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rememberthe4th · 7 years

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Tales of the Hunt- “Vampire-Beast”

The Hunter turned the desiccated pet over, carefully inspecting the small slits cut by needle-like incisors in several places along its neck. Deep cuts along the face and shoulder tell of its predator’s hooked claws which pinned the poor pet to the dirt as the beast fed.

The pet under inspection was called “Scoob,” and before his murder Scoob was a happy and healthy Great-Dane of seven years, beloved by his owner: Bill Tuckett. Bill had been warned of something lurking around the area after his neighbor’s sheep had started disappearing. Bill had seen what happens to livestock when foreign predators migrate through, as he’d lost many a goat to passing mountain-lions or panthers, so he kept his chickens in their coop and the goats sheltered when the sun started hanging low. He was certain Scoob would be able to handle himself and the rest should anything threaten their peaceful little farm.

When Bill found Scoob dead and drained there on his front-porch, he knew this wasn’t any ordinary beast-of-the-wild. As with most of the clients the Woodsmen aid, he made a few right/lucky phone-calls, and soon found the old Hunter waiting at his doorstep. The Clan had been hunting the remnants of a Mayan-era plague, and Bill’s assault perfectly fit the bill.

The why of the beasts’ origin has been lost to the ages, but it was unmistakably unleashed as an act of war. Bearing every sign of Unholy birth, the beasts preyed on the livestock and young of enemy villages, at-first. Like most of the curses and unnatural means the natives used against one-another their influence remained long after the grudge-holders had been put to rest.

It seems the beasts were either unable to reproduce, or choose to remain of a small-pack-size as their presence hadn’t expanded as rapidly as one might expect. The Woodsmen believed this to be a display of intellect: as a smaller pack requires less food; less food less evidence. Members within both ends of the North American continent had encountered one or two of these creatures across the ages, though no encounter had yet to yield any productive-information.

Called the ‘chupacabra’ in the south, and the ‘vampire-beast’ a little further-north; it was a lanky-four-legged creature of mammal-nature, and resembling a canine. The beast was notorious for attacking small animals of any kind, and leaving a blood-drained husk in their wake. This signature-style of feeding is what first drew the masses’ eye towards the beasts, and spurred the Woodsmen to finish their task; regardless of how slippery their prey had been.

So, when a back-country farmer a few miles from the Sovereign State of Texas’ growing borders cried ‘wolf,’ the Woodsmen Clan was ready to see this scourge at last extinct. While operatives combed the surrounding farms and forests, they summoned the Old Hunter himself to answer the call.

Bill watched the strange-man, who had to be at-least in his sixties or seventies by his white-hair and tired-eyes, as he delicately probed Scoob for answers. The heart-broken farmer had to focus on the stranger, with his black-fur poncho that concealed rattling-tools which chimed when he first knelt beside the dog. He knew by this stranger’s very presence that his call had summoned someone several-steps-above the local law-enforcement; and he did his best to let the man do his work; sticking around to answer any questions. The stranger didn’t ask any.

When the Old Hunter was certain, he left Bill and Scoob for only a moment to make the confirmation. After what had to be the shortest business-related call Bill had ever witnessed, the Hunter returned with an apology, and a small black-envelope produced from the dark-abyss under that poncho. He told Bill that the amount inside should be sufficient to cover his losses and ensure any-further cooperation. Bill eagerly opened the envelope; hardly hearing the stranger’s boots leave his porch. When he looked up to search the man for any sign that this wasn’t real, he found himself alone with his dead-dog and one hell-of-a-check. Leaving Scoob to sleep under the warming-Southern-sun, Bill went inside to ponder where he would even cash the damn-thing.

Flattened-grass and a small-trail of blood showed the Hunter where Scoob had been found, his impression-still clear in the unwashed ground. The aging-guard dog had been sleeping on the job when he was ambushed, the weight of the beast pinning where he laid as it went to work. The poor dog’s impressive-jaws and claws couldn’t save him; such little signs of struggle. The beast was tidy to say the least, but there was enough to started. The Hunt was on.

While the other Woodsmen set-up perimeter cameras and ensured Bill’s farm was the only with exposed livestock over those next-few-nights, the Hunter carefully led a few kids out into the pasture. Out of sight and out of scent, he hid among the dense branches of a nearby shade-tree. Bill corralled the rest as the sunset, leaving their trio alone to face the night. The two young-goats cried in the darkness, afraid of anything and everything which they could not see. The Old Hunter was silent.

The rustle of the passing-breeze spooked the twins, and for the first time since the sun had set, their cries were not met with the hungry-howls of the wild. The Old Hunter blinked several-times, hard; as if to wake himself. He slowly leaned off of the tree’s heart, careful not to stress the branches beneath him. The two had huddled close together; facing in either direction, but the soft-green patches of grass around them were still. As he watched, they nervously craned their heads from side-to-side, ears twisting in hopes to catch a sneaking predator’s slip. The night’s breeze rolled through once more, but the wind was all that moved.

A sound, not near the kids or out in the pasture, but closer to the farmhouse. The Old Hunter heard it just as clearly as the twins, but he didn’t share their scream. He shifted onto his legs, poking his head through a different patch of leaves for a better view. The silence was anxious, and fear was rife in the air. He’d prepared to leap down, now-longer cautious to the ruckus he caused. He would accept losing the beast if he could save the farm.

The kids cried again, as they’d long forgot about the Hunter’s whereabouts. He lept at their sound, but another scream was already echoing from across the pastures’ fence. The scream turned to gruff-shouts as dark-shadows started to dance by the barn. The Hunter was about to leap the steel-gate when a blossom of orange-and-red flames sent a bullet whizzing into the night-sky. The whip-crack of the pistol tore through the air, and the instant after the night burst into life: birds took flight from nearby-branches, the barn-animals cried out-in shock, and the rustling of small-paws. The fight had ended.

The Old Hunter ran to the barn’s small awning, and found himself face-to-face with the beast. As tales had told, it stood on long and skinny legs, the front legs buckling mid-way; allowing its slender tongue to feed. It lifted its narrow-head when the Hunter’s shadow fell over it, Bill’s blood still dripping from that freakishly-long tongue. Bill’ head was turned towards the back of the barn, but the deep-grooves those hooked-claws left could still be seen underneath its front-paws. Like a carpenter afraid of having the tape-measure rap his knuckles, the beast slowly retracted it tongue while peeling back its lips to display those razor-like canines. He watched as it started to hunker-down, building-up the strength to pounce.

The Hunter rolled his shoulders back, and even in his shadow that black-poncho distorted his dimensions. He took a sudden and sharp step towards the beast, and it snapped backwards quicker than he’d imagined. Bill lurched as those hooks tore free from his chest and face, but was stayed still after. The beast was not going to give any more ground; its face low and rear-legs poised like pistons to launch those four-pincher-like fangs straight at his neck.

The two stayed frozen like that for almost a minute, the Hunter unblinking and the beast giving a low hiss-like snarl. The collision of fur-covered-ribs and the barn’s inside-wall, some dismayed goat bumping it he assumed; caused the beast to flinch.

Two-bolts, fired in almost-utter-silence, flew out from under the Hunter’s poncho, one pinning the beast’s front-legs to the dirt, and the second sinking deep into its left-shoulder. Felled, but not slain, it cackled as he approached. The sound was sharp with despair, and, if it could feel it, hatred. The beast gnawed at the troublesome steel-rods which protruded from its skin before giving him another warning-bark.

The Hunter took aim once-more. The beast lowered its head in defeat, but he held the killing-blow. He kept his crossbow centered on its cowering-skull, slowly turning his head to the slight-sound of scurrying behind him. The beast cackled again, but the Hunter was quick to make it the last.

When the beast’s mocking-cry died mid-sound, that scurrying turned to a heated-dash. The Hunter was quick to pivot, but the silenced-steps warned him he was already mid-ambush.

The first flew well past the Old Hunter, but, as he watched the blur of deep-brown pass him, the second caught two claw-fulls of poncho. Like being hit by a fifty-pound cannon-ball; the Hunter was hopeless to keep his footing, and the two tumbled backwards into the innocent lawncare-equipment. This clever-beast ended-up on-top, but after the second-volley of steel-bolts pierced its gut, it rolled-off easily enough. As it curled into a whimpering ball, the Hunter rolled to safety; seeking out its partner-in-crime.

The first and third beasts were gone, and Bill offered no insight as to where they’d fled to. The Old Hunter slowly rose to his feet; not from caution, but an inability to achieve any greater-speed. He slit the throat of his whining-captive before stowing it into a plastic-bag.

After retrieving the two young-goats he’d used as bait and returning them to their now homeless-family, the Hunter made a few last phone-calls; each ending without an apology. He took his kill, and left the farm without turning-back. The Old Hunter rarely dwelt on failures those days.

#writing #short story

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