A crazed cry of anguish was added to the deafening sounds of chaos as Jet Ryder tumbled end over end, clutching at whatever he could, sending electric jolts of pain up his mangled wrist as he grabbed at a table with a hand that was no longer there, splattering blood with his stump. He hit the wall hard and his screaming suddenly cut off abruptly.
The bus kept rolling like a ship in a storm as it plummeted. It was really only a matter of ten or twelve feet, but it felt as if they were tumbling into the Grand Canyon. Joints in the kitchen’s internal water pipes cracked, and water sprayed through the back of the bus, drenching the rest of the equipment. There was a sharp squeal of metal pushed beyond its breaking point, and the bus impacted hard, crashing to a rest on its side in the dark.
Ramon sat up, ignoring the tinkling shards of glass that cascaded down his shoulders. The floor underneath him was a mass of broken plates, shattered safety glass, mangled guitars, and all the rest. He searched for Colgate and located him on his hands and knees near the front.
“You okay, Toothpaste?”
“Journalism can be fun,” the old reporter said shakily. “Have you seen my hat?”
Ramón snatched it from the nearby rubble and tossed it to him.
“Thanks,” Colgate said, screwing the hat onto his head tightly. He clawed his way to a standing position. From the debris in the back, Doppler came shuffling forward, holding her hand to her face. Her nose trickled blood. Johnson stumbled up behind her, staring numbly at the chaotic scene.
The bus was a disaster. Never too orderly in the first place, it now looked like what it was—the scene of a terrible accident. The windows were gone, exploded by the impact of the crash. Since the bus was on its right side, what had once been the floor was now the wall. It was like standing on the slanting deck of a sinking ship. The tables that were bolted to the floor poked out across from them, jutting out perpendicular. Everything else was cluttered around their ankles. Ramón couldn’t find his shotgun.
Ranger Singer groaned as she pulled herself from the driver’s seat. She’d bitten through her lip, and drops of blood dripped down and spattered her uniform. The steering column had punched her ribcage, bruising the bone.
A screeching sound echoed from the darkness outside and sent hearts pounding—save for Johnson, who was deaf and didn’t hear it—but the rest of them did, and it was like a slap in the face, bringing them all back to the moment. They were in deep shit.
“Out, out!” cried Ramón, hustling the dazed group toward the broken windows above them and moving to check the door, seeking any means of exit. He searched for the door, trying to orient himself in the funhouse perspective. No good; the door was on the side that was now the floor, wedged up tight against a wall of mud.
“Move, move, we need to move, now!” he shouted. His eyes jumped to the windows above them.
Colgate was nearest the window. Ignoring the bits of broken safety glass remaining in the window frame, he jumped up and pulled himself through by his arms, ripping his seersucker suit but otherwise slithering through with an agility that belied his age and alcoholic condition. Fear was a great motivator.
The cries in the darkness were gaining in pitch and volume—drawing near. Colgate slid off the slick metal side of the bus and tumbled into the gloom. Ranger Singer was next, with Ramón pushing her from behind, urging her to hurry. Johnson was crouched over Ryder, checking his pulse with two fingers pressed to his neck.
“He’s alive!” shouted Johnson.
“To hell with him,” Doppler said—but Johnson didn’t hear.
Grabbing Ryder by the lapels on his denim vest, Johnson hauled him up to his feet. Ryder’s eyes fluttered open.
“W-what,” he asked dully. “What the fuck is going—” and then the pain in his severed wrist kicked in and he began to scream.
Ramón heard it as he slid off the bus and landed in the mud next to Singer and Colgate. They were in some kind of ditch or trench, a huge chasm that hadn’t been there a few hours ago.
“What the hell is going on? Is this a sink hole? Or did the fucking chupacabras dig this?” Ramón asked. Colgate hissed at him to be quiet.
“What?” asked Ramón. Inside the bus, Doppler and Johnson had done something to Ryder to keep him quiet. His screams had faded.
“What?” Ramón asked again in a whisper.
Colgate pointed to the gloom surrounding them. In the moonlight, the distant outline of the few buildings they could see at the entrance to town looked like the backbones of some prehistoric animal.
“Listen.”
“I don’t hear anything,” Ramón whispered.
“That’s the problem,” Colgate said gravely. “The chupacabras fell silent as soon as numb-nuts in the bus started screaming…” he let the implications work their way to Ramón. It didn’t take long.
Ramón’s hand flew to his holster and the comforting weight of his Colt was like a handshake with an old friend as he brought it out, flicked off the safety, and went to condition red, cocked, and locked.
“Well then we need to get the fuck out of here,” he hissed.
“What about them?” asked Singer, meaning Ryder, Doppler, and Johnson.
“Forget them,” Colgate snapped. “They were ready to lock Ramón out of the bus.”
When Ramón heard that, it was a forgone conclusion what he would do. He turned and climbed out of the muddy pit and disappeared into the darkness with Colgate. After a moment’s hesitation, the ranger turned from the capsized vehicle and followed them. Before she vanished, she turned for a last quick look and saw Doppler and Johnson pulling Ryder from the window.
— | — | —
Chapter 6
The sound of the office door creaking on its hinges made Joe wince as he pushed it open. He strained to hear and pressed his eye to the crack. The hallway was clear. No sound from the locker rooms.
Joe risked opening the door enough to slither out of the coach’s office and then crouched in the shadowy corridor, staring through the gloom at the lockers ahead of him. In the darkness they looked like coffins standing at attention. There was no sound except the wind moaning around the edges of the boarded-up windows out in the gymnasium.
He took a quiet step into the locker room. His boots scuffled on the floor. Wire-mesh windows set high up filled the area with gloomy half-light, while the corners were pools of deeper black. Joe gripped the Ithaca tightly. He was halfway across when he heard a wet slap. He flared around and one of the shadows in the corner was hurtling through the air toward him.
There was no reaction time—a creature was on top of him. Joe watched the reptilian face dart forward and then the sound of his shotgun filled the room, rolling off the metal lockers like a bomb blast. The chupacabra was nearly cut in half at the waist in a spray of blood. Joe was already moving through the door into the gymnasium—only to see a river of the beasts gushing from the hole at center court, alerted by the sound of his gunfire.
Joe knew he’d never make it to the front door—and it was padlocked shut in any case. Turning on instinct, he charged for the nearest boarded-up window. They were right behind him. The smell was choking, suffocating. They closed all around him. Finger on the trigger, he fired again and again. They fell away from him, only to be replaced by others. Suddenly, Joe was at the window—he swung out with his booted foot and kicked. The board didn’t loosen one bit.
There was no more time. He leveled the shotgun and blasted away, using the remaining shells in the Ithaca, running it empty, blowing big chunks from the wood, sending splinters flying. Praying it was enough to weaken the barrier, he dived at it, head tucked, shoulder first, exploding through the remnants of glass and plywood to tumble out into the rain.
He came down hard, rolled, and was on his feet and running, adrenaline canceling out any pains. He was in an alley between the gymnasium and D building, rain puddled, oily and slick. One end of the alley dead-ended in a cul-de-sac with a high brick wall blocking the way. The other end opened to
a walkway leading to the common courtyard.
He sprinted for it. The screams were behind him again. He risked a look back. Creatures filled the alley, pouring out of the building, still coming. Dirty water splashed up his pant legs as he hit the weed-filled courtyard at a dead run.
He was headed for the parking lot on the far end when he saw it—the Impala jumped the curb and was heading right for him, chopping through the tall grass like a thresher. He tumbled to the ground as it narrowly missed him and he saw Lupita behind the wheel, wild-eyed, with the dogs barking from the backseat. He tore open the door and jumped in the passenger seat.
“You just made ’employee of the month,’” he gasped, chest heaving.
The chupacabras were nearly on top of them. Joe’s hand flew to the glove compartment. He always kept a few M67 hand grenades in there for emergencies such as this. He yanked one out, pulled the pin and hurriedly tossed it out the window. It exploded in the midst of the on-rushing mob, scattering reptilian arms and legs. Duke and Pancho howled in the backseat, adding to the din. Lupita hit the gas pedal and the car roared away, swerving through the courtyard.
Joe watched the mob recede in the rear window, and then sank back gratefully in the seat. Duke poked his head forward and licked his face. Joe smiled—but it quickly faded. The street ahead was jammed with chupacabras.
“Come on, baby,” Lupita said to the Impala, pressing on the accelerator.
The big car ploughed into the mob, bashing through it. The monsters were all over it, grabbing, lunging with their opened mouths, teeth snapping. They squirmed on the hood, clambered on the roof, rocking the car.
Lupita couldn’t see out the windshield. Joe brought up his Colt and fired through the glass, blowing a creature off the hood, leaving a trail of blood. Another sprang up to take its place. Joe squeezed off two more shots, punching jagged holes through the windshield.
They were clearing the mob, getting through to open road. The rain suddenly lifted, and the howl of the wind lessened. The sky was darkening, the sun almost gone. They zoomed down Main Street, whipping the car around the corner by the jailhouse, almost going over, and then straightening.
The Impala barreled down the road, tires sending up a spray of water. The welcome sign flashed by and then—something massive loomed ahead. They closed in and recognized it as Jet Ryder’s tour bus, over on its side, its rear end sticking up blocking the entire street.
Lupita yelled, “Shit!” and stood on the brakes and the car fishtailed wildly, swinging from one side of the road to the other before slowing to a halt.
“What the fuck?” she cried.
The street behind them filled with a roaring mob, moving fast. Lupita twisted the wheel, hit the gas, and tore off across the lanes, cutting through the drainage ditch and passing Charlie Leonard’s station wagon. She was about to swing around the bus when she saw it: a huge trench, stretching as far as she could see, completely bisecting the road out of town. The trench was deep and wide, there was no way they could make it across to the other side.
She twisted the steering wheel and slid the car around, aiming for open ground. The Impala climbed out of the ditch, bumped up over the gravel on the shoulder of the road, and then they were racing back toward Dadeville, engine throbbing. Behind them a tsunami of screeching, squalling figures poured down the road like a lava flow.
“I hope you have a plan,” Lupita said from between clenched teeth. She swerved to avoid an onrushing beast as they took the corner of First and turned back onto Main. Panocha and Duke went apeshit with growling as another pack of chupacabras surged from the far end of the street. They were coming from every direction.
“Holy shit!” Lupita whistled. “They’re everywhere!”
She saw in the rear-view mirror that the other mob was spilling around the corner behind them. The Impala was trapped in the middle of Main Street with monsters on both ends.
Joe’s eyes scanned the street. It appeared empty, with only a few cars and no one in sight on the sidewalks. Then the front window of the River View Café exploded outward and a writhing monster landed on the pavement. It had something clutched in its arms: the perky waitress who had brought Joe his breakfast. She was screaming and struggling. The tail flashed, struck, and she went limp. The creature’s face bent down to feed. Inside more struggling customers could be seen falling under a swarm of green bodies. They were overwhelming the whole town.
“The jail!” Joe pointed.
The jail was to their immediate right. Lupita worked the wheel, stamped the brakes, and screeched to the curb. They grabbed their shotguns, leapt out, and dashed to the front door. Joe heaved it open. Duke and Panocha were the first inside, eyes and ears on full alert.
Joe slammed shut the door, threw the security bolt, and leaned against the metal as the first hammering blows began to fall. He had chosen the jail because it was stoutly built. The windows were all barred. The door was steel-plated and now dents began to appear in its smooth face. The booming increased in ferocity and the door began to bulge inward. Joe jumped back from it, watching as fist-sized dents popped up along the door. The window next to the front door suddenly rained glass, and then long arms were inside, groping, grasping, clutching. Only the bars held them back.
Joe and Lupita backed away. Joe watched for a minute to make sure the chupacabras couldn’t get in, and then went around to the sheriff’s desk and began pulling open drawers. He found a spare box of .357 rounds, but they weren’t going to do his .45 much good.
Patting his pockets, he was dismayed to find only four shotgun shells left. He moved to the glassed gun cabinet and smashed it open. The shotguns were padlocked—he guessed the sheriff had the keys. But he found a box of twelve-gauge shells.
“Lupita,” he called. “Come load up.”
The hammering on the front door stopped and was replaced by the nerve-wracking sound of claws skittering on steel, scratching, searching for a way inside. Duke and Panocha stood their ground, growling deep in their throats.
“What the hell happened?” asked Joe as he slid fresh shells into his Winchester.
“You went in the hole,” said Lupita, deftly loading her Ithaca. “About a million of those things came out.”
“What’s the score?”
“Sheriff’s dead. Bald guy with the camera is dead. Not sure about anyone else.”
“Another fine mess,” Joe muttered. He finished loading and wracked the pump. “You had enough? Ready to retire and go back to making shoes?”
“Hell no,” she snorted. “I’m just gettin’ started, boss.” She worked the slide on her Ithaca and stuffed her pockets with extra shells.
Joe loved her. She was a brave woman, worthy of respect. She had gone on hunt after hunt with little complaint, always giving one hundred percent. She should have had monuments erected in her honor.
Lupita whistled and the dogs broke from their vigil near the front and joined her. She stood with them, defiant. The hissing faces in the windows spat angrily and then pulled back into the darkness. The pounding on the front door lessened, dwindled away to a few isolated thumps and bumps, then silence.
Joe knew they were waiting just out of sight, in all the blind spots, some probably coiled directly under the sill, snug against the wall, ready to snatch anyone foolish enough to peek out the window to see if they were gone.
“Let’s go check the back,” he said.
If he knew his enemy, then they were looking for alternative ways to breach the jailhouse. One thing he was acquainted with was their persistence. They seemed to take this sort of situation almost as a challenge. Once again, he was struck by how unnatural this kind of behavior was for an animal. Although it frightened him to admit it, chupacabras acted more like…people.
So many things about them didn’t make sense. For instance, all of the creatures looked alike, as if they were all the same age. It was impossible to tell the males from the females. Joe knew nature didn’t usually do it that way. Bugs, lizards, mammals�
�most of them had one sex who typically grew larger than the other. Chupacabras were different. They were like exact copies of each other. It was weird.
Five years hunting them, and he still wasn’t sure how they tracked. Oh, he knew it was by vision mostly, but he also knew their sense of smell was pretty damned good—and he wondered sometimes if they couldn’t sense body heat like certain snakes, or electrical fields, like a shark. They seemed to have different attributes of different animals depending upon environmental conditions. Joe was no zoologist, but he knew enough to know that nature rarely did it like that. And if these creatures were a naturally occurring animal—why no fossils, no evidence of them at all in historic records or scientific journals? It was as if they had simply popped into existence one day in 1995. All of that pointed to them being something very, very unnatural.
Joe had never been able to properly study them. So far, his team had not managed to keep a carcass once they scored a kill. Usually they used the flamethrower, and that left precious little to examine or mount over the fireplace to impress the townsfolk. And at other times he knew the chupacabras took their own dead with them when they retreated. Once again, he was struck by the similarity to humans. That kind of behavior was uncomfortably close to the way soldiers in combat behaved, taking their dead comrades’ bodies with them when at all possible—“leave no one behind,” and all that. But chupacabras were just animals…weren’t they?
The sudden squeal of tortured metal came from the front. Joe moved back to the sheriff’s desk—he wasn’t going any closer to the smashed-out front windows. He had seen chupacabras pull this kind of trick before. They would direct your attention to someplace seemingly clear, and then cause enough of a commotion to bring someone to see what was happening. Then it was dinner time.
Fury of the Chupacabras Page 16
