The Adventures of Captain Hedges Blog

 

The Best American Cryptid Hunter: Part 4 -

The Rabid Revelation

The sterile environment of the Arizona containment base was a stark contrast to the blood and dust of the Nogales hunt. We were immediately separated and subjected to a battery of medical tests. My arm, where the Chupacabra had sunk its teeth, was cleaned and bandaged, but the medical personnel were more concerned with what might have been transmitted.

Days crawled by in the quiet isolation of our individual quarantine rooms. The only contact was through masked figures in biohazard suits who came to draw blood and run more tests. The air hung thick with antiseptic and an unspoken tension. We knew the risks of dealing with the unknown, but the raw, animalistic fury of the Chupacabra pack had been unsettling.

Then came the report. Smith appeared on a monitor in my room, his usual stoic expression betraying a hint of… surprise?

“Captain Hedges,” he began, his voice crisp and clinical. “The preliminary DNA analysis of the Chupacabra remains has come back… unexpected.”

He displayed a series of genetic sequences on the screen. “The primary components are consistent with Canis lupus baileyi – the Mexican wolf. There’s also a significant portion of Canis latrans – coyote. However,” he paused, his eyes flicking back to the data, “there’s a dominant, and rather out-of-place, signature of Canis familiaris – specifically, Greyhound.”

I frowned, trying to reconcile the vicious, spined creatures we’d fought with the sleek speed of a Greyhound. “Greyhound? How is that possible?”

Smith shrugged, a rare display of uncertainty. “We don’t know. The Greyhound DNA is prevalent enough to suggest it’s not just contamination. It might explain their unusual agility and speed.”

He then displayed another set of images – microscopic views of skin samples. “Furthermore, the creatures were suffering from a severe case of sarcoptic mange. The extensive hair loss, the thickened and irritated skin… it all points to a prolonged and debilitating infestation.”

The pieces started to click into place. The hairless, leathery hides. The speed. The ferocity, perhaps driven by pain and desperation. But the Greyhound DNA remained a baffling anomaly.

“And the blood draining?” I asked, recalling the exsanguinated livestock.

Smith nodded grimly. “That brings us to the next unpleasant discovery. The Chupacabra pack was riddled with rabies. The aggressive behavior, the foaming at the mouth we observed in some… it’s all consistent.”

A cold dread washed over me. The bite on my arm. The creature’s rabid snarl.

“Which brings us to you, Captain,” Smith continued, his gaze direct. “Given the high probability of rabies transmission, we’ve had to administer a full course of post-exposure prophylaxis. That included a series of rabies immunoglobulin shots directly into the wound site – rabbit shoots, as you might know them.”

I winced, the memory of the multiple, painful injections into my already injured arm resurfacing. Rabbit shoots. A brutal but necessary precaution against a fatal disease.

The following six months were a blur of sterile routines and anxious waiting. We were all quarantined, the rest of the team having had close contact with the infected creatures. Regular testing confirmed our prophylactic treatment was effective, but the fear of the virus taking hold lingered. We spent our days in isolation, replaying the chaotic fight in our minds, the glowing red eyes and snapping jaws a constant, unwelcome guest.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the all-clear came. Smith appeared on our monitors one last time, his expression as inscrutable as ever.

“The quarantine is lifted. You are all cleared for duty.”

There was no fanfare, no congratulations. Just a cold, clinical release back into the world of the unknown. We were debriefed on the Chupacabra findings – the strange genetic cocktail, the debilitating mange, the deadly rabies. The official explanation would likely remain buried within the classified files of this secret base.

As we were prepped for our next mission, a familiar mix of apprehension and grim determination settled over me. Six months of forced inactivity had sharpened my focus. The world beyond these hidden walls was still teeming with creatures that defied explanation, and Captain Hedges was ready to hunt once more. Whatever nightmare lurked next in the shadows, we would face it, armed with our experience and the unsettling knowledge that sometimes, the most monstrous things wore the guise of the familiar.

The medical team, clad in their sterile suits, had been thorough, almost unnervingly so. The rabbit shots for rabies were expected, a brutal necessity. But there had been another injection, administered with the same detached efficiency, a clear, viscous fluid that left a strange warmth spreading through my veins.

Over the following weeks of quarantine, the effects became undeniable. It wasn't just the relief of knowing the rabies hadn't taken hold. It was something more… profound. My muscles felt denser, coiled with a newfound strength that surpassed my already considerable peak. During the monotonous exercises they allowed, I moved with a speed and power I hadn't possessed before.

But the most startling change was to my senses. Sounds that were once background noise now registered with crystal clarity. I could hear the faint whirring of ventilation systems several rooms away, the almost imperceptible scuff of a guard’s boots in the corridor. My sense of smell had become equally acute. The faint antiseptic of the room, the metallic tang of the ventilation, even the subtle differences in the cleaning solutions used in adjacent areas were distinct and discernible.

The implications hit me with a jolt. I could track by scent now, a primal ability I’d only read about in survival manuals. The faintest trace, the lingering musk of a creature – it was as if a new layer of the world had been unveiled to me.

During one of the infrequent check-ups, I’d asked one of the medics about the additional injection. His response was a clipped, “Standard post-exposure protocol, Captain. Nothing to be concerned about.” His evasiveness only fueled my suspicion.

Lying in the sterile quiet of my quarantine room, I’d run through the possibilities. Some kind of experimental antibody treatment? A counter-agent designed for unforeseen biological hazards? Or something… else? Something that went beyond mere protection.

The усиление – the amplification – of my strength and senses was too significant to be a mere side effect. It felt deliberate, targeted. Had Smith and his shadowy organization seen the Chupacabra encounter as an opportunity? A test, perhaps, for something more?

The question gnawed at me. What had they injected me with? What were the long-term consequences? Was I still entirely myself?

As the quarantine lifted and the prospect of another hunt loomed, the enhanced senses were both a thrilling advantage and a source of unease. I was a better hunter now, capable of tracking in ways I’d never imagined. But the price of that enhancement, the unknown substance coursing through my veins, was a mystery that lingered, a silent question mark hanging over my future in the strange and dangerous world of cryptid hunting. I probably would never know the truth of that second injection, but one thing was certain: it had changed me. And as I stepped back into the shadows, I carried that change with me, a potent and unsettling secret.

he lingering strangeness within me was a constant hum beneath the surface of my awareness. The amplified senses, the newfound strength – it was a potent cocktail, but one I hadn't asked for and didn't fully understand. The official line from the containment base was vague, "standard protocol," but I knew better. Something had changed within me, fundamentally.

I couldn't shake the feeling that I wasn't entirely myself anymore. The world was too sharp, too loud, too… scented. It was overwhelming at times, and the thought of heading back into the field, relying on these altered senses against the unknown, felt reckless. I needed clarity, a sense of grounding.

So, I played the card. I told Smith, with a convincing cough and a suitably wan expression, that I still felt… off. The lingering effects of the Chupacabra encounter, I suggested, were more persistent than initially thought. To my surprise, Smith, ever pragmatic, didn't push back. Perhaps he saw the value in a fully functioning asset. He granted the entire team a three-week leave.

While Gary likely headed straight for the nearest bar, and Jack probably retreated to some quiet corner to brood, I had a different destination in mind. My grandfather, a gruff but deeply spiritual man, had maintained a lifelong friendship with an Apache medicine man, a man named Kai. I hadn't seen Kai in years, not since my grandfather's passing, but I remembered his quiet wisdom, his connection to the ancient ways of the land.

I drove for hours, the familiar Arizona landscape a stark contrast to the hidden, sterile base. Finally, I reached Kai’s small, unassuming dwelling nestled in the heart of the reservation. He greeted me with a knowing smile, his eyes, though aged, holding a sharp, perceptive light. He didn't ask what troubled me; he seemed to already know.

After a simple meal and quiet conversation about my grandfather, I finally voiced my unease, the strange changes I was experiencing. Kai listened patiently, his gaze steady. When I was finished, he nodded slowly.

“The white coats,” he said, his voice low and resonant, “they tamper with things they do not understand. They seek power, but they disrupt the balance.”

He explained that what I was feeling was more than just a physical change. It was a disruption of my spirit, a foreign energy intertwined with my own. To truly understand and integrate it, I needed to embark on a spiritual journey, a cleansing of the soul.

Over the next few weeks, under Kai’s guidance, I delved into the ancient Apache traditions. I participated in sweat lodge ceremonies, the intense heat purging not just my body but, I hoped, the lingering effects of the unknown injection. I fasted, spending days in quiet contemplation in the vast, silent landscapes, seeking a connection to the earth and its rhythms. Kai taught me breathing exercises and meditation techniques to help control the heightened senses, to filter the overwhelming influx of information.

He spoke of balance, of the interconnectedness of all things, of the spirits that dwelled in the land. He didn't offer a scientific explanation for what had been done to me, but he offered something deeper: a way to find peace and understanding within myself.

The journey was arduous, both physically and emotionally. There were moments of intense discomfort, of feeling the alien energy within me resisting the cleansing. But slowly, gradually, a sense of clarity began to emerge. The amplified senses, while still present, felt less overwhelming, more like an extension of myself rather than an intrusion. The newfound strength felt more integrated, less like a foreign power.

As my three weeks drew to a close, I felt a shift within me. The unease hadn't completely vanished, the mystery of the injection still lingered, but I felt more grounded, more centered. Kai had helped me begin to reconcile the changes, to view them not as a corruption, but as a new aspect of myself that needed to be understood and controlled.

I thanked Kai for his wisdom and guidance, a profound sense of gratitude filling me. As I drove back towards whatever awaited Task Force Compass Nova Hunter, I knew the journey wasn't over. The hunt for the unknown continued, but now, I carried within me not just the skills of a soldier, but the quiet strength and spiritual grounding offered by an old Apache medicine man. I was changed, yes, but perhaps, in some strange way, I was also more myself.

The familiar red dust of the reservation clung to my rental car as I drove away from Kai’s dwelling, a sense of quiet resolve settling within me. The spiritual journey had been more profound than I could have anticipated, a much-needed balm for a soul rattled by the unseen world we now inhabited.

As I passed the small community center, a figure caught my eye. Leaning against a weathered pickup truck, his posture radiating a quiet intensity, was a face that sparked a long-dormant memory. Billy. Billy Two Trees. We’d run wild together as kids on the outskirts of the reservation, our adventures fueled by youthful curiosity and the tall tales spun by our grandfathers.

He’d grown, of course. The lean frame of our childhood had filled out with the hard-earned muscle of a warrior. His gaze, the same sharp intensity I remembered, held a new depth, a quiet confidence that spoke of experience far beyond the dusty reservation roads.

“Billy?” I called out, pulling over.

His head turned, a flicker of recognition in his dark eyes before a slow smile spread across his face. “Hedges? Is that really you? Last I heard, you were off chasing shadows somewhere.”

We exchanged a brief, heartfelt greeting, the years melting away in the shared history of our youth. He told me he’d just returned to the reservation after two decades in the service. Twenty years. A lifetime. And the last ten? He’d earned the trident. A Navy SEAL. My childhood friend, a silent, deadly warrior forged in the crucible of some of the world’s most demanding battlefields.

As we talked, a thought began to form, a strategic spark ignited by the memory of our near-fatal encounter with the Chupacabra pack. We were a team of hard hitters, seasoned operators, but we lacked finesse in unfamiliar terrain, a dedicated eye for the subtle signs, a guide who truly understood the land. We needed a scout, someone who could move like a ghost, read the environment, and keep us out of the kind of blind alleys that had nearly cost me an arm – and potentially our lives.

The idea felt right, a gut feeling honed by years of survival. Billy knew this land, its secrets, its rhythms. His SEAL training would have only amplified those natural instincts.

“Billy,” I said, cutting through our reminiscing, “I’m involved in something… unusual. A team that hunts things most people don’t believe exist. We’re good, but we’re missing something. We need a scout, someone who can move unseen, read the land, keep us out of trouble.”

I watched his reaction carefully. There was a flicker of intrigue in his eyes, a hint of the old adventurous spirit I remembered. He listened intently as I gave him a brief, carefully worded overview of Task Force Compass Nova Hunter, omitting the truly outlandish details but emphasizing the need for someone with his unique skillset.

When I finished, he was silent for a long moment, his gaze drifting towards the horizon. Then, he turned back to me, a wry smile playing on his lips.

“Chasing shadows, huh? Sounds… interesting. After twenty years of following orders, maybe it’s time I chose my own battles. And keeping you out of trouble, Hedges? That’s a mission I might actually enjoy.”

A wave of relief washed over me. Billy was in. We had our scout.

The drive back to the hidden base felt different this time. The weight of the unknown injection still lingered, but now it was balanced by a sense of renewed purpose and the quiet confidence that came with having an old friend, a proven warrior, watching our backs. We had a team. We had a home, however secret and strange it might be. And as the Arizona landscape blurred past the windows, I knew our next hunt, whatever it might be, would be approached with a new level of preparedness. The tangled mess of the Chupacabra incident wouldn't be repeated. We had Billy now, and that changed everything.