Hell's Gate(24)

Chupacabra? MacCready remembered the name from his run-in with the machete crew that morning. “Any chance we could we be talking about Japs here, or Krauts? Whatever *s brought in that sub?”

Thorne shook his head. “Not possible. According to local legend, these chupacabra are night demons—now busy killing livestock and scaring the Xavante out of the bush. And whatever these things are, they are not Japs or Krauts. Apparently, though, they do not take lightly to people squattin’ in their backyard—which, if you have not noticed, is exactly where we squat.”

“So what’s your take on all this?”

“No soap, Mac. But for what it is worth—and that has always been a lot—Yanni says these locals are on the right track.”

“Not for nothing, Bob, but I think Yanni’s on the right track, too.”

“How so?”

MacCready described his “stroll” through the dead village, and the condition of the bodies he’d seen there. He left out the part about the shriek that had driven him away in a near panic, keeping that to himself for no reason that he could consciously explain.

“Sounds like we could be looking at the same killers,” Mac said. After pausing for a moment, he added, “The day isn’t getting any younger. Let’s go take a look at these dead animals.”

Thorne held his unlit cigarette, unable to hide his disappointment. “Now personally, I am thinking more along the lines of munchin’ mangoes and weightin’ down those hammocks over there—you know, so they do not fly off their hooks and all. But if you would prefer to look at dead animals . . .”

MacCready nodded.

Bob Thorne grimaced.


After breakfast, Thorne led his friend across town. MacCready kept alert for a reappearance of his welcoming party, but except for a few dismal-looking dogs, the streets were nearly deserted.

“Probably inside, sharpenin’ their machetes,” Thorne mentioned, cheerfully.

“Swell,” MacCready mumbled.

Thorne stopped in front of a rough-hewn stall, connected to a simple wooden home that appeared to have been recently abandoned. The buzzing of flies reached the men just before the sour smell of spoiling meat.

“This happened last night?” MacCready asked.

Thorne nodded, holding his nose. “It is the main reason you got such a warm reception this morning.”

Mac swatted at the air as he stepped through the doorway of the stall. “Well, this is getting good already,” he said.

“Huh?”

“Flies. I am really starting to hate flies.”

“Well, we are lousy with flies—mangoes we got, too—but somebody wanted to see dead animals.”

Before MacCready could protest, Thorne waved him off. “Yeah, I know, I know . . . the mission. Although I see no connection between strange thunder and this shit.”

Thorne shook his head, still holding his nose, before following his friend into the stable.

A blackened crust of slowly drying and coagulating blood covered the dirt floor. In the center of the gore lay a dead donkey, on its side, mouth open. As MacCready approached, a cloud of flies emerged from the gaping mouth.

Even the zoologist had to turn away, and as he did he saw the body of a dog—a big one—something like a German shepherd. Like the donkey, its eyes were wide open, the white scleras barely visible behind a black film. Both animals were cemented to the ground by what appeared to be buckets of blood. And what hadn’t spilled on the floor had been sprayed across the nearby walls.

“Do you smell that?” MacCready said.

“Of course I smell that. And I am less than envious of the guy who cleans up this horror show,” Thorne said.

“No, Bob . . . something else. I’m smelling something more . . . flowery.”

“Flowery? I am smelling something more . . . shitty.”

Mac ignored his friend, instead kneeling to examine the dirt at the edge of a tarry-looking blood pool. “These scratches—there’s something very odd here.”

“Now that is a relief, Mac, because I am just thinking about how normal all of this is.”

“Look at these,” the zoologist said, pointing at a spot on the floor. “They’re animal prints—very strange animal prints.”

Thorne squinted, peering at the seemingly random scratches in the dirt floor. Mac continued. “See how they’re squared off perpendicular to the puddle. It’s almost like—”

“—like animals gatherin’ round a watering hole,” Thorne finished for him.

“Just what I was thinking.”

“But there is no animal that feeds like this, correct?”

“Right. Except this one does—and there’s more than one of them.”

Then MacCready did something that even his friend didn’t expect. He waded into the dark paste and squatted down next to the dead donkey. “A blunt probe would be helpful,” he said, with an actual hint of hope in his voice.

“Yeah, well, unfortunately, my dissection kit was traded some time ago . . . for some, ah . . . research material,” Thorne said.

“Then get me something pointy. I need to get a better look at this.”

After leaving the stall for about thirty seconds, Thorne returned—proudly holding out the six-inch twig he’d managed to scrounge up. “Ta-da!”