Dylan found himself alone in the farmyard as the last of the light faded from the sky. "Dad was wrong. Dropping out of college wasn't the stupidest thing I ever did. This is."

He walked over to his truck and pulled open the door. He stared into the cab, then at the keys in his hand, then back towards the goat pens. He almost climbed into the truck and left. 'I could take off right now and come back before dawn, and nobody would be the wiser,' he thought to himself.

'Nobody but me, at least.' He finished as he reached in, grabbed his pistol and pulled the holster from under the seat. He snatched a filthy watchcap from the passenger floorboard and pulled a dusty blanket from behind the seat. He was about to shut the door when he paused for a moment, then took the double barrel shotgun out of the rack in the rear window.

He checked the shotgun's load, found it empty (as expected) and rummaged through the glove compartment for shells. "Whoo hoo! Lucky me!" he exclaimed as he examined the shells in the fading light. "Double-ought buckshot, better than wooden stakes and holy water combined." Dylan hoisted his gear and turned back towards the farmyard.

"El Chupacabra sucks the blood of any farm animal bigger than a chicken," Dylan mummered aloud as he scouted out the most advantageous point covering the farmyard. "But El Chupacabra seems to like to suck on goats most of all." He dropped his gear in a pile near a corner of the goat pen, "All the easier for me, since we have fewer goats than sheep. I watch the goats, El Chupacabra shows up, turns out to be a feral dog, things happen, case closed."