Fury of the Chupacabras

by Raegan Butcher

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  Chapter 13

  When Joe and Singer burst through the gymnasium door, Joe glanced at the semi-circle of gas drums clustered around the hole in the center of the basketball court and a sudden realization struck him like a thunderbolt: he didn’t have the detonator.

  “Shit!” he cried, dragging Singer to the half court line and shoving her toward the hole. Outside, the stampede grew louder, closer.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  He pushed her to the edge of the gap. “Get in there!” he yelled. “Follow the tunnel to one of the other buildings and try to get the hell out of here!”

  “What?”

  “Go!”

  The doors to the gym tore from their hinges as a great mass of chupacabras flooded into the building. The unruly mob spotted Joe and shrieked in unison. The sound of their claws on the wooden floor echoed throughout the gym as they charged in his direction.

  “Go!” Joe screamed. “I will be right behind you.”

  Singer hesitated, trying to pull the compound bow from around her shoulders, tangling her arms.

  “Go, damn you!” Joe shoved her into the hole and jumped in after her. The darkness greeted them like an old friend, hiding them from view—but they both knew it couldn’t conceal their scent. They scooted through the tunnel with their legs bent awkwardly, moving as fast as the cramped confines would allow.

  Singer came to an intersection where two tunnels branched out. She slowed and asked over her shoulder, “Which way?”

  “Just pick one and go,” he grunted. Hissing echoed from the darkness behind them.

  Singer chose the tunnel to the left, but as she turned, she suddenly slammed to a halt. The bow over her shoulder had jammed into the tunnel roof.

  “Ooh!” she gasped. “I’m stuck!”

  The hissing grew louder. Joe grabbed the bowstring and yanked it away from her shoulder. Two glowing eyes appeared in the tunnel behind them. “They’re right behind me. Get going!”

  She twisted out of the bow like someone slipping out of a jacket. His eyes met hers and he nodded quickly, then dropped the bow and pulled his pistol. “Go!”

  He put his hands on her back and pushed her to the left just as the first chupacabra rushed toward him in the darkness. He saw its eyes and aimed the Colt between them and squeezed off a shot. The sound was like thunder in the tunnel. His ears rang like a bell. The hollow point .45 slug blew apart the creature’s face, and it dropped to the dirt, blood spurting. Another hissing silhouette came crawling over the body, undeterred. Joe twisted around and took off after the ranger.

  Singer was duck-walking forward, her eyes squinting against the darkness. There was weak light filtering in from somewhere up ahead. She paused and sniffed the air. A horrible fishy odor assaulted her nose and she gasped involuntarily.

  “Oh god, what a—”

  The creature that had been hiding motionless in the tunnel ahead of her lifted its head, and the luminous eyes bathed her startled face with a soft green glow. Its arm shot forward, talons dug into her throat, and her scream choked off abruptly as her windpipe collapsed between the clenching fingers. Her eyes bugged. Blood and saliva frothed from her mouth.

  Joe appeared in time to see her struggling with the creature. “No!” he shouted, scrambling to aim his pistol.

  The creature yanked out her crushed larynx like a man tearing a pit from a peach. Singer’s legs drummed the floor of the tunnel.

  “No!”

  The beast dropped her and shrieked at Joe. He squeezed off a shot, scoring a direct hit between its eyes, and it collapsed on top of her. Risking a look back, Joe saw another pair of eyes bobbing through the darkness toward him.

  When it was within a few paces of him, it suddenly stumbled, feet tangling in the compound bow, which had been left on the tunnel floor. Joe blasted the snarling beast, using his last bullet. There was a thunderous explosion as the Colt’s muzzle flash lit the tunnel to bright white for a millisecond. The creature screeched, clawed hands flying to its face, and then it hit the dirt.

  Joe had a sudden inspiration. Scuttling on his hands and knees, he approached the creature and untangled the bow from its feet. Then he turned and crawled to Singer’s body. Pushing the dead chupacabra off of her, he rolled her over and grabbed the quiver of arrows still strapped across her back. Only two remained—but one had a stick of dynamite strapped to it.

  Screeching renewed in the tunnel behind him. Joe quickly grabbed up both arrows, clambered over the ranger’s corpse, and headed for the distant patch of light that signified an opening in the tunnel. He rushed toward it and then popped his head up and looked around. He was in D wing. Perfect. It was the wing nearest the gymnasium.

  He tossed the bow and the arrows up, and then hauled himself from the hole in the floor. No time to waste. Most of the creatures were still in the gym. He grabbed up the bow in one hand, stuffed the arrows in the back pockets of his pants, and dashed to the classroom door. He peered out into the darkened corridor. It was clear.

  Boots clomping on the tiles, he sprinted toward the front doors—which suddenly flew open and admitted a single growling chupacabra.

  “Shit!” Joe skidded to a stop. The creature saw him and let out a shriek. Joe groped for the arrows, first grabbing the one with the dynamite, then dropping it at his feet, desperately trying to remove the other one from his pocket. He tried to ignore the on-rushing horror as he concentrated on getting the arrow seated on the drawstring.

  The beast barreled toward him, using its tail and powerful legs to push itself in great springing leaps. The hallway was not long. The creature was nearly on top of him.

  Cursing in frustration, Joe dropped the bow and tried to duck as the creature sailed through the air and tackled him, crushing him to the floor with such force that Joe thought his spine would shatter as it slammed on the linoleum. He woofed as the air rushed from his lungs.

  The hissing creature was on top of him, and its snarling, spitting face darted toward his neck. Joe rolled with the thrashing beast, keeping it at bay with his forearm pressed to its throat. Snapping teeth clicked in front of his face, inches from his nose, and its spiked tail flailed over its shoulder, trying to stab him. The stinger whizzed past his ear. He cried out like a madman, a yell of pure jungle savagery, and with full force plunged the arrow he still gripped in his hand deep into the creature’s eye. He kept pushing until he felt the arrowhead sink into the brain, a gushy, popping sensation, like stabbing the yolk of an egg.

  The beast squawked and rolled off of him. A thick jet of fluid spurted out from the punctured eye. The chupacabra shivered, jerked spasmodically, and then went limp.

  Chest heaving, gasping for air, Joe clawed his way to his feet. He snatched the arrowhead with the dynamite. Pausing to catch one last painful breath, he patted his pockets for the Zippo.

  “You can do this,” he told himself. “You are motherfuckin’ Robin Hood.”

  He snapped open the Zippo with shaking hands and touched the flame to the fuse. It sputtered and ignited. He had thirty seconds. He seated the arrow on the string, took a deep breath, and pushed through the doors, heading outside.

  The gymnasium loomed not more than a hundred yards to his right. He saw the gaping front doors and movement from inside the cavernous building. He knew that not all of the creatures were in there—but enough were inside to make what he was about to do worth it—even if the blast killed him.

  He ran to the central courtyard, pivoted, aimed the arrow at the gymnasium entrance, and released. He turned and ran as soon as the arrow left the string, not even watching as it sailed straight and true through the front doors and disappeared into the depths of the crowded gym.

  Joe hit the doors to D wing and hurled himself inside. He was still charging down the hall, moving toward the dubious safety of the rooms nestled deeper inside the building, when the entire structure came apart around him. The plywood covering the windows blew to splinters, sending
glass and wooden shards everywhere, and a roaring sound like a tidal wave filled his ears. The last thing he felt was intense heat scalding the side of his face, and then the roof and walls of the D wing collapsed on top of him.

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  Chapter 14

  Joe opened one eye and groaned. Every inch of his body hurt. He felt like he’d been sewn into a sack and beaten with broom handles. His head throbbed, his ears rang, and his tongue was thick, crusty, and dry in his mouth. One of his eyes was swollen shut. He felt himself being carried, and glanced toward his feet to see that he was covered in a blanket and strapped to a travois made of cottonwood poles. He craned his neck and saw Karl Colgate and Eric Johnson dragging the handles of the travois.

  “Hey,” he croaked. His voice was like hot wind whispering through dry grass.

  Colgate turned his head and smiled. “Well, look who’s awake.”

  He gestured to Johnson and they stopped, set the travois down, and turned to squat on their heels in front of Joe. They were joined by Duke and Panocha, who crowded up to him and licked his face. He saw Lupita, her face a mass of bruises, standing to the side with a pained smile on her lips and her arm in a sling.

  “Where are we?”

  “On the road to the Interstate,” Colgate told him.

  “How did you find me?”

  Colgate pointed to the dogs. “Duke and Panocha here. After the fire died down—and that took awhile, let me tell you—they sniffed through the wreckage for you, wouldn’t leave until they found you.”

  “I feel awful.”

  “It’s a miracle you survived the blast. You blew that building all to hell, buddy. There’s a freakin’ crater where it used to be. The fire burned all night. Like I said, it’s a miracle you’re still alive.”

  “The chupacabras?”

  “Wiped out.”

  “Good.” Joe’s eye searched the ring of faces around him. “Where’s Ramón?”

  Colgate shook his head and sighed. “We were kind of hoping you could tell us what happened to him. The last time we saw him, he was with you.”

  Joe told them what Ramón had done, of how he had gallantly declined to ride on the horse when the chupacabras had suddenly appeared. As he explained, the distant noise of a sputtering engine drew their attention to a figure sitting atop a riding lawnmower, slowly approaching from the direction of town.

  As it drew closer, Lupita squinted, shielding her eyes with her good hand. “Speak of the Devil. It’s Ramón.”

  He threw them a stiff salute as he killed the engine, climbed painfully off the mower, and limped toward them. A pungent smell drifted from him. Lupita had been about to hug him, but now she stopped and backed off with her hand to her nose.

  “You smell—”

  “Like shit,” Ramón finished her sentence. “I know I smell bad because I had to jump into the shit pond at that farm to escape the chupacabras chasing me.”

  “How did that work?” Joe asked incredulously.

  “I just leapt in and held my breath,” Ramón explained. “The chupacabras were so keyed up that as soon as they lost my scent they took off after you and the ranger. But I had the damndest time getting out of that shit pond.”

  He indicated his leg. From knee to ankle it was scraped raw and bloody, and wrapped in a dirty bandage made from rags.

  “There is a huge pump under the surface of all that shit—” Ramón explained, “—and I hit it when I jumped in and fucked up my knee. I finally managed to drag myself to the farmhouse and hide. It took me forever to find this riding mower.” Ramón looked around. “What happened to Ranger Singer?”

  Joe shook his head. “She didn’t make it.”

  Ramón scrutinized Joe’s battered face. “You look like you just barely made it yourself.”

  “It was close,” Joe admitted. “It was real close.”

  “You’ll have to tell me all about it,” Colgate put in. “I am going to have one hell of a story to write.”

  “Do you think anyone will believe it?” asked Ramón.

  “I’ve got proof.” Colgate beamed. He held up his little camera. “Somehow, I managed to hang on to this.” He waved the camera around like a pennant at a pep rally.

  “With these pictures, they’ll have to believe me.” He tucked the camera in the pocket of his filthy jacket and adjusted his hat. “I am finally going to win the Pulitzer Prize.”

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  Footnote: All 278 citizens of Dadeville, Florida who were killed by chupacabras during the night of August 13th, 2008 were officially listed as casualties of the tropical storm.

  Karl Colgate’s written account, “The Siege of Dadeville,” was suppressed, his photographs confiscated, and his employment for the Daily Sentinel terminated.

  About the Author

  Poet, novelist, singer, actor, former prisoner, and underground cult figure, Raegan Butcher’s first collection of poetry, End of the World Graffiti, was published in 1991. In 1994, he appeared in the Seattle indie film The Year of My Japanese Cousin. Two years later he was convicted of armed robbery and spent seven years in prison, during which time he composed the poems that would appear in his next highly regarded book of poetry, Stone Hotel, published in 2003. Two years later, while living in Cuernavaca, Mexico, he produced another book of poetry titled Rusty String Quartet. He is also the author of the sci-fi horror novels Siege of Station 19 (Necro 2014) and Chupacabra Chronicles (Thunderstorm 2014). This year will see the release of a new book of poems, Brawl at the Poets Cafe (Binary 2016) as well as Fury of the Chupacabras (Necro 2016) and Revolt of the Chupacabras (Necro 2016). He lives in the Pacific Northwest with three ferrets, two dogs, and a cat who enjoys waking him at three in the morning.