CHUPACABRA

Chapter Twenty: The Killer

Forty can't stop shaking. She can't fully process her surroundings, stuck in an infinite loop of blood, shattered glass, and a hand reaching for her. Distantly she knows Thirty-Seven is leading her further into the woods, his hand a gentle pressure on her back, but in her mind she's still standing in front of the crash.

Always the hitchhiking.

What a shit show she's made. If there is one rule she knows, it's that humans do not like murder. Not only did she crash the driver's truck, but she also crippled him beyond recognition, and Thirty-Seven finished the job rather violently. The sirens started up about thirty minutes ago, and though the pair are barely within earshot, Forty still feels like there are eyes crawling across her back. Murderer. Murderer.

"Are you cold?" Thirty-Seven says suddenly, peering down at Forty. She doesn't hear him at first, just keeps staring unblinkingly at the ground ahead of her. The forest is nothing more than dashes of golds and browns, autumn having fully set in. It's all a blur to her. "Forty?"

She looks up, finally registering his voice. Thirty-Seven's brows are furrowed, his lip busted from either his fangs or from chewing on them. "I don't know," Forty replies truthfully. Chupas don't normally get cold, though it is slowly approaching sunset and an abnormal quiver won't leave Forty's hands.

"We can stop for the night." Thirty-Seven stills his hand on her back, letting it linger as he pulls away. He scans the area and, deeming it safe, pulls Forty towards a group of trees that have maintained most of their leaves. The ground underneath is soft and springy with long grass and the remnants of fallen foliage. He sets Forty back against one of the larger trees, then moves to sit cross-legged in front of her.

"Are you mad at me?" Thirty-Seven asks, watching Forty carefully. She shakes her head, trying to clear the last of the blood behind her eyes away.

"Then what's wrong?"

"I... I killed him," she mumbles, Trent's bloodied face and broken body clouding her vision. "I broke his hand, and that made him crash and hurt himself. I killed him."

"Forty, I ripped his throat out," Thirty-Seven says matter-of-factly. He shimmies across the leafy ground to lean against the tree, thunking his head back against the bark.

"Yes... but I made it to where there was no way he could live." Maybe Forty is cold, because there can be no other reason why this infernal trembling won't stop in her hands. She folds them up tightly and tucks them under her arms.

"You're doing it again," Thirty-Seven says, poking at her arm to get her to relieve the tension in her shoulders. "This isn't your fault. You didn't owe that asshole shit, no matter what he says. He shouldn't have touched you."

A hand on her leg, his smelly breath too close to her face. The bobble head jiggling on the dash. A gun in her face. Forty doubles over and vomits, her head swimming. She feels tears prick at the corner of her eyes but the last thing she wants to do is cry. Thirty-Seven pulls her away from the puddle of sick, heading deeper into the tree cover. She watches his face as he walks, the grim set of his jaw and the scabbed slash over his eyebrow. "Are– are you okay?" she asks tearfully as Thirty-Seven lowers her down among some brush. She sweeps a thumb in the dried blood along his temple.

Thirty-Seven grabs her wrist, moving it back down to her lap. "I'm fine," he says, giving her a tired smile. "It's just a little scratch." He feels along the crown of her head, then towards the back. With gentle hands, he guides her face this way and that, lifting her eyelids and peering closely at her pupils.

"I didn't hit my head," Forty says, letting said head lull against her shoulder. At least, she doesn't remember hitting it.

"I think it's whiplash. How's your neck?" Thirty-Seven presses in different spots around her throat. One particular jab makes her cry out. "Yep. That's what I thought."