CHUPACABRA

Chapter Eighteen: The Runner

The house is just off the dirt road running parallel to the forest. The scent of human is fresh and warm, and while Forty feels the momentary fear of discovery she's quickly overcome by relief. Thirty-Seven is limp on her back, his breathing labored and loud. Forty avoids looking at him, doesn't want to see how the flesh around his eyes is red and swollen. She holds him tighter to her and vaults over the small barbed wire fence blocking the house from the forest, immediately greeted by three small creatures bounding at her feet.

"Dogs," she says, recognizing the smell. The little things jump at her legs, each one no taller than her knee. They're all different colors and hair lengths but share the same annoying bark. Forty drags her feet as she walks to avoid stepping on them.

The house is an off-white, the paint peeling and flaking off into the sparse grass near the foundation. There's a screened in porch bordered by a concrete walkway, the door enclosing it swinging lazily in the still wind. Forty props it open with her heel, adjusting Thirty-Seven on her back to pound at the door leading into the main structure. "Help!" she yells, hoping her urgency comes across to the human inside. She doesn't know how long Thirty-Seven has until he truly passes out, and she has no idea if she's even taking the proper steps. All she knows is that she will do anything to save him. Not only did Dr. Zapata entrust her with that job, but over these weeks she's grown to like Thirty-Seven, oddities and all. To lose him when she's just gained his trust is the ultimate punishment.

"Now what do y'need?" a gravelly voice says as the door swings open quickly. Forty races inside, not even greeting the man as she nearly throws him against the wall in order to spread Thirty-Seven out on the couch. "Hey! Girly! What the hell are you doin' in my house?"

A hand grips her shoulder, the fingers gnarled and full of tremors. Forty whirls on the man to find an old, stumpy pink face, weathered and wrinkle-filled. The owner of the house doesn't look angry at her intrusion, more deeply confused and unsettled than anything. Forty schools her expression, trying to hide the shock of seeing a human again after so long. Not a half-wild human like Missy, but a real, infection-wary human. 

"Epipen," she blurts out, staring through the man's watery blue eyes. He glances over at Thirty-Seven who is now coughing, panic overtaking what little Forty can see of his face.

"Oh!" the little old man yells. "What's gotcha?" he mumbles, walking unsteadily towards what looks to be a kitchen. He opens a wooden drawer, fishing around in the miscellaneous tools and old trash until he produces the strange tube Forty recognizes instantly. She practically pounces on him to grab the Epipen. "Y'need to elevate his legs," the man mumbles, though Forty ignores him in favor of ripping a long slit in the waistband of Thirty-Seven's pants. His leg is brown with dirt and sheened with sweat, and Forty haphazardly clears a blank space before stabbing the Epipen into his thigh and pressing down. Thirty-Seven takes a deep breath, relief overtaking his features. Forty can hear his heart jackhammering in his chest, but thankfully the awful wheeze fades and he's able to raise his hand to knock Forty away from his leg. She sighs in relief, walking over to the old man who watches them curiously, and hands him the used tube.

"Ah, just throw it in the trash," he says, waving his hand. Forty investigates the kitchen area and eventually finds a bucket with a trash bag in it. She figures that's what he calls a trash can and tosses the Epipen in there.

"Thank you," she says, meeting the old man's eyes. He smiles, showing off yellowed teeth and silver dental implants.

"It's no problem. Don't wan' him dyin' on my couch," he laughs. Forty glances over at Thirty-Seven, finding peace in the steady rhythm of his breaths and the returning clarity to his eyes. "Dear, while yer friend is restin', why don't you come over here an' talk ta me?" The old man gestures to the rocking chair and small armchair near the couch Thirty-Seven is sprawled on. Forty looks around nervously, waiting for a camera to beep or for monitors to come racing through the front door. Instead, the old man busies himself pouring salted cashews in a bowl and bringing it over to the coffee table in between the chairs. "Sit," he says again, more firm but still unmalicious. Forty concedes.