were the perfect partners: loyal, fierce, single-minded; she never had to worry about them making a false step. Pure animal grace in their every movement.

  Ryder strung an arrow in his bow, hands trembling. He took up a position next to her and waited. Cavcey and Johnson hefted their equipment and circled around the other side of the hole to get a good shot of them. Colgate backed away, putting as much distance between him and the tunnel as he could without leaving the office.

  Cavcey turned on the camera and looked to Johnson. The sound guy turned on his equipment and pointed the boom mic at the entrance to the tunnel.

  ««—»»

  In the C wing, Ramón and Tennis Shoe Pete stood above a ragged hole in the middle of the classroom surrounded by sagging desks of warped wood and rusted metal. Some of the desks had been smashed and thrown into one corner, stacked almost to the ceiling. Dim shafts of sunlight sliced around the edges of the plywood covering the windows.

  Pete shuffled from side to side. “He sure has been down there a long time.”

  Before Ramón could reply, the muted report of a shotgun rolled from the darkness beneath them. Ramón edged forward, Ithaca at the ready.

  “Dat sounded like it come from D wing,” said Pete.

  “So, you crawled in that hole before?” Ramón asked over his shoulder.

  “I did.”

  “And you’ve seen chupacabras come out of it?”

  “I don’t know what that is—but I seen the Grunches.”

  “In that hole?”

  “Yessir. I seen them come and I seen them go. Hundreds of them.”

  Ramón whipped his head around so fast it was a miracle he didn’t get whiplash. “Hundreds?” he asked. “Are you sure?”

  “They didn’t stand still for me to count,” Pete huffed. “But I seen a shitload of the motherfuckers in there. They likely to come spilling out like an overturned anthill any minute now if y’all keep fuckin’ with them.”

  Ramón noted his calm demeanor. The old guy appeared fearless— downright ornery—or was he just crazy? He stank like he had bathed in fortified wine. Was he simply full of false courage?

  “And you are not afraid?” Ramón asked.

  Pete shrugged. “Grunches don’t bother me none.”

  “They don’t attack you?”

  “Never have.”

  “How close have you been to one?”

  “Close as I am to you now.”

  Ramón wondered what it meant. Was the old man telling the truth—or was he delusional? Ramón gritted his teeth. Why did he have to get stuck with the vagrant?

  ««—»»

  In the admin building, all eyes were on the dark fissure in the floor. It was quiet. Only the rain hammering on the roof and the wind slapping the plywood on the windows intruded on the anxious silence. No one dared speak. Everyone was as tensed as Ryder’s bowstring. He had an arrow seated, but hadn’t drawn back yet.

  Minutes ticked by slowly, excruciatingly, seeming to stretch out for an eternity. Then a noise, a slight displacement in the air, just a hint of fishy aroma wafting from the tunnel.

  Ryder drew back his bow, muscles in his forearms corded and bulging.

  With an ear-piercing shriek, something reptilian and monstrous exploded from the tunnel as if shot from a cannon. It seemed to hang in the air, levitating with some evil energy that defied the laws of gravity. And as it hung, suspended for that fraction of a second—a slice of eternity—it spun in a blurred, whirling circle, swiping with its powerful taloned hands.

  Its first target was the light from the video-cam assaulting its eyes. Cavcey cried out as his camera was swatted from his grip by long, clawed fingers whisking through the air like knives. The camcorder sailed across the room and exploded against the wall, sending shrapnel flying. Deep gouges were torn in the back of Cavcey’s hand with the horrific force of the blow, severing tendons and causing his fingers to flop uselessly.

  Ryder tracked the beast as it swarmed over his cameraman. He aim
ed and let loose. The bowstring twanged. The arrow flew through the air. The creature ducked, and twisted out of the way. The arrow sank to its shaft in Cavcey’s chest and erupted out his back beneath his shoulder blade, skewering him, and pinning him to the wall. He hung there, thunderstruck, his aorta severed—a lucky shot for Ryder. Cavcey wiggled pitifully, blood bubbling from his nose. His hands reached up and pulled weakly on the shaft sticking from his chest. His mouth kept trying to form words but no sound issued, only bloody pink froth.

  The creature kept moving, leaping toward Johnson, who waved his boom mic in front of him and scrambled to back up. His feet tangled together and he went down on his ass.

  Lupita had a shot and she took it, firing the Winchester once, boom!—and the beast staggered. Another shot thundered, boom!—absolutely deafening in the office, and the creature faltered, going down on one knee. She squeezed off one more explosive blast, this time scoring a headshot. The beast collapsed in a sudden heap. Its tail drummed once and then it was still.

  Johnson tore off his headphones, grabbing his ears. Blood trickled from them in thin streams. “I can’t hear! I can’t hear! You blew my eardrums out!”

  “You shouldn’t have been wearing those headphones, you idiot,” Lupita snarled—but, of course, he didn’t hear what she said. All he could hear was the incoming artillery sound of massive tinnitus, a piercing whine, echoing from the depths of a vast cathedral. It sounded like a supersonic jet was taking off inside his head.

  Colgate circled the carcass, snapping pictures with his little camera. “Well, at least you killed it.”

  Ranger Singer stared at the creature in disbelief, shaking her head. “I never thought…” her voice trailed off.

  Lupita loaded fresh rounds into the Winchester to replace what she had expended. The sheriff was kneeling over Cavcey. Straightening up, he shook his head and turned to Ryder.