August 1983

Revingston, Ohio

"There's no way that's gonna work," Oliver said, looking up from his rolling paper and tobacco to give Kevin a stern glance. "It'll just warp and mess up the barrel. And explode. And kill you."

Kevin just grinned back, eyes flashing, holding up the half of the railroad spike he had haphazardly stuffed into the shotgun shell. In front of him was his field kit for making ammunition, along with a spread of shell husks, a box of powder, wads and a variety of loads. Cold Iron slugs, bags of rock salt, silver ball bearings, Celestial Bronze shards, and more. This particular invention, a Cold Iron stake stuffed into a shotgun shell with a magnum powder load, looked ridiculous, like a Jenga tower made of bad ideas. But Kevin was undeterred by the nonsense in his hands, and just said, "Yeah, and the Fang that gets me, too. Enough shards of this little beaut'll get him, right there," he poked it into his own chest, yelping a bit at the razor-sharp tip, but quickly carrying on. "And paralyze him, so y'all can then avenge me."

Kevin Brightwood was Oliver's oldest and best friend, but you probably wouldn't be able to tell from looking at the two. Where Oliver was tall and wiry, Kevin was short and muscular. Where Oliver had a mess of curly light brown hair and dark eyes, Kevin rocked a patchy blonde buzz-cut he did himself, and bright green eyes that had an equal shine of intelligence and something that wasn't quite madness but certainly off-kilter. He worked for Mr. Bruno at the local auto-shop, and his surprisingly nimble hands were permanently covered in scars and oil stains. His denim vest, which was a denim jacket until he got a sleeve caught in the transmission of a station wagon and decided to tear the other one off to make it match, was similarly stained.

Nina, who had been tuning her neon-green guitar right beside him, leaned over and said, "Or, it'll just kill you, and the Fang'll look at you and go, 'Wow, that was stupid, guess I'll eat him now'."

She tried to grab it but Kevin was quite a bit bigger and shoved her away, "Or he'll go, 'Oh, nevermind, that chick who's trying so hard to look like she has a frickin' snowman on her head really deserves it more.'"

"Screw you, but at least I'd kill the Fang like a normal person," She huffed with a flick of white hair, stabbing a finger glittering with a silver ring first towards the crossbow on the table, and then to the large knife on her hip. "Bolt to heart to lock 'em up, knife to cut off his head, just as God intended."

She and Kevin were twins in name only. Nina was the lead guitarist in a local band, Sygnas, during her free time, and wanted everyone to know it. From her huge mane of dyed white hair to the black leather jacket covered in colorful band patches and pins to the torn black jeans held up by a silver chain. Metal studs and spikes were festooned everywhere she could fit them, from the black bracelets and gloves around her hands to the big black leather boots on her feet.

Oliver just shook his head as the siblings continued to argue, sparing a glance at Denali. The most mature of them was doing the sensible thing; reading a Stephen King book and minding his own damned business. He was Shawnee Indian, with deeply tanned skin, long black hair tied back in a braid and deep blue eyes. He had on a buckskin jacket, pants and boots, and he wore a necklace of protective charms around his neck. Denali was from a nearby reservation and his father was the medicine man of the village, providing assistance when dealing with threats of a spiritual nature. Denali, however, focused on more practical matters; he was their tracker and a fine one at that. He's single-handedly saved more hunts than the rest of them put together, killed more Cryptids than any one of them, and has said less than a thousand words in the eight months he's worked with the Revingston Monster Removal Service.

Oliver envied him sometimes. He reached over, turned up the radio sitting on his end of the table, relocated there after the twins almost broke the thing over their argument of what to listen to. The day was nice; the four of them sat at a table at the firing range, an isolated bit of forest on the edge of Revingston, Ohio. A small creek ran through one side of the property leading to a pond, and the large shed containing the weapons rested under a canopy of trees. Kevin's old, busted pickup truck, the Hetfield, was parked next to the shack, the bed packed with gear. A wide array of targets were arranged in the clearing ahead of them, going out to about two hundred yards. Oliver's father, Malachi Irons, had built the range when he had first moved here, approaching thirty years ago. Now it served as a fine place for the team of them to rest, talk, and pass the time until they got a call.

It was a pleasant summer afternoon, but the occasional crimson leaf served as a reminder that it wasn't going to last for much longer. Winter and Autumn in their profession was always the busiest time of the year; it was when all of the nasty winter Cryptids (that is, supernatural creatures) started prowling around the forests and hills. Combined with the cold and snow and wind, it was always a pain. But the snow won't come until at least September or, if they were really lucky, October. They had a month and some change before things got crazy.

Oliver finished rolling his cigarette and was just about to stick it into his mouth when he heard the radio in the Hetfield crackled to life, a familiar voice calling, "Chaves calling Irons, Chaves calling Irons."

He tucked the cigarette behind his ear, carefully put the others in a box and put the box in his jacket pocket, and walked over, reaching through the open window and picking up the receiver, "Good morning Chief, how can I help you today?"

Police Chief Chaves responded cheerfully, "Good morning Oliver. I just got a call from Bill Tucker, he's got a problem for y'all to solve. Usual fare, I think; he said that one of his cows turned up dead last night."

Oliver nodded while picking up the small, worn notebook on the dashboard and one of the pens in the cupholder. In a town like Revingston, livestock was a big deal. He tucked the receiver between his cheek and pressed the tip to the paper. He asked, "He give you any details to pass along to me?"

Oliver heard papers shuffling in the background, "Uh yeah, he said that the cow had puncture wounds on the neck, hind legs and back and that it's skin was dry and cold to the touch. He also said he saw tracks around the body, but he isn't sure what to make of them. Think it's another pack of Chuppas?"

Oliver began writing the information down, realized the pen was dead, got another and wrote it, and then said, "Possible, although it is a little late in the summer for a pack of Chupacabra to be prowling around. We'll check it out, thanks Chief. Bill Tucker's place is over on Randolph, right? With the tree that got hit by lightning a couple years back?"

He could hear Chaves check some papers, "Yeah, that's the one. Left at the tree, follow that road for about three hundred yards, you'll see a cornfield, just follow it and you'll get there in no time. You got that?"

Oliver wrote the directions at the bottom, "Yeah, got it. Thanks, Chief, have a good day. Oh, how's Officer Roberts doing? I heard he got sick or something, is he doing good?"

"Yeah, he's doing good, he broke his fever a few nights ago so he'll be back in action in no time."

He put the notebook down, stuck the cigarette in his mouth and started fishing around for his Zippo, "That's great, tell him I said hi. Alright, you have a good day Chief."

"You too, Oliver. Happy hunting."

He hung up the radio, found the Zippo and walked back to the table. Kevin and Nina were arguing about something, but Nina got quiet when she saw the look on Oliver's face as he approached. She punched her brother in the shoulder and said, "What we got, Ollie?"

Oliver lit the cigarette and picked up his shotgun from the table, the one carved with twenty-two notches on the stock, and said, "Bill Tucker found one of his cows dead last night. Might be a pack of late-blooming Chuppacabra, but be ready for anything. Mount up."

They gathered weapons and climbed into the Hetfield, twins in the front, Oliver and Denali in the bed. The bed of the truck had all kinds of tools and equipment; ammunition, rope, hooks, axes, hammers, nails, scrap wood, some wire and bolt cutters, cans of gas, lanterns, bug spray, and more. Several large tarps were layered over the bed, and Oliver scrunched up his nose as he climbed in. It still smelled like sulfur and bleach, and he choked the odor down as he yelled back, "Christ Kevin, I told you to clean this thing!"

Kevin looked back at him, sunglasses on his face and cigarette in his mouth, giving him a shrug, "Sorry man, got distracted. We pickin' up Rosa?"

Oliver nodded, "Yeah, we'll swing by. See if you can get her on the radio first, though. You of all people should know she don't like surprises, Kevin."

That got a laugh out of Nina and a slight smile from Denali while Kevin muttered something and slid a Metallica cassette into the speaker system. The truck tore off onto the dirt road, music blasting, equipment rattling and bouncing and smacking into each other. Oliver was rocked around for a few minutes as he tried to get a secure position in the bed of the truck before he found it, settling his shotgun into his lap and resting his head against the back of the truck cabin. They drove through the backroad for a few minutes before coming onto the main, although it was still pretty hilly and forested. The range was only a few minutes away from downtown, where Rosa worked, and they could get onto Randolph Lane from there.

Oliver heard the sliding window open and Nina's head poked through, a big grin on her face, her hair barely fitting through with her. He looked at her, keeping his deadpan face. She just waggled her eyebrows at him. He rolled his eyes, sighed out smoke and held out the cigarette to her. She snatched it from his hand, said, "Thanks, Ollie!" And dove back into the cabin.

Oliver shook his head, gave Denali a shrug when he gave him a questioning look, and lit a new cigarette from his pack. As they got closer to downtown, buildings began to sprout up and the trees began to thin into fields. They passed a few farms, some service stations and finally the old, busted water tower which unofficially marked the beginning of the Revingston township. He started seeing other drivers on the road, most of which waved at Oliver as they passed, with a few of the more enthusiastic honking or, in one case, yelling. Oliver allowed a small, private smile to play across his mouth. He had to admit, it felt good being recognized for the hard work they did.

They were in downtown proper now; the big old town commons with its numerous little local businesses and stores. The big fountain ringed by benches, the little patches of green scattered everywhere they could fit. He saw Harlow Arms and Ammo, the Military Surplus, the King James Bar and Pub, and the other familiar locations. They passed by the police station, waving to the officers inside as they did, and parked in front of Velasquez's Flower Shop. Oliver banged on the cabin roof and asked Kevin, "You manage to raise her on the radio?"

Kevin nodded, and before he could speak the door to the florist opened with a dainty jingle of bells, and Rosa stepped out. Rosa Velasquez was not what one would expect from the daughter and assistant to a florist; she was tall, as tall as Oliver, but just as muscular as Kevin, with black hair tied back in a ponytail and dark eyes like shards of obsidian. She was currently wearing jeans, boots and a green tank top with the shop's logo on it, a happy sunflower with a sombrero and big mustache, and was drying her hands off with what looked like an apron. She looked at Oliver, nodded, and went back inside. A minute later, she returned, carrying a massive machete in a sheath in place of the apron and wearing a plain brown leather jacket, a steel plate woven to connect to the left sleeve.

She saw Kevin in the driver's side and groaned, pointing at him with the sheathed machete as she approached, "You guys are letting him drive? Again?"

Kevin held up his hands in defense and shirked a bit, even though he had a steel door between him and Rosa, "Look, I'm sorry, I've said it a thousand times Rosa, you shouldn't have been sitting in the back when-"

She cut him off. Literally; she slashed the air with her sheathed blade and whirled on him, "You ramped off of the goddamn train tracks, Kevin! I was sitting in the way back, where there ain't no seatbelts! I'm lucky all I got was some hang time and bruises."

Oliver banged on the roof, "Alright, enough. We have business Rosa, could be a pack of Chupacabra lurking around Bill Tucker's place. Killed one of his cows. You in?"

Rosa kept her eyes on Kevin for a few seconds before nodding and climbing into the bed, "You know I am. Someone's gotta keep an eye on him, right?" She jerked her chin at where Kevin sat as he pulled back out onto the street.

The five of them took off, rumbling down the street as the summer sun shone down from above.

Just another day of work ahead of them.