"See the exotic beauty of the Brazilian rain forests! Marvel at the sparkling beaches! Stay in historical hotels! All for much less than our competitors’ spring break vacation packages!"

The pamphlet given to us by Chris promised this and so much more. And for only $299 with plane tickets included, it was ideal for poor college students like us. We figured that, yeah, we probably wouldn’t be staying in luxury suites, but at least it wouldn’t be crowded with drunken idiots who’d mistake your bed for their bathroom.

Hearing the word "Brazil", Mark chimed in, "Hey, Scott, I’ve heard that Brazilian women are the hottest in the entire world."

Mark was sitting at the computer off in the corner of the dorm room. He had brown hair that wasn’t really too short, but not really too long. I don’t know, I’m a guy, I don’t know how to describe hair styles. He was about average height, average build. Maybe a little thin. He always wore a pair of cargo pants with a t-shirt, never jeans. I’ve never really thought to ask him why, nor do I really care all that much. Nevertheless, Mark is a good man. Not annoying, not egotistical, not timid. He’s someone I can get along with. He knows a lot of totally useless crap, which comes in handy at random times, such as this.

"Really?" I asked, my attention sparked.

"Oh, yeah, dude. Think about all the hot models, and I’m not talking those pencil bodies that you see on runways. I’m talking swimsuit models, lingerie models. All the hottest, from Brazil."

I began to grin slowly as I relaxed in an old chair that we scavenged from someone’s Wednesday morning trash-pile. "And you know all the chicks in Cancun and Daytona Beach are gonna be the ugly, desperate type. Any of the hot chicks are off in the Riviera with their doctor boyfriends. Where we’re going, we’ll have our choice of any girl we want."

"So you guys are in?" Chris asked, a little too eager.

Chris was sort of an awkward kind of guy. He was a little lanky, slightly taller than average. He had short brown hair, very short. Not peach fuzz, but still pretty freakin’ short. His fashion sense was a little bit… different. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not Johnny Fashion Expert. I’m not the guy that you laugh at ‘cuz he thinks he’s so cool in his $300 Abercrombie and Fitch matching outfit. When you see me, I’m usually bumming around in some jeans and a hoodie. But nontheless, even a decidedly non-fashion-expert-guy like me has to admit that Chris dresses pretty weird. And he’s a little too clingy, like he’s trying to be your friend a little too hard. He’s a good guy, just a little awkward.

I looked to Mark and caught his barely perceptible nod. I nodded back. "Yeah, we’re in."

"Sweet. Can you get me the money by like three days from now?"

I caught Mark’s nod again and said, "Yeah, no problem."

And thus, we were set. Chris showed up at our door a week later with the tickets and passports and all. Exotic vacations and beautiful women would be ours in just over a month.

*****

"We’re flying in that?" I said, pointing to the small plane in front of us. We had taken a flight from Boston to Dallas, then from Dallas to Puerto Rico. We’d taken a quick taxi ride to the supposed "airfield" outside of town where our flight was waiting. This plane looked like it was barely big enough to fit the three of us, let alone the pilot. Rust spots decorated its underbelly, while one of the wings seemed to be patched up with sheets of scrap metal. "Rodriguez Airlines" was hastily scrawled upon the side of the plane in red, appearing more like bloody smears than the comforting corporate logos of the big plane companies that I was accustomed to.

"It appears so, amigo," Mark said with a smile, as he clapped me on the back. "Just imagine that we’re in an Indiana Jones movie, and that’s our escape plane."

I turned to Chris and grabbed him by the neck. "I am going to kill you."

Mark was ready to tear me away from Chris, when the pilot walked out of the rickety shack that served as the control tower/public bathroom. He was an older man, I’d say about fifty. He had a thick black mustache that curled around at the ends, like the stereotypical Italian chef. To add to the effect, he had a habit of twirling them, making them even curlier.

"If your friend here is afraid of heights, I have some tequila stashed in the cockpit that can calm him down," he said, opening the door to the aircraft.

"Isn’t that against flight regulations?" Chris asked with concern.

"Regulations? I like to think of them as suggestions, señor," he said with a broad grin.

"That settles it, I’m not getting on that thing," I said.

"I kid, I kid," the pilot said comfortingly. "Don’t worry, Señor Rodriguez has been flying for the past two years and he hasn’t had no crashes yet."

I was going to protest further, when Mark slapped me across the face. I rubbed my face, the stinging sensation remaining. I turned to him angrily, "What was that for?!"

"Dude, snap out of it. Just remember, we’re four hours from hot Brazilian chicks," Mark said as he opened the door to the passenger compartment and hopped in. Chris followed him. Left alone, I looked to the sky, hoping for divine intervention. Of course, there was none. My gaze fell back down to the earth, where Señor Rodriguez was giving me a big thumbs up and patting the plane’s wing enthusiastically. A piece of metal snapped off and hung haphazardly by a single screw.

Hot Brazilian chicks. Hot Brazilian chicks. Hot Brazilian chicks, I repeated through my mind, trying to take my thoughts away from images of screaming death in the air.

*****

Six hours, seven vomiting spells, and two refueling stops later, we arrived in Corriero, a small town outside of Rio de Janiero. We set down in a similarly small airfield, occupied by other run-down planes. I stepped out and stumbled, falling to the ground. I never wanted to leave it again.

"Hope you amigos have a good time in Brazil. When you come back, my brother Juan will fly you to Puerto Rico. No worries, I taught him how to fly myself," Señor Rodriguez said proudly, pointing towards a man busy working on one of the aircraft, this one in even worse condition than the one we flew over in. He was cursing in Spanish and smashing his wrench against the engine of the plane. Sparks and small bits of metal were flying off the engine as he hammered away. Frustrated, he turned and flung the wrench away. It hit a mechanic working on another plane in the side of the head, knocking him out and sending him falling fifteen feet to the ground. Nonplussed, Juan grabbed a bottle of tequila and emptied it, burping loudly afterward.

I turned to Chris and Mark. "I don’t care what you two do. I’m taking a plane home out of Rio International Airport."

Mark raised his eyebrow. "Now where’s the fun in that?" I laughed, despite myself.

We gathered our stuff and started looking for a cab. We were supposed to be staying in Calama, about thirty miles south of Rio. We found someone who spoke about five words of English and were on our way.

*****

We arrived at Calama approximately an hour later.

Suffice it to say, Calama was not the party city that the brochure made it out to be. There were no clubs, no exciting nightlife locations, no anything. There was an inn, some local shops, the local church, and not much else. The only things promised by the brochure that were actually there were the beautiful beaches and the exotic rain forests. I had never seen anyplace so beautiful, so untouched. Nevertheless, I was disappointed by the fact that there were no supermodels walking the streets in bikinis.

"Can I kill him now?" I asked Mark, pointing toward Chris.

"Oh, by all means. I’m sure no one would ever find his body in some place as backwards as this."

Chris chimed in, apparently fearing for his life, "Oh, come on, guys, let’s just enjoy what we can while we’re here. Then once we get back, we can try to get our money back."

"It’s kinda late. We might as well check in over at the inn," I suggested.

"Ah, you must be our young visitors," the inn keeper said as we entered the door. "We promise you that we will make your stay in Calama the most memorable experience of your life. My name is Paulo and I stand by the quality of my inn. If there is anything I can do to make your stay more enjoyable, let me know."

Paulo looked like he was about forty years old, but he was more in shape than any of us. His skin was olive and marked with scars around his arms and hands. He looked like he could snap any of us in two if he wanted to, but his gentle demeanor lent a jolly air to him. His black hair was receding from his forehead, but he still had a full beard. A medium-sized brown dog stayed loyally at his side. Paulo wore a green and red Hawaiian shirt, neatly pressed. This seemed to be the uniform of all the inn workers, as they were all dressed in the exact same clothing.

"I’m sure you are tired from your flight over here," he continued.

More truth to that than you know, I silently thought to myself.

"Allow me to show you to your rooms," he said, then he quickly said something in Portuguese to the other workers there. "Follow, Pepe," he said to the dog. The other staff took up our luggage and trailed behind us as Paulo led us to our rooms. He explained how he had built the hotel, keeping up its maintenance and repair himself. He was obviously very proud of his work, and I must admit he had reason to be.

We each had our own separate room. The rooms were actually very nice, a welcome surprise. Each had a full-sized bed, a small couch, a table with two chairs, and a small refrigerator. We each also had a sliding glass door which offered a view of the outside. Two looked out on the beach, while the remaining one offered a spectacular view of the rain forest. I chose the one with the rain forest view.

The workers deposited our luggage in our rooms and Paulo went over the rules. Basically, don’t screw anything up. He left us to ourselves and we all started to unpack. Chris and Mark collapsed into sleep soon after. I wasn’t tired just yet, so I decided to head back to the lounge and see what was going on.

Some of the workers were watching a soccer game on TV, while Paulo was reading a book. I glanced at the title, Dracula by Bram Stoker.

"Good book," I remarked to him.

He looked up. "Ah, yes indeed, señor," he said, shutting the book hastily. Perhaps even nervously. This troubled me, as Paulo didn’t seem to be someone who let anything scare him. I didn’t even find Dracula scary, and I read it when I was ten.

"Very nice inn you have here," I commented, changing the subject and trying to put it out of my head.

He smiled. "I’m glad you think so. It is hard work, but I believe it to be well worth it. Finest inn this side of Rio," he said, patting Pepe’s head.

"How old is he?" I asked, pointing at the dog.

"Old Pepe is going to be fourteen soon, an old man by dog standards," Paulo said, scratching the dog’s ears. "Best dog I’ve ever had. On the few occasions we’ve had troublemakers here, Pepe has been enough to make them think twice."

We talked for a little bit more before I began to feel sleepy. I wished him good night and was about to leave the room.

"Señor," he called out to me.

I turned around. "Call me Scott."

"Scott, you chose the room looking out upon the forest, yes?" he asked, with some hesitation.

"Yes," I said, slightly apprehensive.

"Be sure to lock the door, and don’t go out after midnight," he said cryptically, then walked out of the room before I could ask any questions.

Confused and slightly worried, I walked back to my room. I got ready to go to bed and I paused at the glass door. The rain forest looked slightly ominous now. The foliage was so thick that it blocked out the moon. A slight wind must have blown through the air, sending some of the palm branches swaying and offering a view of a glowing light that must have been the moon.

Then the light moved.

I closed my eyes and counted off three seconds. The branches had stopped moving. Just the moon, I told myself as I locked the door and closed the curtains. I settled into bed and drifted off into sleep.

*****

I was awakened some time later by yelling somewhere outside. I woke up, groggily. The yelling stopped. I was about to fall back asleep when it started again. I recognized it as Paulo’s voice. I snapped out of bed and threw on my shoes.

A knocking rang out against the door to my room. I ran over to it and opened it. Mark was there, looking only half-awake. "What’s going on?" he asked, wiping sleep dust from his eyes.

"I don’t know. It’s Paulo’s voice. Guessing he found some trouble. Shall we investigate?"

"Do you even have to ask?"

"Should we bring Chris as back-up?"

"No," Mark replied, shaking his head. "He’s not feeling so hot. He got a bit hungry and grabbed some food from the lounge. Apparently, Brazilian cooking doesn’t sit well with his fragile digestive system. He’s stuck in bed with a fever, has to keep his outside door open to stay cool."

"Let’s check it out then," I said, as we opened the glass door and ran outside.

We followed Paulo’s voice, moving along the wall of the inn. We found him after about a minute. He was crouched down, his back facing towards us. His body was quivering as he looked toward the ground.

"He’s crying," I whispered to Mark.

"Should we intrude?" Mark asked, quietly.

"Paulo, what’s wrong, man?" I asked.

He paused and stopped sobbing. He stood up and turned toward us, revealing a dark form lying on the ground, not moving. As I stepped closer, I noticed that it was Pepe. Nothing seemed wrong with him at all. I would’ve sworn he was sleeping, except he wasn’t breathing. However he died, it looked like it was from natural causes. Maybe a heart attack or something.

"Look, Paulo, Pepe had lived a good, long life. It’s not uncommon for a dog his age to die suddenly. I’m sure he’s up in doggy-heaven looking down on us now," I said, trying to comfort Paulo. I noticed that he was shaking, almost fearfully.

"Yeah, all dogs go to heaven," Mark chimed in.

I glanced at him, raising my eyebrow. He shrugged and crossed his arms. I shook my head and turned back to Paulo. "Probably just a heart attack or something."

"Chupacabra," he whispered, glancing into the forest.

"What’s a ‘chupacabra’?" Mark whispered to me.

"Tropical disease, maybe?" I suggested, shrugging.

Paulo motioned for us to come closer to Pepe’s prone body. He placed his hand near the fur on the dog’s neck and pulled it back, exposing the skin underneath. There were two perfectly formed holes. "Chupacabra," he repeated.

"What’s that?" I asked.

Paulo shivered slightly, once again glancing out into the rain forest. "Creatures who live deep in the rain forest. I didn’t know they had made their way this close to the shoreline. They drink the blood of other animals, sucking their bodies completely dry, leaving no other marks besides two small holes, such as these," he explained, once again pointing to the wounds on Pepe’s neck. "Farmers are afraid to build ranches inland, for just one of these creatures can kill an entire herd of livestock in just one night. The government doesn’t want word spreading. They’ve been trying to deal with the problem for years now." Then, he stood and slammed his fist against the wall of his inn, shaking pieces of tile loose. "I never thought Pepe would be in danger. I’ve failed him. I must avenge his death."

Even though I had just met him, Paulo struck me as a real decent guy. He was genuinely distraught by the death of his dog. I wasn’t feeling tired and I could tell that Mark was up for some adventure. I sent a questioning glance toward him. He responded with a nod. "If you’d like any help, Mark and I would be glad to help you hunt these things down."

Paulo looked at us and hesitated. I have no idea why, but I had the sneaking suspicion that he didn’t want to get us involved. "Very well. You are most noble, señors. Follow me, we will arm ourselves." He bent down and hefted Pepe’s body easily in his arms. He led us around the building to some sort of equipment shed. He opened the door and we followed him inside. We made our way past lawn mowers, toolboxes, and building supplies. We walked to the back of the building, where he placed Pepe’s body gently upon a table. He bowed his head for a moment before turning to us.

He walked past us, back to where the tools were located. Paulo pulled out three knives and handed two to Mark and me. He placed the third in his boot. Looking downwards, he hefted a large axe and tossed it lightly to Mark. Mark caught it and tested the weight.

"Now this is what I’m talking about," he said with a grin.

Paulo tossed me a long wooden spear, apparently used for fishing. It felt sturdy and had a good weight behind it. I twirled it experimentally, being mindful not to smack it against anything in the shed. I had done some martial arts training when I was younger, so I was decent with a staff.

Lastly, Paulo unlocked and opened the bottom drawer of a tall toolbox, pulling out a rectangular case approximately two feet across. He opened it up, revealing pieces of an old hunting rifle. He began to snap together the components. Then, he opened a box of rifle bullets and emptied them into his pocket. He loaded the gun and cocked the chamber. Without a word, Paulo led us out of the equipment shed and locked the door.

"So what do these things look like anyway?" Mark asked.

Paulo paused and looked at us gravely, "You will know when you see one, señor."

A thought occurred to me. "Perhaps we should close Chris’s door, just in case." At Paulo’s concerned glance, I said, "He had a fever and kept his door open to keep cool."

"Hurry," Paulo said. "Close his door, and meet us back here."

I ran along the side of the building, keeping my spear at the ready, just in case one of those chumbawumba things jumped out and tried to suck my blood. My heart was beating at a million miles per second. Apparently, these things were freaking me out more than I’d care to admit. I finally made it to the beach side of the inn, my feet slipping slightly in the sand. I ran to Chris’s room and stepped inside.

I didn’t want to flip the light on and wake him up entirely, so I made my way over to him. He was sleeping on his side, facing away from the open door. I walked around the bed and knelt down.

"Chris, me and Mark are going to go with the innkeeper and look for something in the jungle. We’ll be back in a little bit." I didn’t really want to mention that we were hunting freaky blood sucking creatures, figuring it may upset him just a bit. Apparently, it didn’t matter anyway, as he must’ve been too sick to register that I was even talking to him. "Yo, Chris, snap out of it, man. Me and Mark…" I started shaking him and my heart sank. Something was wrong. The weight of his body felt weird, somehow. A human body, even a very sick/delirious human body has a certain weight to it. Chris’s body didn’t feel that way. I rolled him on to his other side.

Two small holes stood out against his pale flesh.

I paused in horror for a second. Those things had gotten him too. This was all too freaky, man! This trip was supposed to be awesome. We’d be able to get away for cheap and consort with beautiful, foreign women. First, the plane. Then our destination was nothing like what was advertised. And now Chris was dead. This just wasn’t cool, man. It was all too much to handle now. I stepped out of the room and closed the sliding glass door.

My shock faded to anger as I walked back to where Paulo and Mark were waiting. Those things had killed my friend. They were going to pay.

I met back up with Mark and Paulo. Paulo was adjusting the sight on his rifle, while Mark was taking a few practice swings with his axe against a nearby tree. When they heard me approach, they both snapped their heads up. Apparently, they were as much on edge as I was.

"How’s he feeling?" Mark asked.

"He’s dead," I replied quietly.

"What?!" Mark said in shock.

"They got him too," I said sadly, looking toward the ground.

"Oh my God," Mark said, leaning against a tree for support. "How are we ever supposed to explain this?"

"Don’t worry about that now. The chupacabras are still close, but they will not wait for long. We must go now if we hope to seek revenge for our friends," Paulo said firmly.

"Okay," Mark said, grimly. I nodded and brought my spear up, ready to impale it through one of those freaks’ eyes.

"Stay together. We’ll have a smaller chance of being attacked," Paulo said as he walked off into the woods. Mark and I followed close behind. We walked softly through the jungle, being careful not to be too noisy. The occasional animal moving in the forest sent Mark and I swinging at the underbrush. The dense rain forest enfolded us in darkness, lending a sinister quality to the air. The occasional glints of moonlight were our only source of illumination as we trekked onward in search of our prey.

I was certain that our search was for nothing, until Paulo stopped suddenly, nearly causing Mark and I to trip over him. He motioned for us to look ahead. I heard Mark gasp in fear, but I couldn’t see the freakin’ thing. A palm leaf was blocking my vision. I pulled it aside, and I felt my heart stop in my chest.

The creature was bathed in a glowing green light. It was probably about four feet tall, but would’ve been taller if it wasn’t slightly hunched over. Its body was predominately a dull grey-green, but its belly region was colored in a much brighter green. The thing’s long arms ended in four deadly-looking claws. Its legs were bent slightly, rather like a kangaroo’s. Thin, transparent yellow spines jutted out of its elbows and ran along its back, ending on its forehead. The creature’s large ovoid eyes were a glossy black and seemed to emanate a crimson glow. Oddly enough, it had no mouth at all. Two sharp looking tubes extended from it chin, apparently the apparatus it used to suck blood. It was bent over the body of a small deer, its head at the deer’s neck.

Paulo brought the rifle up and aimed at the creature. "After I shoot it, run up to its body and finish it off," he whispered.

He steadied his aim and pulled the trigger. A loud crack rang through the air, making Mark and I jump at the sudden noise. The creature dropped its meal, making a noise somewhere between a hiss and a scream. The sound made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. The creature scurried off into the jungle. Either Paulo had missed or the creature just didn’t feel it. Mark and I chased after in hot pursuit, as Paulo began to reload.

We tried to follow the green glow as best we could, but this thing was impossibly fast. It was agile and kept on abruptly changing its course. It quickly outdistanced us, leaving Mark and I in the dark, gasping for air. Paulo was nowhere to be seen.

"Well, what do we do now?" I asked.

"I guess we try to backtrack and find Paulo," Mark replied, his voice quavering slightly.

We tried to retrace our route as best we could, but the creature had changed direction so much that it was nearly impossible. I thought I saw faint green glows way off in the distance, but I tried to put it out of mind, hoping it was my imagination.

"This is impossible, man. We’re never going to make our way back," Mark growled in frustration.

"Yeah, we-" I began, before I was cut off by the sound of a rifle firing, then several screams in the night air. Mark and I bolted toward its source. Part of me was hesitant, fearing I might get hit by a stray bullet, but I ran onward anyway. As we got closer, Mark began to stomp through the underbrush, yelling and making as much noise as he could. I caught on to his plan and started to do the same. Hopefully, if those things were up there, we’d scare them off.

It seemed to work, as I saw a faint green glow moving off into the distance. As we chased after it, my foot kicked something hard lying on the ground, sending it clattering across branches. I figured it was probably the rifle. Then my foot hit something slippery and I fell. I landed on the ground hard, and I felt something begin to soak against the back of my shirt. I sat up and brushed my hand against it. It was something sticky and warm. I scrambled to my feet and looked around. Paulo’s body lay a few feet away, surrounded by an ever-expanding pool of blood. Multiple sets of wounds were clearly visible on his body.

"Not good," Mark remarked.

"Judging by the number of bite marks, I’d say there must be at least a dozen," I said, my voice breaking in terror.

"Any bright ideas?"

"None. You?"

"Nope. I’d say run, but we have no idea which direction the town is."

"So we’re screwed."

"Pretty much. Uh, Scott, there’s a green glow coming from that direction," Mark said, pointing toward his right.

I turned to look. Then I scanned around again. Similar glows were approaching us, from nearly every direction. "I think we’re surrounded."

"Stand and fight?" he asked.

"Stand and fight," I confirmed, nodding grimly. Mark and I moved back to back. The green glows moved slowly closer. Gradually, we began to make out the details of their bodies. Once they were about twenty feet away, they paused, apparently sizing us up. They called out to each other in a howling, screeching sort of way. The sound was terrible. Their eyes seemed to glow a darker shade of red. They screamed and rushed forward.

I brought my spear up and held the pointy end toward them. As one of them got close, I slashed it across the neck. It screeched in pain and stumbled to the ground. Another scurried past it and leapt at me. I tried to swipe it away with my spear, but it still managed to rake me across my cheek with its claws.

I heard Mark yell in surprise and I spared a glance in his direction. He was clutching at his neck. I saw a dark stream begin to flow down his neck, painting the front of his shirt dark and wet. He tried to speak, but all that came out was a gurgle. I rushed toward him and pushed him to the ground, trying to make him less of a target for them. I stood over him, spear in a defensive position. I saw two of them rush leap towards me. I stabbed one in the chest. It snarled and crashed to the ground. The other tried to get at Mark. I smashed it across the face with the blunt end of the spear.

Then I felt something stab into the back of my neck and slam into my back. I hit the ground face first, shock exploding through my body as my nose smashed against a branch. I’m pretty sure it broke, and I could feel blood pouring down. All the while I felt pure white agony at the back of my neck. I tried to stand back up, but the creature was surprisingly heavy. Feeling me struggle, it must’ve sunk its claws deep into my side, as I felt more pain explode against my right abdomen. After a while, I couldn’t even move.

But the pain remained.

Oh, God, the pain.

I managed to move my eyes to the right. I could see Mark. Two of the creature had him pinned against the ground. They stood upon his chest as they sucked the blood from his body. He stared wide in horror. I could tell he was still alive, as his chest was still expanding and contracting.

Thankful at least that I didn’t have to look at my death face to face, I returned to looking face down at the dirt. The pain continued on. I heard a slight shuffling to my left and I saw one of them reach its head down, drinking at the puddle of blood that had formed from my broken nose. It greedily sucked it up, and I wanted to puke. It finished up and moved my head to the side, using its claws. I was face to face with it. I felt it jam its two tubes into my nose. I could feel and hear the crunch as they broke through cartilage and sought out a vein.

Shock prevented my brain from rationally registering this. It was sucking the blood from my broken nose. I felt panic rise in me as I heard it sucking the blood, a constant, impossibly loud, slurping sound. White hot agony from the front of my face joined the white hot agony at the base of my neck. It continued on for seconds, minutes, hours, days, years.

An eternity of pain. I stared into its glossy black eyes, trying to shrink away in terror. But they drew me in.

So it continued forever.

*****

Or so it seemed. After a thousand lifetimes seemingly passed by, a thunderous din of explosions rocked the area. The creature standing atop me broke of its connection. I wanted to feel joy, feel relief, but I was too weak to feel anything.

Then I saw its body explode in an eruption of gore and blood, splattering across the back of my neck and my shirt.

I’m covered in my own blood, I thought to myself deliriously.

I was about to thank the heavens for monster-exploding miracles when a squad of men in camouflage outfits came into view and knelt by me. Some of them stood at the edge of my vision, still firing their assault rifles into the forest. The shrieks of the chupacabras echoed through the night.

One of them knelt by me and checked for my pulse. I noticed that he appeared to be wearing some sort of kevlar vest, which continued upwards from his neck and covered his neck. I vaguely felt his fingers touching my neck, searching for my pulse. I wanted to move, give him a sign that I was alive, but my body didn’t want to cooperate. He raised his rifle and aimed it at my face. I felt a flash of alarm, sure that he was going to shoot me. Instead, he pressed a button on the side and a bright light flashed into my eyes. Apparently, my pupils dilated, proving that my autonomic systems were still functioning. He yelled something excitedly in Portuguese.

Then I blacked out.

*****

I awoke a month later at a hospital in an undisclosed military base. They keep me quarantined, afraid that those things gave me some kind of disease that could be spread to the population. The doctors said it took a month for me to fully recover. They said I was in a coma-like state most of the time. They also said there were moments when I would wake up with a severe fever and start screaming incoherently. They were afraid that I was suffering some sort of post-traumatic stress flashback. Some of them say I might have them for the rest of my life.

They’re in my dreams.

I’m afraid to go to sleep.

I relive that night every time I close my eyes.

The military officers won’t say when I’ll be able to go home. Apparently, they don’t want word of these things reaching other nations. They won’t say why, but I think that they were responsible for creating these things, probably some sort of genetic experimentation. Doctors and scientists visit me every day and take tissue samples, blood samples, urine samples, everything. I think they’re studying the effects that these things had on me. If they do ever let me out, it won’t be until they kill every last specimen. Then, if I decide to tell someone my little story, I’ll seem crazy and the Brazilian military can laugh it off.

That is, if they decide to keep me alive that long.

Really, they could kill me and no one would ever know the difference. My family probably already thinks I’m dead. There’s probably a tombstone back in some cemetery in Indiana reading, "Scott Grey, 1982-2003, Beloved Son" or something like that. I used to worry about them killing me. I’m past the point of caring.

All I do is sit here in my cell. I have a cot and a toilet and nothing else. The room is ventilated so that air and pathogens cannot leave it. When people come in, they were hazard suits. There is absolutely nothing to do except sit here and think.

My thoughts always return to that night and when the chupacabra stole my life away from me.