Awoken by a cry in the night, Hank, still in his overalls, grabbed his Winchester and dashed out of the house. Moonlight gleamed down, illuminating the long grass field that the cattle would feast upon when the morning came. The cattle were in a panic, kicking up dust into the warm, summer night. Creatures Hank was certain he had never seen before had descended on his herd of cattle, feasting upon their flesh and blood like locusts.
One had jumped into the air, moonlight silhouetting the abomination. Scales could be seen all over its body where its mottled grey-brown hair and spines were unable to cover it. A creature of nightmares, its front limbs, long and elongated as they were, tapered off into a wickedly sharp, clawed hands that could rend flesh with the nearest of ease. Its muscular rear legs ended with a human-like foot filled with claws constantly clicking as the creature drifted through the air. As it turned in the moonlight, Hank could see its ugly mug. The triangular head sported oversized canines that acted like mandibles; sharp, ratlike front teeth; and a tube-like tongue that acted as a proboscis. Its eyes looked like black pearls, a sheen of color and reflective quality that no living creature should have. A fiendish glow emanated from their eyes and mouth as they weaved their way through cattle, just like fireflies in the night.
As the creature began to pirouette the night sky, it had managed to notice Hank. Hank's eyes lit up like a madman as his face contorted into a face splitting grin. Realizing its fate, a horrendous clicking sound began to emanate from the creature as it began to squirm in the air, looking for a way to escape its fate. Hank leveled his repeater and pulled the trigger, the action fell forward, and the Winchester began its rolling report. He did not check if he had hit the monster as he switched targets, his right hand expertly manipulating the lever action as a seasoned veteran would do. The other creatures did not sit still. As soon as they had heard the report of a rifle and the sound of .44 Winchester ripping through their dear comrade, the monsters stopped their gluttonous engorgement, turning their blood-matted heads towards Hank. Some hissed in displeasure momentarily as others began their advance in a swift and unpredictable manner. Hank did not hesitate to begin backpedaling, a technique he had found the most useful when fighting the axe wielders and blood mages of the Indians. They came in close, but a swing to the snout would keep the beasts far enough for a retaliatory attack. By the time the Winchester had finished its droning roll call, the beasts had either expired or ran, leaving Hank fresh out of ammo. Not one to tally around, Hank went back to sleep.
Hank awoke to the morning light gleaming through the cracks of his window shades. He diligently put on his ranching gear and butcher's apron before heading outside. The events of last night had been made apparent on the long grass. Blood that had flowed freely only a few short hours before had already begun to coagulate, staining the grass and ground below. The corpses of the beasts glowed faintly in a sickly, unnatural light; wherever the Winchester struck, it had torn to shreds, rendering the bodies to a mangled mess. However, by piecing together the dead, he could figure out see the sharpness of those teeth, feel the toughness of the leather. It felt wrong to the touch, as if the very corpse was slipping away and out of reality. Hank took a look at what remained of the dead cattle. Entrails had been torn asunder in a frenzy, bodies battered and bruised. Holes that covered the neck had skin that suck inward, as if more than just blood had been spirited away. Limbs were torn askew. Hank recalled an old story his father used to tell him when he was a young miscreant.
He told him of the tale of the Chupacabra, a monster that roamed long before civilized hands touched these lands. It was a creature born of pure darkness, whose sole purpose was to steal away bad children under the cover of the night and drain them of their blood, leaving nothing but a husk behind. Oh, how that tale had left Hank in shatters. He was unable to sleep straight in months, and how his mother admonished his father for that.
"Tales of a different time," reminisced Hank as he began the laborious task of dragging the dead to his very own doorstep. Within the beat of the rising sun, he drew his bayonet and began his work. Off went the head, the tough hide resisting his cutting motions of his knife. Next, out came the spine, and then the skin. Hank gutted the beast, and then quartered what was left to smoke later. The ominous light spilled out of the dead monsters and turned into smoke on contact with sunlight, producing a lasting, acrid smell. It was not the smell of the dead, but of burnt rubber. His nostrils flared and his mouth dried, but he continued his diligent work. A pile of refuse began to pile up as he cut off the destroyed parts, he'd have to burn or bury it later, but that was a problem for another day. He picked up one of the heads and began to take a closer look at thought about what it could be. It seemed all too familiar to him. Once again, his thoughts drifted towards the story his father had told him.
"But that can't be," he thought to himself. "There's too many of 'em."
While he was busy debating whenever or not what he had killed was called a Chupacabra, he heard the voice of an old man call out to him.
"Mighty fine day, partner. Say, is Jack Williams around?"