CHUPACABRA

Chapter Nineteen: The Driver

Forty is sure they've reached the halfway mark. On Dr. Daas' crude little map, Forty recalls the cluster of squares and rectangles labeled 'City of Vaine'. What else could be the hellscape she currently examined? From about a half mile away and perched precariously on top of a large oak tree, Forty can see humans moving about like insects. There's a few standing buildings clustered around a crop of cleared land, the road leading from the brush cutting straight down the middle, but the rest crumble in various states of decay in concentric circles. More of those trucks live here, it seems, and had it not been for the numerous rusty and peeling signs declaring each dilapidated building a store, Forty would assume she's just stumbled upon another compound.

"We've reached the city," Forty says, sticking her face through the branches to peer at Thirty-Seven. He's been touchy since they picked up the severe human smell a day ago, easily falling into a half transformation at the slightest movement in the brush. The trees have thinned out, too, making it hard to stay concealed as they follow the road into town. There is also the purveying odor of gasoline which clings to the road as it turns to tarmac, and Forty is loathe to have to smell it everyday. It's an uncannily human scent, smoky and acrid. Perhaps that's why Missy was hard to pin as a human at first. She missed out on all the nuances that make humans smell so different from Chupas.

"How the hell are we going to get through there?" Thirty-Seven spits, kicking at a cluster of cactus near the tree. He had eaten earlier this morning but remained irritable and jumpy. I have six cups of blood a day. Forty shivers.

"We'll have to go around it, but from what I can see it is quite extensive and we lose all cover in about a mile," Forty grunts as she works her way down the tree. The cluster of buildings she sees gives way to more houses and interconnected roads. There's barely a tree in sight between them.

"I wish we had one of those things," Thirty-Seven says, pointing through the low-lying brush at a truck. "They move fast, and it's like a small shed. No one can see us."

"The humans live inside them," Forty says, watching as a lone male walks out of one of the stores and enters the truck. He wears a full respirator mask and carry's a large rifle at his side. Forty recalls Cade's stories about modern human towns. They are more military organizations than communities with every citizen concerned with vigilantism. Even the smallest indication of infection receives a barrel to the face. The man stows the rifle in the trunk, and as the truck drives away it releases a huge plume of black smoke.

"We can steal one," Thirty-Seven suggests, sounding far too interested in the idea. Forty is ashamed to realize she might entertain him because there really is no other way to get around this place without being spotted and shot. "We don't know how to operate one."

"It can't be that hard," Thirty-Seven shrugs, pretending to squat down in a seat and move an imaginary wheel violently. "I watched those humans in the field do it, and Andres told me what pedals to press."

Forty chews at her nail bed, trying to recall anything she knows about vehicles. Besides the crude drawings of them in illustrated children's books and Andres' obsession with muscle cars, she has no experience. This is one subject she is almost completely ignorant on. Suddenly, she catches her finger on the point of her natural canine, busting the scab on her nail sheath. She immediately looks up at Thirty-Seven. "Sorry," she mumbles, wiping the bead of blood off on her shirt.

Thirty-Seven digs his claws into his thigh and takes a deep breath. "It's okay," he says, exhaling. When he opens his eyes, they're blood red, the irises an icy blue that seems to glow among the sepia landscape. His fangs just poke out of his mouth, the last things to fully react to the scent of blood, and he swallows deeply like that will bring them back into his mouth.