“Congratulations, rock star. You killed your cameraman-slash-producer.”
Ryder didn’t hear him. He was almost catatonic with fear. In his own way, he was as deaf as his soundman. His eyes remained glued to the tunnel. His bow had another arrow seated, waiting for the pull. His hands shook like an alcoholic with the DTs.
“Hey!” The sheriff snapped his fingers, trying to get his attention. “Guitar hero, I am talking to you!”
It was no use—Ryder wouldn’t take his eyes from the hole. Walters turned to Lupita. “Nice shooting, Mammy.”
Lupita finished reloading and pumped a shell into the breech of the Model 12. She acknowledged him with a tight-lipped nod of her head.
Colgate tapped the dead monster’s nose with the toe of his shoe. “Damn, these things stink, don’t they?”
Ryder saw it first: another evil reptilian head, eyes glowing with unearthly phosphorescence. Screeching savagely, it popped up from the blackness at their feet like an evil jack-in-the-box. Behind it lurked more, a lot more. The tunnel clogged with them, and the air was suddenly rank with their odor.
Ryder drew back and let fly, and this time his aim was true. The rising creature made a gargling squeal and fell back into the tunnel, clutching the arrow that pierced its throat. Its body momentarily created a bottleneck in the tunnel.
“Every man for himself!” Ryder bolted past Colgate and Lupita, knocking them aside, and disappeared out the door. Johnson, still clutching his ears, watched him go with a puzzled frown.
“What’s going—” he was about to say “on” when the tunnel erupted with squalling chupacabras.
Lupita blasted a lunging figure, knocking it backward into another emerging creature. “Get outside!” she yelled to Colgate, Johnson, and the ranger.
Colgate grabbed the dazed soundman and bailed out the door with the ranger, who was looking back over her shoulder with panicked eyes, like a horse in a barn fire. Sheriff Walters drew his .357 magnum and blazed away, muzzle flashes lighting the room to crackling white.
“Come on!” Lupita yelled, backing out the door. “Let’s go, Sheriff!” she screamed as she beckoned.
He hurled a shot into the mob and turned to join her. He was two steps from the door, two steps from safety, when a creature loomed up behind him. There was a snapping sound. Something punched him in the back. Walter stumbled, and then suddenly froze. His eyes met Lupita’s and he saw the fast play of emotions on her face, the horror, the regret, and he knew he was as good as dead. He looked down and saw the barbed stinger protruding from his chest. It had been hurtled with such force that it had gone completely through him, an amazing feat of physical strength. The creature lifted him with its tail, holding him up like a fisherman admiring a good catch, standing with its head cocked and staring at him, as other monsters streamed out of the hole behind it.
Lupita fled.
««—»»
Ramón and Tennis Shoe Pete were watching the tunnel when they heard gunfire crackling from the administration building. Lightning flashed outside, sending streams of light through the cracks around the plywood covering the windows.
“What was that?” asked Ramón. He took his eyes from the hole for a moment.
It was enough.
In the split second that his eyes were averted, a bug-eyed horror burst from the opening and streaked toward Ramón as fast as a striking cobra.
Ramón had no time to think, only to react. Luckily for him, his instincts were finely honed. Moving so smoothly it seemed to be one single motion, he pivoted, dropped to one knee, brought up the Ithaca, aimed for the head, and fired. A tongue of flame lashed out from the barrel. Scraps of bone, blood, and brains, flew in all directions from the creature’s exploding skull.
Another snapping face reared up in the tunnel. Ramón fired and it dropped back into the darkness. He racked the slide and waited, tensed and ready, breath coming fast.
From outside came the sound of more shooting and someone’s voice yelling indistinctly. What was going on out there? Cursing under his breath, Ramón backed away toward the door, keeping his weapon aimed at the hole. He poked his head out into the hallway in order to better hear what was going on outside.
He saw a chupacabra charging down the corridor toward him in great leaps like a kangaroo, pushing with its tail and powerful legs. Ramón reared back in surprise and began to bring up his Ithaca. Then Pete’s voice cried, “Behind you! Watch out!”
When Ramón turned his attention from the approaching atrocity in the hallway he saw another green head emerging from the hole in the floor at his feet. He pivoted and blew its head off at the neck, then called to Pete, “Come on, let’s get the hell out of here!” and dashed out the door.
He gave the creature coming down the hall a quick shot to the head, dropping it to the tiles with a heavy thump. Behind it, more came pouring through from outside. Outside!
That meant they were everywhere.
Not knowing whether Pete was following, Ramón turned and raced for the long shadows at the back of the hallway. He came to a doorway, sans doors. As he raced inside he caught sight of a sign above the door: LUNCH ROOM.
The place was stripped bare except for the serving counter in the back. Moving quickly, trying not to make too much noise, he made his way toward the counter, vaulted it, and crouched down on the floor behind it. He quickly reloaded his shotgun, plucking fresh shells from the bandoleer on his chest.
He heard the sound of claws clicking on the tiled floor in the hall, followed by sibilant hissing. The creatures were moving swiftly through the corridors, drifting shadows passing the doorway. Ramón clutched the shotgun and held his breath.
««—»»
Lupita ran down the hall, reloading as fast as she could, snatching fresh shells from the pockets in her pants and sliding them into the feeding tube of the Winchester’s magazine.
As she came out the door, a flash of lightning split the sky and she flinched, eyes looking everywhere at once, taking in the retreating figure of Jet Ryder climbing into his bus with Colgate, Johnson, and Singer hot on his heels. In the Impala across the street she could see the frenzied faces of her dogs, baying and clawing at the windows, eager to join the action.
Lupita went straight for the Impala. Rain poured down, soaking her, making her hair fall into her eyes, and cling to her face.
She was halfway to the car when the first chupacabra dropped abruptly from the sky, and slammed down on the gravel in front of her. She skidded to a halt and fired from the hip. The blast staggered the beast but it remained on its feet. She pumped up a fresh shell and let fly, aiming for its head.
Boom!
The monstrous face disintegrated like a watermelon hit with a sledgehammer, and its body slid to the ground. She leapt over it and dashed to the Impala and yanked open the driver’s door, then tossed the shotgun on the seat, and slid behind the wheel.
Duke and Panocha barked a warning. Instantly she stopped fumbling with the keys and grabbed for her .45 as a spiked head smashed up against the window like a battering ram, shattering the glass, raining it down on her. The hideous face was right there, mouth open wide, saliva dripping. She choked from the stench that filled her nostrils, suffocating her. Its long fingers were inside, trying to grab, and tangling in her hair. She swiveled her arm to jam the Colt directly under the monstrous chin and pulled the trigger, praying she didn’t deafen herself, knowing there was no other choice.
With an ear-shattering explosion that rolled through the cramped confines of the car and made Duke and Panocha yelp in sharp protest, the creature’s head popped like a balloon, spraying blood all over the cab. Lupita always used hollow point bullets.
She twisted around in the seat, and reached for the keys. Gunning the engine to life, she stomped on the accelerator and fishtailed across the parking lot, throwing gravel like water spume.
««—»»
Inside the trailer, Doppler had just snorted a line of crystal meth. Her heart was pounding
, nose burning, tears streaming from her eyes, skin wet with sudden chemical sweat, when gunshots rolled out from the administration building. She swept her paraphernalia into her gigantic purse and was at the bus window in a flash, pulling up the venetian blinds.
The sky was a dark purple bruise and the wind howled like a living thing, shaking the tall grass in front of the school like a hula skirt. Then Ryder came bolting out of the front as if the devil was twisting his tail. Behind him came the old guy in the seersucker suit dragging Eric Johnson, who looked like he’d been whacked on the back of the head with a tire iron. The ranger was right on their heels, running full tilt with an expression of pure terror on her face. Then Ryder was ripping open the door and leaping inside. He was soaked to the skin and babbling, “Oh god, oh man! Oh god, oh man!”
“What?” cried Doppler, completely freaked.
“Oh god, oh man,” he panted. “Oh god, oh man!”
The door slammed open and Colgate, Johnson, and Singer tumbled inside. They were dripping wet and breathless.
“What is going on?” Doppler demanded shrilly.
“These fuckin’ chimichangas,” Ryder seethed. “They ain’t the size of damn dog, I can tell you that, you stupid twat! You gave me some seriously wrong information. I ought to fire your worthless ass!”
“What’s going on?”
“The fuckin’ monsters, you dumb bitch! They’re on the loose and kicking ass!” cried Ryder. “We ain’t hunting them! They’re hunting us! We need to bail!”
From outside came the boom of a shotgun.
««—»»
Ramón peeked over the counter. The cafeteria was bare. The hallway appeared empty. Where had they gone? Even the quiet became a source of worry. He wondered what had happened to Pete.
He couched back down, squatting on his haunches. The wind rattled the windowpanes and he jumped in surprise. Then he heard the crack of a .45 going off, muffled in the rain, like a firecracker exploding in a towel, and then the unmistakable sound of the Impala’s engine roaring to life.
Ramon stood bolt upright.
It was time to go.
He ran through the gutted room to the hallway. Halfway down the corridor, almost to the exit, a door behind him smashed open and a horde of bug-eyed monsters poured through. He charged for the front door. They were right behind him, screeching.
He made it outside and the wind and water slapped him in the face, stinging his eyes. Pausing for a fraction of a second, shaking his head, and wiping his eyes to clear his vision, he spied the Impala roaring away, fishtailing in the parking lot as it swung around.
Then his eyes caught movement nearby: the lawn was filled with spiky green bodies, more than he could quickly count. Where in the hell had they all come from? It was like a terrible magic trick. One minute it was clear and then the next—they were like ants at a picnic.
The monsters saw him emerge from the building. The great mob of them screamed with inhuman fury, and moved at him in a mass—a horde of bared fangs and slashing tails. Behind him he could hear the other creatures erupting from the doorway of C wing.
He was surrounded.
He raised the Ithaca and let fly, banging out shots as he carved a path toward the bus.
««—»»
Inside the bus, the sound of Ramón’s shotgun brought everyone to the windows. When Colgate saw Ramón fighting desperately to reach them, he began looking for a weapon.
“It’s Ramón!” he cried. “We’ve got to help him.” His eyes flew about the cabin and settled on Ryder’s bow and arrows.
“You, Mr. Kick Ass, get out there and help him!” he demanded, advancing on the other man.
Ryder backed up until he bumped into the couch—the interior of the bus was spacious and well-appointed, with a carpeted living room complete with large-screen television, an attached desk with editing bay and soundboard, as well as a kitchen, a bedroom, and a large bathroom furnished with a full sized shower.
“There’s no way in hell I am going out there,” Ryder stammered. He clutched his bow to his chest protectively.
Colgate was in no mood to listen. He lunged at Ryder, seized the bow, and tried to yank it from his hands. “God damn you! We’ve gotta help him!”
Ramón was almost to the door. Now Ryder ran to it, twisted the handle to lock it, and threw himself across it, barring it.
“We are not opening this door!”
“You cowardly piece of shit,” snarled Colgate, flinging aside the bow. He moved at Ryder. Suddenly, Doppler was there, lifting her knee, crushing Colgate’s balls, folding him. She tried to join Ryder in protecting the door, but Singer intercepted her and they slammed into the wall, grunting and cursing. They went down, sweeping a tabletop clean of coffee cups, ashtrays, keyboards, and papers.
Ramón had fought his way through his attackers and now he was pounding on the door.
“Open up! What the fuck?” they heard him yelling.
“Let—let him in,” gasped Colgate, rising to his feet painfully. The women had wrestled to a stalemate, hands gripping each other tightly as they tussled, rolling on the floor.
Ryder spread his legs, planted his feet, and kept his back to the door. “No way,” he said. “I am not opening this door.” His hand moved protectively to cover the handle.
On the other side, Ramón was encircled, inches from the fangs and claws, mere moments from death. A ring of screeching, snapping faces moved in on him. He blasted them back, then turned, raised the shotgun, placed the barrel against the door knob, and pulled the trigger.
The discharge at such a close range blew the door handle to pieces—along with Jet Ryder’s hand, pulping it, blowing it off at the wrist. He screamed and fell away from the door, clutching his forearm, which was spurting blood like a champagne bottle that had popped its cork.
The door slammed open and Ramón clambered inside. As he swung the door shut, two clawed hands thrust through the opening, catching it and forcing it open. Singer and Doppler stopped struggling and joined him in leaning on it. The trailer began to rock as the monsters swarmed around it, over it, climbing on the roof, pounding on the side panels, searching for a way inside.
With one hand, Ramón brought up the shotgun just as a lunging head wedged its way through the door. He jammed the barrel between the shimmering insect eyes and pulled the trigger. The explosion echoed throughout the bus as the creature’s head disintegrated in a spray of gore. The body tumbled backward and the door swung shut—but wouldn’t lock, thanks to Ramón’s earlier breach with the shotgun.
Ramón jammed his shoulder up against the door as it was assaulted afresh by the screeching monsters on the other side. Beside him, Doppler pressed hard with both hands, her eyes wide, teeth clenched tightly. Fueled by methamphetamines and fear, she had the strength of ten.
“We need to move this tub of shit right now!” Ramón called out to anyone who would take the initiative. “We can’t hold them off much longer!”
As if to prove his point, the window next to the couch exploded glass and a long arm groped frantically, reaching inside. Ramón left the door and blasted the beast back out the window.
“We need to move, now!” he bellowed. The view out the broken window showed nothing but a sea of snarling faces, fangs exposed, eyes cutting through the sheets of rain like headlight beams. It was the greatest number of them he’d seen since that first dreadful night in northern Mexico.
Ryder was on his knees, holding his mangled arm and staring at it in shock. Johnson was there with him, wrapping a towel around his wrist, trying to stem the flow of blood.
The ranger dashed up to the front seat and called frantically over her shoulder, “No key! Where are the keys?”
Colgate stumbled up to her. “Busses don’t have keys,” he said, eyes scanning the control panel in front of her. He spotted the ignition switch, threw it, and nodded to her as she slid into the driver’s seat.
“Here,” he said, and stabbed the button to bring the engine to life.<
br />
Through the windscreen, Ranger Singer saw the Impala swerve across the parking lot in front of her, followed by a horde of creatures. The car bumped over the sidewalk, hit the front lawn, and tore through the tall grass, flattening it as it sped toward the central courtyard.
Singer stomped her foot down on the accelerator and the big bus lurched, throwing everyone off their feet. She heard Ryder cry out in agony behind her as he fell, instinctively putting out both his hands to catch himself—and thumping his severed wrist on the shag carpet. He rolled and moaned, clutching his arm.
Singer gripped the wheel and aimed the bus down the main road, leaving the school behind in a curtain of rain. A glance in the side mirror made her stomach drop. They were right behind the bus, a river of leaping, bounding figures with dorsal spines glittering. She pressed down on the gas pedal and the speedometer climbed to fifty. She watched in amazed horror as the creatures kept pace. Some were loping on all fours as fast as cheetahs, and some flew through the air, zooming like guided missiles. She couldn’t believe an animal could move that fast.
The street took the bus through the downtown business core. The sign for the Starlight Motel flashed by in the rain, and then the darkened marquee of the shuttered movie theater across from the jailhouse. Slowing the bus as much as she dared, Singer swung the wheel and the gigantic vehicle swerved around a corner, groaning like a tired dinosaur. The road out of town beckoned, and after that, the Interstate—and hopefully safety. She wouldn’t stop until she arrived at the state line.
The bus had just reached the welcome sign, blowing past it like a runaway train, when the front wheels dropped away, finding only air where there should have been road—and over went the bus, tumbling the occupants like dice inside a cup.
Everything that was not bolted down toppled through the cabin. All of the gear not properly stowed—which was most of it—the electronics, laptop computers, electric guitars, cameras, kitchenware, coffee cups and cutlery—became deadly missiles as the bus flipped.
Fury of the Chupacabras Page 15
