Age of Blood

55

Their MP5s hung empty and useless. Blood and gore covered their masks. They were as blind as they’d been back in the New Orleans cemetery. Now, instead of being in impervious armor, they wore torn and tattered neoprene suits that had been so destroyed, they couldn’t even protect them from the cold of the water and the heat of the ’cabra blood that coated every crease and private place.

Laws figured they’d killed a dozen of the creatures, putting them down with the sheer weight of 9mm rounds poured from their MP5s. Now that they were out of ammo, it was going to get a lot harder. They could hear the other ’cabras breathing heavily, snarling, sniffing at their dead and plodding toward them.

Chupacabra were far from stupid animals. They certainly had enough brains to trick a pair of SEALs into exposing themselves. Both Laws and Holmes had found good positions. But when it had looked as if they were going to be flanked, they’d run deeper from the aqueduct system until they found a six-way junction. The moment they’d arrived, the ’cabra had been ready and waiting for them in each of the tunnels, including the one they’d just left.

They’d dealt with ’cabra before. It was a known fact that Los Zetas used them in most aspects of their business, including narcotrafficking, as they’d done in Arizona on what seemed like a thousand missions ago. In fact, chupacabra were a Zetas signature, as powerful a symbol and as prolific as the ace-of-spades cards that the 101st Airborne Division had laid all over Vietnam.

How the creatures were trained was another thing altogether. Laws had been trying to work through the problem. A man trying to be firm with a ’cabra would get his arm chewed off. But not if that man was the alpha male of a pack, a man such as Ramon—who was really only half a man. If Laws managed somehow to survive, he might run the idea past Rosencrantz and Guildenstern to see if it had any legs.

That is, if he survived. For now, all he cared about was getting through the next few minutes. He and Holmes were back-to-back, their bodies touching. They had to stay tight. They didn’t want to be separated. Together they had a chance. Apart, they were dead. If there was one thing ’cabra just loved, it was to attack from behind.

“Stay close,” he whispered.

“Like conjoined twins,” Holmes replied, his voice tight with pain.

They each held a 9mm pistol and a knife. They were not only back-to-back, but they were also elbow-to-elbow, so when one elbow went forward the other went backwards. They were a single machine, four arms, four weapons, two SEALs.

They didn’t have long to wait for the attack. First one ’cabra feinted, then another, then another. Neither Walker nor Holmes took the bait. Instead, the SEALs rotated slowly in a clockwise direction, their hands always moving, creating an impassable barrier. So when the first ’cabra leaped, it met not one but two knives, because they were moving in a circle. Laws couldn’t be sure which part of the ’cabra his knife sliced, but it was soft and blood gushed over his hand, almost making his grip too slick to hold on to the knife. He kicked out with his right foot, sending the ’cabra flying.

Then one attacked from the other side.

They had no vision, but they had hearing and they had touch. He felt a jolt from where his elbow touched Holmes, as if he’d jabbed the ’cabra through an eye.

They kept rotating.

Two attacked this time.

Each Seal brought up a knife and a gun. One stabbed, the other fired. Then the one fired and the other stabbed. Both the ’cabras fell.

They kept rotating.

This time the growls around them grew louder. Too loud, as if there were more than a dozen.

“Switch,” Holmes said, the single word said with force, command, and confidence. Enough of all three that Laws felt a little more hope as they began rotating in the opposite direction.

Then it was as if all the ’cabra attacked at once.

Like a multiarmed unconventional-warfare interpretation of the Hindu goddess Kali, they moved as one being, rotating, slashing, firing. The barks from their pistols lit up the space, but the SEALs never saw it. Their eyes were slammed shut, every ounce of concentration on their other senses. But as successful as they were, the ’cabra began to connect. A scratch here. A slice there. Holmes was bit, but killed the damned beast that did it. Laws was bit as well, missed his chance, rotated, then felt Holmes connect. They fought faster and faster and faster, until each of the SEALs was screaming, drowning the cries, whines and growls of the chupacabra.

Laws felt his arms grow tired. He felt his legs turn leaden. He felt his lungs burn. He felt his body abdicate the possibility of winning and prepare to give up. But Holmes fought on, and it was Holmes’s desire to continue that made Laws continue fighting for one more chance, one more strike. So instead of quitting, Timothy Laws went back to his California roots, drawing up every Hollywood hero he’d ever watched, channeling John Wayne, Charlton Heston, Bruce Willis, Steven Seagal, Sylvester Stallone, and a hundred more.

And they fought.

And they shouted.

And the ’cabra screamed in outrage as they died beneath the SEALs’ onslaught.