“No!”
MacCready tried to make a grab for the Colt, and within that first part of a second he sensed a flinch within the shadows and, still within that small part of a second, he was certain that the shadows would be upon him before the gun was drawn. And it would have ended that way, had MacCready’s haste not cost him his balance and pitched him out of the tree.
He sensed another flutter of dry parchment before slamming, side-first, into the ground. Keeping his back to the earth, he aimed the .45 in alternate directions, searching for a target. But the shapes were gone—and a moment later, so too was the long, forbidding silence, broken now by the reemergence of insect-and-frog song. It was as if someone had pushed the night sounds “on” button.
MacCready remained on his back, taking several deep breaths—never lowering his weapon.
“Gentle, my ass,” he said, carefully rising to his feet.
He used the flashlight to examine the goat. The collapsed animal continued to twitch, less frequently now. Blood seeped from every body opening, and as a slight breeze began to spread the scent of death and gardenias, a new sound spread with it. The dogs in the village had begun to howl. But this was not the wail of watchdogs straining at their leads. These were animals howling in fear.
Standing atop the bluff, MacCready stared off toward the horizon, making his best guess at the direction the creatures had fled.
Straight over the cliff, he thought, as his mind began snapping all the puzzle pieces together.
Seen from this spot, at this hour, the forest’s treetops were illuminated below him—their shadows deepening in contrast as the moon began to climb down the sky, shifting the angle of light, minute by minute. Mac’s gaze settled more than fifteen miles away, where the cliffs of the Mato Grosso Plateau were blazing out ghostly white against the backdrop of space. They towered over the valley into which, tomorrow, he would descend.
CHAPTER 9
Departure
Now and then, though I rarely admit it, the universe projects itself toward me in a hideous grimace.
—H. G. WELLS
January 23, 1944
MacCready entered the Thorne residence quietly, not wanting to awaken anyone, and not particularly eager to speak about his all-too-close encounter. His friend had set out a hammock in a screen-enclosed front room, and the zoologist fell into it with an audible sigh. Although deeply shaken by his experience in the orchard, and even more so by what he had nearly experienced, he fell asleep quickly.
Sometime later, MacCready had a dream, born in the dark recesses of the Balloon Man’s hut and in the branches of a haunted Brazil nut tree. And once again, it was a dream about his mother.
She was bent over a dark shape, back turned . . . beckoning him . . . needing his help.
“Gentle.”
But there was something wrong, something very wrong, and instead of approaching his mother, he took a step back. He could still smell her favorite perfume.
The camera in his mind pulled back even further . . .
Far enough to reveal her entire body,
rotting flesh draped in tattered rags,
crouched over the dead goat.
Then his mother’s head came up, slowly. And she began to smile.
Her teeth glistened like tinsel.
MacCready’s scream woke the Thornes, and Bob stumbled into the room where the hammock had been strung. The sun had not yet risen.
“Mac, wake up,” Thorne said, shaking his friend’s shoulder gently. Yanni stood behind him, holding a candle.
“No!” MacCready cried, grabbing Bob’s arm violently. “Please, M—”
“Relax, buddy. It’s only a nightmare.”
MacCready sat up in the hammock, steadying himself. He looked around the room, searching the shadows. Finally, he focused on Thorne, who was taking a candle from Yanni. The botanist managed a small wave and something like a smile.
“Hey.”
Mac acknowledged him with a nod.
“I warned you to lay off the goats,” Thorne said, watching him, gauging his response.
MacCready gave a small laugh that broke into a cough.
Yanni watched her husband’s shoulders relax slightly. Reading Bob’s body language, she saw that he had it under control, and headed toward the kitchen.
“You wanna talk about it?” Thorne said.
Mac rubbed his eyes—which felt as if they’d been sandblasted. “Not particularly.”
“Then humor me. What happened?”
“Well, let’s just say I had a little run-in with some of your neighbors last night.”
“Raza’s crew again?”
“No, these were decidedly nonhuman.”
Thorne paused, waiting for a punch line that never came. “You’re serious, right?”
“Oh yeah.”
“So spill it. What are they?”
MacCready swung his legs off the side of the hammock but remained seated. “They’re pack hunters. They’re arboreal. And they’re smart—real smart.”
“And by ‘they,’ you mean—?”
“Vampire bats.”