The Best American Cryptid Hunter: Part 3 - Blood and Dust South of the Border
The legendary Chupacabra.
For years, it had been relegated to folklore, a boogeyman used to explain strange livestock deaths. But the reports filtering in were too consistent, too visceral to ignore. Mutilated goats and chickens, drained of blood with surgical precision, were turning up with increasing frequency. The locals were living in fear, their livelihoods threatened, their nights filled with the chilling howls of something unknown.
Smith’s briefing was short and to the point. “Multiple independent reports of Chupacabra activity south of Nogales. Classic signs: exsanguinated livestock, puncture wounds. Witnesses describe a bipedal creature, reptilian or canine-like, with spines or quills along its back. Go in, confirm, and eliminate the threat. This close to the border, we need to be discreet. No cantonment units parading around.”
The Arizona heat was a different beast altogether compared to the dry chill of the Mooglon Rim. It beat down relentlessly as we moved through the scrubland, the air thick with the scent of creosote and dust. Charlie, surprisingly, had encountered Chupacabra rumors during his time in Brazil, though he’d dismissed them as exaggerated tales. Now, the unease in his eyes was palpable.
Tracking was difficult in the arid terrain, but the recent attacks provided a grim trail. We found carcasses, their blood completely drained, bearing the tell-tale puncture marks. The tracks, when we could find them in the hard-baked earth, were a disturbing mix of bipedal and quadrupedal prints, ending in sharp, clawed toes.
As dusk painted the sky in shades of orange and purple, we located a small, abandoned ranch that had been the site of the most recent attacks. The air hung heavy with the stench of death. We set up a perimeter, our senses on high alert. The Chupacabra, if the legends were true, was a nocturnal predator.
The night was eerily silent, the usual desert sounds muted. Then, a rustling in the nearby brush. Gary’s thermal flickered, picking up multiple small, fast-moving heat signatures.
“Multiple contacts,” he whispered, his hand tightening on his M4. “Closing fast.”
They erupted from the shadows with surprising speed – a pack of them. Lean, vicious creatures, their eyes glowing red in the beam of our lights. They were bipedal, with tough, leathery hides and sharp spines running down their backs. Their snouts were elongated, filled with needle-like teeth. They were smaller than I’d imagined, but their numbers were alarming.
The air filled with the crackle of gunfire. We cut down the first few that charged, but they were agile and relentless. Suddenly, one of them broke from the main group, leaping out of the shadows directly at me. I reacted instantly, raising my Glock 19 and firing. The round hit it squarely in the chest, and it dropped with a choked snarl.
But before I could reacquire my target, another one lunged. It caught my arm in its powerful jaws, the sharp teeth tearing through my flesh. I screamed in pain, the pistol slipping from my grasp as I went down hard. The creature snarled, its hot, fetid breath on my face.
Instinct took over. My left hand went for the Bowie knife sheathed at my belt. With a desperate lunge, I drew the blade and plunged it deep into the creature’s chest, feeling the resistance as it pierced its heart. The Chupacabra spasmed, its grip on my arm loosening, before it went limp.
Through the haze of pain, I could hear the furious roar of gunfire. Gary, Jack, and Charlie were holding the line, cutting down the remaining Chupacabras. Hugo’s precise shots were taking down the larger, more aggressive individuals. I saw one, bigger and more scarred than the others – the alpha, I guessed – try to rally the pack, only to be felled by a well-placed round from Hugo’s Barrett.
The fight was brutal and fast. In the end, the desert floor was littered with the twitching bodies of thirteen Chupacabras, including the one I’d taken down with my knife. My arm throbbed, the bite a searing reminder of their ferocity.
As the dust settled and the adrenaline began to fade, we surveyed the scene, the stench of blood heavy in the night air. This wasn't folklore anymore. This was real, and it was dangerous. We had dealt with the pack, but the encounter left a bitter taste, a reminder that even the smaller monsters could draw blood. Arizona had its own brand of nightmares, and we were just beginning to scratch the surface. Before we even had time to properly bandage my arm, I knew Smith would have another mission waiting. The world, it seemed, was full of things that went bump in the night, and Task Force Compass Nova Hunter was the exterminator.
The familiar thrum of rotors filled the desert air once more. This time, it was a sleek, unmarked helicopter, devoid of any identifying insignia, that descended onto the blood-soaked ground. The same sterile-suited containment team from Canada emerged, their movements efficient and silent as they began the grim task of collecting the Chupacabra remains.
They worked quickly, bagging and tagging each creature, their expressions unreadable behind their masks. The alpha male, larger and more scarred, received extra attention, carefully placed in a separate, reinforced container. My bitten arm throbbed, a constant reminder of their viciousness as I watched the cleanup operation.
Once the last of the Chupacabras was secured, one of the containment team members gave Smith, who had appeared via video link on a tablet one of them carried, a silent thumbs-up. Smith’s face remained impassive.
“Alright, Captain Hedges,” his voice crackled through the tablet’s speaker. “Your ride’s here. Get aboard.”
The containment team stepped back as the helicopter’s side door slid open. We climbed inside, the interior surprisingly spacious and equipped with advanced monitoring systems. As the rotors spun faster, lifting us off the desert floor, I glanced back at the scene below – the disturbed earth, the lingering scent of blood, the sterile figures shrinking in the distance.
The helicopter banked sharply, heading northeast, away from Nogales and deeper into the vast, unforgiving Arizona landscape. The terrain below was a patchwork of rocky mountains, arid plains, and winding canyons. Hours passed in relative silence, the only sound the steady drone of the engines. I tried to get my bearings, but the route was deliberately circuitous, the landmarks unfamiliar.
Finally, as dusk began to paint the sky in hues of orange and purple, the helicopter descended towards a hidden valley nestled deep within a range of rugged mountains. Camouflaged netting and reinforced concrete structures blended seamlessly with the natural surroundings. This was it, the secret government containment base, tucked away in the heart of Arizona, a place that didn't officially exist. As we touched down on a concealed landing pad, I knew our journey into the world of the unseen was far from over. The Chupacabra was contained, but the questions, and the next hunt, were already looming.
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