Fury of the Chupacabras

by Raegan Butcher

  His teeth ground together in impotent fury when he saw a gang of them wrecking the Impala. One creature was on the roof, hopping up and down, buckling it. Another hissing beast methodically smashed the headlights with its tail, while yet another slammed its fists like sledgehammers into the side panels, denting them with each blow. Other chupacabras plunged their clawed hands into the wheel wells and tore off the tires with huge concussive blasts that sounded like gunfire as the inner tubes exploded, sending rubber shrapnel everywhere.

  Joe went crazy with rage. That car had been his brother’s. It was all Joe had to remind him of his younger sibling. It was like the creatures were killing his brother all over again.

  He charged to the window and poked the Winchester through the bars. Before he could pull the trigger a chupacabra popped up and wrapped its hands around the protruding metal. Joe struggled to hang onto the weapon as the hissing beast tried to pull it through the window. The barrel swung back and forth. For a split-second the muzzle was pointed directly at the hideous face. Joe pulled the trigger. The explosion rattled the night and the creature was thrown back, propelled by the blast, its head partially torn away. A stream of blood and pulped brain matter poured from the wound.

  Lupita was up behind Joe, grabbing him, pulling him away. “Come on, boss,” she insisted. “This ain’t the way to go about this. Don’t lose your head now, please. We all need you.”

  The words cut through Joe like a boning knife. He allowed her to pull him back into the office, away from the windows, now once again filled with screeching faces and reaching arms.

  And then the phone on the sheriff’s desk rang.

  — | — | —

  Chapter 7

  Ramón ran full tilt, with Colgate and Singer struggling to keep pace. The rain pelted the trio like a million tiny fists as they dashed toward town.

  They’d just hit the corner of First and Main when the rain lifted. Ramón saw a mass of chupacabras lurking at the other end of the street. Casting about wildly for a safe haven, his eyes spotted the abandoned movie theater, its jutting marquee blank and shattered.

  Ramón came up to it fast. The front was entirely boarded up, glass windows long gone. Ramón grasped a corner of the plywood covering the front doors and yanked. It cracked open and he slipped inside. Colgate and Singer slid in behind him, into the lobby of the old-time movie palace. Its red carpeting was faded and water damaged. The candy counter had been smashed to glittering fragments. It was dark and smelled of carpet mildew. From outside came the sound of gunshots and screaming.

  Ramón jogged through the lobby, past the broken auditorium doors and into the theater proper. It was a big place, with seating for more than two hundred. Now it echoed with the sound of footfalls as Ramón, Colgate, and Singer explored the interior.

  Ramón headed toward the tattered and dirt-smeared screen. Moving to the left, he found a staircase leading down to the basement. The fire exit was padlocked shut. He turned and marched back up the aisle and out into the lobby. He found the restrooms on the left. Moving to the right he located the stairs leading up to the balcony and the projection booth.

  “Okay,” he said. “For the moment we are safe.”

  Turning from the stairs, he headed back to the lobby. Over his shoulder he said, “If things go bad, we can retreat up these stairs to the projection booth.”

  He passed the crushed concession stand and moved to the front doors. He pushed on the plywood edge through which they had entered. It rattled, gaping open.

  “We need to find a way to secure this board in place.” From outside came more gunshots, more screaming. The sound of metal impacting metal—a car had crashed somewhere.

  “Sounds like all hell is breaking loose out there,” Colgate muttered.

  “Have you ever seen this many of them together before?” asked Singer.

  Ramón nodded. “Yeah, once.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Tried to hide.”

  “Did it work?”

  “No.”

  “Then what did you do?”

  “Fought back.”

  “How?”

  “We had guns,” Ramón said. “Lots of guns. And plenty of ammunition.” He held up his Colt, popped the magazine, checked it, and then slid it back into the housing until it clicked into place. He had three bullets left in the gun and one extra magazine in his pocket, giving him a grand total of twelve shots. Not much firepower considering the number of creatures on the loose.

  From outside came the sound of the Impala’s engine racing. Ramón jammed his face up to the crack in the plywood and saw the car roaring down Main Street, only to swerve to the curb in front of the jail.

  When Ramón saw Lupita and Joe and the dogs tumble from the vehicle, he began tugging the plywood open so he could call to them.

  As he did so, a screaming reptilian face came lunging up, fangs bared. Ramón pulled back just in time to avoid the snapping jaws. The teeth clicked in front of his face. He leaned against the plywood, bracing it. Colgate and Singer joined him. The door began to shake. The creature outside was frenzied, pounding on it, forcing the nails loose.

  A scaly fist bashed through the wood, punching a hole, and sent splinters flying. The groping claws snagged the ranger by the hair, pulling her toward the opening. Ramón drew his Colt and poked it through the crack. “Watch out!” he yelled and shot the beast in the face.

  As Singer fell backward, the wood cracked and then tore completely loose to reveal a dozen creatures, squealing and hungry for blood. The street was crammed with them. Ramón caught a brief glimpse of a group pounding on the jailhouse door across the street. It looked like Joe and Lupita had troubles of their own.

  Turning from the front entrance, Ramón, Singer, and Colgate bolted into the lobby. The sound of the plywood barricade collapsing behind them reached their ears just as they made it to the staircase leading up to the projection booth.

  Ramón pushed Singer and Colgate ahead of him, and then turned and saw the first chupacabra come barreling through the front doors, leaving a trail of splinters.

  Ramón charged up the stairs, ran down the long hallway, and turned into the projection booth. He darted inside and slammed the door shut. He put his shoulder to it and leaned on it with Singer and Colgate lending their weight. They could hear the screeches of the countless creatures echoing throughout the lobby.

  They waited. Nothing came up the stairs. Minutes passed. They could hear the monsters prowling around downstairs. Colgate took his shoulder from the door and walked to the projector. Pushing his way past the lens, he peeked out the small window. He saw a dozen chupacabras wandering the aisles in the auditorium.

  “What are they doing?” asked Singer.

  “Just poking around,” Colgate told her. “They seem to have lost interest in us.”

  “Or else they’ve lost the scent,” said Ramón.

  “We are trapped in here,” Singer whispered fiercely. “What are we going to do?”

  “We will just sit tight and see what happens,” said Ramón. “If we have to, we will wait here all night.”

  It wasn’t much of a plan, but he was improvising. This whole hunt had turned into a first-class fiasco. For the ten millionth time he told himself this was it: no more, he was through, finished. He wasn’t obsessive in his desire to kill chupacabras—that was Joe’s trip. Ramón was in it for a lot of reasons, but personal vengeance was not one of them. He was not driven to keep putting his head in the noose. He could quit at any time. He slid to the floor, keeping his back to the door.

  Singer wandered the room. She’d lost her hat, and her wet hair now cascaded down to her shoulders like a red waterfall. She found a pair of scissors in a desktop drawer and tucked them into her belt.

  Colgate kept his eyes on the auditorium below. The creatures were slowly moving out of his line of vision, heading back into the lobby. He prayed they were leaving.

  “They were outside before the sun had gone down,” sai
d Colgate. “I thought you said they didn’t come out during the day?”

  “They usually don’t,” Ramón told him. “Maybe it was the storm…maybe it made it just dark enough for them to be outside.”

  “Well, no matter,” Colgate sighed. “It’s dark now.” He checked his wristwatch. “Gonna be dark for about seven more hours.”

  Ramón held up his Colt, popped the nearly empty magazine, locked the slide back, and checked the chamber. It was clear. He thumbed the slide release and the slab of metal slammed forward. He reinserted the fully loaded mag and racked the slide to chamber a round.

  “Is your job always this exciting?” Singer asked him.

  Ramón just gave her a tight-lipped smile and slid his Colt back into its holster. Singer pulled out her cell phone and put it to her ear after dialing.

  “Who are you calling?” Ramón asked.

  “The State Police.”

  “What are you going to tell them?” Ramón snorted. “That you are besieged by chupacabras?”

  After a pause she said, “Just that there is an emergency, and to send help.”

  Ramón listened when she finally got a dispatcher. “Hello, yes, this is Melissa Singer with the Fish and Game department. Badge number 746290. I am in the city of Dadeville. I need you to send a S.W.A.T. team immediately. We have an emergency.”

  She paused, listening. “What kind of emergency?”

  She threw a helpless look at Ramón and he smirked at her. He’d known people who had gone this route before. The authorities had declined to take them seriously. That is usually when Joe and Ramón got the job, after the cops had passed on it. The police were there to “serve and protect,” just like it said on their patrol cars. That usually meant breaking up domestic disputes, writing citations, and scraping dead drunks off the Interstate after they had wiped out coming home from the tavern at two in the morning. Fighting wild animals was not in their job description.

  “Just tell them it’s a riot,” he suggested.

  “We have a riot on our hands,” Singer said into the phone. “That’s right, a riot. No, I don’t know who is—”

  Ramón grabbed the phone from her. “Hello?” he barked. “Listen to me very carefully. I think terrorists have attacked Dadeville. Yes, you heard me correctly. Terrorists.” He paused. “They are running through town chanting in some language I can’t understand, and destroying private property! It’s madness, I tell you!” He paused again. “I can only assume it is foreign jihadists out to destroy our sacred American way of life. Oh, my god, they see me! Here they come! Send help, please!”

  He hung up the phone. “That ought to get them moving.”

  — | — | —

  Chapter 8

  Gladys Walters checked her watch for the umpteenth time. She resisted the urge to pick up her cell phone. She’d already called her husband a dozen times with no answer. Her mind firmly refused to believe that whatever had wounded her husband last night—and whatever had killed poor Charlie Leonard—had returned to finish off her sweet Dick.

  She was sitting uncomfortably in the parlor of the old Leonard farmhouse with Mavis Leonard and Elroy while they grieved. It was a messy, florid business. Mother Leonard—an ancient crone who ruled both boys with an iron fist—had blubbered and wailed about the loss of her first born—and Gladys suspected it was mostly an act. Old Mother Leonard seemed more concerned with losing a servant than a son.

  “Who gonna milk the cows? Who gonna feed the chickens? Who gonna throw the slop to the hogs now?”

  “I will, Mama,” Charlie said through sniffles.

  “You?” she spat through toothless gums. “All you good for is runnin’ off to town when I needs you!”

  “Mama,” he protested. “I am working at the fillin’ station! It’s not like I go and sit at the bar.”

  “Oh, lordy,” she wailed. “Why did it have to be my first born? Why him? Why Charlie?”

  Elroy wilted as she said it. Gladys was sick to her stomach. Where in the hell was her husband? She made a pained face and cleared her throat, gaining the attention of the old woman.

  “Mrs. Leonard,” she began. “I am sorry for your loss…” She struggled to find the words. She fell into a forced, cheery tone, completely inappropriate, but she was nervous. “I must say I do believe my husband has forgotten about me…” Her eyes caught Elroy’s. He looked like a dog that has been kicked too much. But now there was light in his eyes, a ray of hope.

  She threw out the next words like a life preserver to a drowning man. “Perhaps, if it isn’t too much trouble, I could have Elroy drive me downtown, I can wait for my husband at his office.”

  Mavis Leonard made a sour farting noise, puffing out her cheeks. “Bah! Go ahead! Abandoning me is all Elroy’s good for anyways.”

  Feeling there was no need to linger for the sake of courtesy now that the old woman had shown her true self, Gladys stood up straightaway and smoothed her dress. “Well, once again, I am sorry for your loss.” She turned to Elroy, who was on his feet and ready to leave.

  “Go on,” snarled the old woman. “Git!”

  “Okay then,” Gladys said.

  When they were outside, dashing through the rain to Elroy’s battered truck, Gladys called out, “I am sorry Elroy.”

  “No need for you to be sorry,” he said glumly as he climbed into the cab. “She’s my ma. I am the one that’s got to put up with her.”

  She didn’t know what to say to that, so she kept quiet. The rain fell in sheets. Since only one of Elroy’s windshield wipers functioned, Gladys had to gaze through a blurry, wet smear that made everything look like an impressionist painting as they wound their way through the outskirts of Dadeville’s northwest side. They passed many houses that were empty and shuttered, some of which had burned down more than forty years earlier and never were rebuilt.

  “Rainin’ to beat hell,” Elroy remarked. “Mind if I turn on the radio?”

  “It’s your truck, Elroy, you can do as you like.” She was struck by his manners. He was always such a nice man, shy, quiet, and polite. His brother had been lazy, boastful, and no-account. She didn’t understand why Mavis Leonard seemed to prefer Charlie to poor sweet Elroy.

  He reached down and twisted the knob on the dashboard. A burst of static blared out from the radio, and then Elroy fiddled with the dial and a disc jockey’s southern fried voice came through.

  “…tropical storm has been wreaking havoc along many parts of the Gulf Coast, with power outages and storm surges causing significant damage in some areas.”

  “Oh no,” Gladys gasped.

  “Meteorologist’s are keeping a close eye on this one, folks, to see if it will be upgraded to a Category One hurricane. Stay tuned for more.”

  “Oh dear lord, not a hurricane,” Gladys groaned.

  Next to her, Elroy set his jaw. “Don’t you worry none, Mrs. Walters. We’ll find the sheriff.”

  As they approached town, the rain lifted. They entered an area where people still lived, a small section of tidy houses with carefully maintained front yards. The moon peeked out from behind the clouds, bathing the neighborhood in a dull gray glow. In the gloom it was impossible to discern that the windows on the houses they passed had been smashed, and some of the doors on the houses gaped wide, torn from their hinges.

  “We’ll find your husband,” Elroy repeated. “We’ll find the sheriff.

  From the corner of his eye Elroy saw a door slam open on a passing house. His eyes moved to the rearview mirror, and he saw something reptilian and yet man-shaped launch into the sky carrying a struggling figure in its arms. The rain obscured the view. Could he really have seen that? Then he thought of his brother…mauled to death by some kind of weird animal. No one had said what kind of animal—or what made it weird. But what he’d just seen definitely qualified as weird. Sudden screaming echoed from up ahead, quickly followed by the unmistakable sound of gunfire.

  “What the—” he muttered.

  And then Gladys s
quealed, “Oh, my lord!”

  Through the windshield Elroy saw Dale Murphy, the town postman, on his front lawn, surrounded by a ring of monstrous, spike-backed creatures.

  Like something from a sci-fi horror movie, Elroy thought.

  Murphy had his Webley in his hand—he collected antique firearms. He banged out two shots with the old British revolver—and then the creatures were on him, like a pride of lions taking down a gazelle.

  The truck flashed by the horrible scene and turned a corner, hitting Second Avenue, running parallel to Main. Darting reptilian shapes streaked through the twilight, some running on the ground, some wheeling through the air like gigantic bats.

  “What is happening?” Gladys shrieked. “What is going on?”

  “I don’t know, just hang on.”

  Elroy hit the gas and turned another corner. He clipped a garbage can, which flew in the air and came crashing down behind them. They were now on Main Street. But the sheriff’s truck was nowhere to be seen.

  Gladys saw movement behind them in the rearview mirror. “Jesus save me!!”

  A creature leapt onto the back of the truck and thrust its hands through the rear window, showering the woman with shattered glass. Long fingers reached inside and curled around her face, fully encircling her skull, and she was yanked out of the truck so rapidly that Elroy saw only a blur of furious movement from the corner of his eye. Then he was alone in the cab.

  He swung the wheel and the truck bumped up onto the sidewalk, plowing through a pair of monsters, jamming them under the wheels. Barely stunned, they sprung to their feet once he had passed over. All he had done was piss them off.

  “Oh lordy,” Elroy moaned.

  He swung back into the street and pressed down on the gas, but there were too many of them. They piled on the hood in a teeming mass, tails smashing out the windshield with quick, no-nonsense slashes. They tore at the tires, shredding them to ribbons. The truck came to a halt under a pile of thrashing bodies in front of the River View Café.