"What's that?"

"Busted-a.s.s Grille."

"Let's drop it."

Something flickers just to the left of my line of sight. My breath catches. Immediately my mind returns to the dreams, and to the shapeless beasts that scale the highways. Chupacabra. Goat-suckers.

"What?" Diego asks, sensing my sudden unease.

"Chupacabra," I say. "Martin used to scare me with stories of the chupacabra when I was little."

"He raise you?"

"Our parents died when we were young, yeah."

"So now you feel you need to pay him back? To finish what he started?"

I roll my shoulders. "I don't know."

"This is not the business for that, bro."

"It's just this one time."

"Christ." Diego sinks down into the pa.s.senger seat. "Chupacabra's a myth. They're coyotes. Your brother saw coyotes."

"I saw something large and hairy dead on the side of the road coming down here. Looked too big to be a coyote."

"You're ridiculous," Diego says.

Am I? Because I am thinking of the horror stories Martin used to tell me when I was younger and he'd return from weeks and sometimes months on the road. He would tell me of the chupacabra and of the way they drained the fluids from livestock and how, sometimes, they drained the fluids from people, too. Of course, I know now that there are no such creatures, but seeing the dead coyote along the side of the road and thinking, too, of Martin instill within me a certain disquiet. Suddenly, I feel like turning around and driving the h.e.l.l home.

It is late by the time we pull into Debajo Canyon. It is nothing more than a sandstone bluff overlooking a scrub gra.s.s valley, milky in the oncoming darkness, interrupted at intervals by ramshackle hovels and peeling, sad-looking campers. I have no idea what to expect from Diego's a.s.sociates, but I can sense an urgency in Diego the moment we cross onto the rutted gravel roadway leading toward the semicircle of campers. In the distance, a small bonfire winks at us. The sky is dizzy with stars.

Diego has unraveled a worn slip of paper and looks at it now the way an explorer might scrutinize a treasure map. Says, "Pull off to the left here, Gerald."

I pull off to the left. Say, "Which one is it?"

Diego points past the windshield. "Straight ahead. One with the lights on." It is a beat-up trailer with automobile tires nailed to the roof. It is one of the few with lights in the windows.

Diego pops the pa.s.senger door and climbs down from the ice cream truck. For the first time, I catch a glimpse of a pistol b.u.t.t jutting from the waistband of his dungarees, hidden beneath his shirt. "Let's shake a tail feather, bro. I got things."

I pop my own door and hop down, kicking up dust with my sneakers, and follow Diego to the trailer. Diego mounts the two abbreviated steps to the door then knocks and waits. Knocks again. My discomfort increases and I take a step back. Across the sandstone courtyard, very few lights are on in any other homes, and even the distant bonfire has disappeared. I scan the horizon for a sign of civilization beyond the trailer park, but I am kidding myself. We are alone.

The trailer door opens and we're suddenly scrutinized by a barrel-chested Mexican in a wife-beater, his thick, hairless arms as red as the sunset. His matted, corkscrew hair informs me we've just woken him from a nap.

Briefly, Diego and the man exchange pleasantries in Spanish. I understand very little of what is said. It isn't until I recognize my brother's name that I feel I am included in all this, and the big man in the wife-beater grins bad teeth at me.

Inside the trailer is like being in a coffin. The air is stale and palpable. It is a home for papers and paperwork, of overflowing manila folders and spools of adhesive tapes, an ancient reel-to-reel recorder that blindly stares, and the like. Unwashed plates are stacked like ancient tablets in the sink. The whole place smells not of a structure of human residency and occupancy, but rather of mildewed library cellars and wet paperback novels and discarded and forgotten towers of time-yellowed newspapers.

"Aqui," the barrel-chested man says, and quickly directs me to stand against one wall. Suddenly, I am looking across the cramped trailer at the lens of a digital camera. The man rattles off a succession of photos then, moments later, perches himself in front of a computer monitor.

Startled by movement in a darkened corner of the trailer, I squint to find a set of dark eyes staring back at me. An ancient Mexican woman, nearly skin and bones, watches me from a Barcalounger across the trailer. She has a knitted afghan pulled over her legs, and her hands, like the talons of a prehistoric bird, sink into the divot of her lap. Like a ghost, she watches. I suddenly taste my own heartbeat.

Then she starts cackling.

"Here," says the barrel-chested Mexican, stabbing a freshly-minted driver's license in my direction. He has something else in his other hand-something that quickly steals Diego's attention. It's marijuana, a few ounces of the stuff, in a Ziploc bag.

"Hey, Frodo," Diego says. "Go wait in the truck."

Cold, uncomfortable, I climb back into the truck and punch off the headlights. I sit in the simmering quiet of a desert night. I wait for decades. Soon, Martin is seated somewhere behind me in the truck, whispering my name. He makes me promise to be careful and to not ask too many questions. I call him an idiot and tell him I'll be home soon. He asks if I've seen the chupacabra and I snort...but deep down inside I am that lost, little boy again, fearful of the goat-suckers, of the desert vampires. You know they don't exist, Gerald, right? he soothes me now. Yet I frown and tell him it's too late, d.a.m.n it, that he has already poisoned me with his stories, years of poisoning, years of waiting in my own sad little trailer for him to come home and raise me and act like a responsible adult. Is it fair that I should have to act like the responsible adult for both of us now? Is it?

It was an accident, he whispers. I drove a truck into a river. Then: They did me real good, for driving the truck into the river. They did me real good, bro.

Sure they did.

Sure.

Across the bluff, Diego spills through the trailer door. He staggers to the ice cream truck and motions for me to take down the window, which I do.

"Hey," he says, "you know where you're going, right?"

"I have the map."

"Yeah. Uh, I'm gonna crash here, all right?"

"I don't need to drive you somewhere?"

"Take it easy, Gerald."

I spin the wheel and pull back on to the main road, this time heading north. I drive for nearly forty-five minutes, the only living creature among miles and miles of desert. And when I think I see something shapeless and black moving alongside the highway, I can't help but slam on the brakes and straddle the highway's center line like a tightrope walker. And I think, Chupacabra! I am breathing heavy and sweat stings my eyes. Behind me, somewhere in the darkness, I hear Martin a.s.sure me that the chupacabra are not real. Vampire devils. Goat-suckers. His face, he says-what they did to his face is real, but the goat-suckers are not.

It is always brighter the moment you step out of a vehicle in the desert, no matter how dark it is. Now, it is cold, too. When people think of perishing in the desert, they usually don't imagine themselves freezing to death, but that is the truth of it.

I step around the side of the ice cream truck, my ears keying in on every desert sound. The chatter of insects is deafening. I cannot seem to get my heartbeat under control. With one hand tracing along the body of the truck, I move to the rear of the vehicle and peer through the darkness. I am not shocked when I see the reflective glow of two beady eyes staring back at me from the cusp of the highway; rather, a dull sense of fatigue overwhelms me.

It is a coyote. I see it clear enough as it turns and scampers further down the shoulder of the roadway. And while I am relieved, I am quickly accosted by a delayed sense of fear that causes my armpits to dampen beneath my sweatshirt and my mouth to go dry. I turn and begin to head back to the cab when I hear a sound-some sound, some thump-echo from the rear of the truck. From within.

My footfalls are soundless on the blacktop of the midnight highway. There is no lock on the rear doors-just a simple bolt slid into a ring. Unhinging the bolt, I peel the doors open and stare into the black maw of the truck. The sick-sweet stink of decay breathes out. I climb into the rear of the truck. There are coolers affixed to the floor and metal boxes on shelves. There are a number of cardboard ice cream boxes lining the shelves here too, but they are empty and so ancient that a slick, brown mildew coats every box. Looking down, I expect the coolers to be locked with padlocks, but they are not, and I am surprised.

Chupacabra? I wonder, and open one of the coolers. The hinges squeal and I fumble around my jacket pocket for a pen light. Shine the light into the back of the truck.

At first, it does not even register with me. And even after it does, I do not fully understand what I am looking at.

There are a number of them, bronze-skinned and wide-eyed, staring up at me, pressed so closely together that they are indistinguishable from one another. They reek of fear and sweat, their expressions just as uncomprehending as my own. Their clothes are filthy, their faces greasy with perspiration. So many of them, it is a wonder they can even fit. Finally, before I ease the cooler lid down, one of them says, "Muchacho."

"I'm sorry," I say...although I am unsure if I am actually speaking or am just hearing the words funnel through my head. And I hear Martin saying, They did me real good, for driving the truck into the river.

It is a long, quiet ride back across the border.

About Ronald Malfi.

Ronald Malfi was born in Brooklyn, New York in 1977. Along with his family, he eventually relocated to Maryland where he spent most of his childhood growing up along the Chesapeake Bay. He professed an interest in the arts at an early age and is also known to be a competent artist and musician. In 1999, he graduated with a degree in English from Towson University. For a number of years, he fronted the Maryland-based alternative rock band Nellie Blide.

Ronald Malfi is the author of the well-received novel Snow and most recently, The Ascent. Recognized for his haunting, literary style and memorable characters, Malfi's horror novels and thrillers have transcended genres to gain wider acceptance among readers of quality literature. He currently lives along the Chesapeake Bay. You can visit Ronald Malfi at: http://www.ronmalfi.com.

THE ORPHANS OF LETHE.

by Rachel Coles.

The "blessed" day finally arrived with cussing that would have boiled holy water into steam. We checked into the hospital. I don't think we were in the labor suite for twenty minutes before my husband Bill ogled at the Romanesque design of the bathroom. I imagined choking him and ripping his nuts off. That helped, but not as much as the epidural.

Before my eyes slid shut, I zoned out and stared at a shadow in the corner behind the heart monitor, and realized that it wasn't the shadow of the monitor.

A day later, Bill wandered into my room with the rich aroma of pastrami and b.u.t.tery rye following him like an elderly Brooklyn deli phantom, poaching my fries on the way.

"I got your Reuben, as requested."

"Are you eating my fries?"

He paused, an errant fry poking out of his mouth. "No...just quality a.s.surance..."

I s.n.a.t.c.hed the bag and stuck my entire face inside, inhaling the greasy goodness. "Stay out of my food, or I'll eat you."

He snorted and leaned back in the chair and stretched his legs. "I heard something interesting today. They're closing down one of the last units for psychiatric folks in the city at University Hospital. The only one left will be Denver Health. If Denver's full, they'll have to go to Fort Logan, or get shuffled through the Emergency Department and then back out onto the street."

"University is closing their psychiatric unit?" I said through mouthfuls of meat. "I thought they just got that new huge building. It was supposed to be the whole point of moving out to the east end of nowhere, so they could have more room. What are they doing with it after the psych unit closes?"

"Luxury rooms for the wealthy. They want to attract more money to the hospital. So they are turning the s.p.a.ce that used to be the psych ward into single-patient rooms for body-scans." Bill shook his head. "I'll be doing the rest of my residency in the park across from the Denver Rescue Mission, because that's where my low-income, mentally ill patients will end up."

I stopped chewing and looked around at my own semi-lavish surroundings in the labor room.

He seemed to read my thoughts and smiled. "Don't feel so guilty. They wouldn't have turned this back into a mental health wing anyway. The suites in the previous labor and delivery wing were like prison cells. They needed an overhaul."

I poked at a blob of sauerkraut, and glanced out the window. A blanket of snow was swirling around lumps of roadside dirt and iced grime until everything was shifting, glittering white. The wind blew a cruel blast against the double-pane. My attention was caught by my own reflection in the mirror. My image and I swiped at a beige smear of Thousand Island dressing on the wrong cheek. Bill laughed as I pawed both my hands over my face and licked the dressing off my hand.

Then the eyes in the mirror changed. They weren't smiling or laughing anymore. The face was an expressionless mask. As soon as I focused on it, the face became my face again. I glanced at Bill, but he was busy eying the other half of my sandwich.

It was good to be home, minus dozens of hours of sleep. A chilly draft blasted across the room when Bill came in from work, bundled in a hat and scarf and smelling like frost and ozone. No paternity leave for the wicked.

"Shut the door!" I squealed and dove beneath a mound of flowered fleece. Baby Tom snuggled against my chest in a swath of fabric, yawned, and looked unimpressed by the waft of frigid air.

"It's windy. Jeez. You've been here for five years. Aren't you ever going to get used to cold? Oh yeah, I forgot, your people have been lost in the desert for forty years. Would you feel more comfortable if I shipped in some sand dunes?" He ducked as a couch pillow sailed past his head and whumped against the front door.

"Sure! Ask your people to build us a teepee," I shot back.

He grinned, "Wrong tribe, dork! We lived in longhouses. And...h.e.l.l no."

"Whatever. You all look alike."

He shook his fist and kissed me on the top of the head, kissed Tom on his b.u.t.ton nose and crossed his eyes at the baby. Tom stared at him in fascination. His head wobbled off my chest and he grabbed Bill's finger, pulling it toward his mouth. "Oh, guess what! He's hungry again, what a surprise! 'Feed me, Seymour.'"

I sighed. "I'm tapped out. We'll need to use formula."

"I can take this shift if you want to sleep early."

"Are you sure? You just got off call."

"Maybe so, but I'm going to have a hard time sleeping right now anyway. One of my patients didn't come back for her follow up. The schizophrenic girl from Russia. Police found a body matching her description in the alley behind the King Soopers on Thirteenth Street. It looks like she died of exposure." He slumped into the worn chair across from me. "We should have kept her, but there weren't any spots left on the unit. It was an insane night, and now that folks from the VA are being shipped over too..."

I felt badly for him. I knew he was wondering if he could have somehow prevented the woman's fate. "It wasn't your decision to release her. It was the attending doc."

"I know. But I just can't stop thinking about how somehow, this is my fault."

"It isn't your fault." I handed Tom over because I knew it would help, and it did. Bill's face relaxed and lit up as Tom gurgled and drooled onto his scrubs.

A few weeks in a tiny house with no sleep and my 'helpful,' anxious mother drove me out into the cold, looking for commodities we needed at the store. Or anything. Once I was done in the supermarket, I rattled the cart briskly toward my car in the parking lot. Tom was just a fuzzy mountain of blankets in the cart with two dark eyes peeping out.

Suddenly a voice startled me, causing my heart to try to leap out of my chest. "Just feel free to run me over! Christ, I'm homeless, not invisible!"

I gasped and jumped a foot in the air when the grungy figure near the sidewalk moved toward me. "I'm so sorry!" I cried before I could think. Then, as I tried to calm my rapidly beating heart, I told him, "I know you're not invisible, but I really didn't see you."

His hard eyes softened. "It's all right. I didn't mean to scare you. You got a little one there. Boy or girl?" He peered at Tom.

"Boy."

"He's a teeny one! How old?"

"A few weeks."

"Jesus Christ! What're you doin' out in this weather?"

"I've been in the house for three weeks. My mother's been here for two."

He laughed. "I see. You needed a little fresh air and a little get-away."

I dug for my wallet.

"You don't have to do that, miss. I don't want your money. I'm doin' all right." He held up his cup of ratty bills. "I got the shelter at night, my coat, my wits."

His wrinkled, leathery face grew distant for a second. "That's more 'n some out here..." He drifted off, and then his eyes sharpened, and he said, "It's really cold, and here comes the rent-a-cop. You'd better get that little bundle of yours inside."

As a square-shouldered security guard stalked toward us, the homeless man warned, "You be careful. Some folks out here aren't okay."

"What do you mean?"