The Chupacabra: A Borderline Crazy Tale of Coyotes, Cash & Cartels (The Chupacabra Trilogy - Book 1)

by Stephen Randel

  “Protégeme Jesus,” Ernesto whispered as he stared into the menacing eyes of the hulking man hovering over him. Somewhere, deep in the desert, something howled.

  • • •

  More than five hundred miles to the east, the roadside traffic board warned of ZOMBIES AHEAD. Funny how some things in Austin never change, Kip thought as he drove past the traffic board that had been broken into and altered by teenage pranksters. Then again, some things do. He hardly recognized the skyline of the city in which he’d grown up. Glass and stone buildings sprouted up like weeds in an unattended garden.

  Kip hadn’t been back to Austin since his mother’s funeral, over ten years ago. Now, his father, Bennett, a retired doctor, had been diagnosed with cancer. Smoking a pipe for half a century has a nasty way of catching up with a person.

  He planned on staying a few weeks but didn’t really know. Free time was a luxury he now enjoyed. Since graduating from college, he’d worked on Wall Street for one of the numerous firms that specialized in trading bonds backed by sub-prime mortgages. One by one, as the global credit crises exploded, they closed their doors. When his firm went out of business, it seemed to happen overnight. Turn in your security badge and get the hell out. He never even bothered cleaning out his desk. It had nothing worth keeping. He was overdue catching up with his father, and this time off would give him the chance. Besides, he knew he could help around the house. Avery and Aunt Polly helped Bennett as much as they could. Well, at least Aunt Polly did.

  After exiting the highway and driving another ten minutes past stores and buildings he thought he might or might not exactly remember, he pulled his rental car to a stop in front of the house in which he’d grown up.

  The aging white house showed signs of neglect, yet still maintained a certain grace. Like a portrait of an elegant, elderly lady wearing her tattered wedding dress, she looked disheveled but defiantly proud. The two-story home was built in the Greek Revival style of architecture. Six stately white columns badly in need of a fresh coat of paint framed the two levels of deep verandas in front. Floor-to-ceiling windows lined both levels of the house. Neighbors snickered that it was nothing more than a cheap imitation of the Texas governor’s mansion. A great white elephant surrounded by oak trees that hardly fit in with the modest homes along the rest of the street.

  Navigating the cracked and sinking walkway to the front steps required an interrupted stride to avoid tripping. Kip hopped the last few feet of concrete, landing on the worn wooden front steps with a dull thud. A pile of New York Times, unopened and still in their blue plastic delivery bags, lay scattered to the left of the door.

  The front door was open, abandoning the ripped screen door to a brave but futile battle to defend the home from fruit flies and the occasional dirt dauber wasp, whose dried mud nests lined the upper corners of the front porch.

  “Hello?” Kip called out as he stepped into the entryway. There was no reply but the dull buzzing and tapping of a fly trying to escape the room via a closed window.

  As worn as the outside of the house appeared, the interior was still magnificent. The antique furniture remained in the exact locations he remembered and was perfectly maintained.

  Kip slowly climbed the curving staircase that dominated the main foyer. Reaching the second floor, he walked quietly down the main hallway toward his father’s room.

  Bennett woke from his nap as Kip opened the door. At the man’s feet, a small white French bulldog opened a disapproving eye, cocked his blocky head, and snorted.

  “Move, Max,” Bennett said.

  The little dog sprang to his feet, shook his collar, hopped off the bed, and trotted out of the room, pausing briefly to sniff the leg of the stranger who had so rudely interrupted his afternoon slumber.

  As the sound of the dog bumping and banging down the stairs faded, the old man pushed himself up on his side and then slid back, propping himself upright on his pillow. His closely cropped white hair and beard framed his weathered face and slate-grey eyes.

  “Make yourself useful and see if my pipe is by the chair,” Bennett growled with as much compassion as a black bear woken early from hibernation.

  “That a good idea?”

  “Best one I’ve had all day.”

  “You’re a doctor. You should know better.”

  “I was an obstetrician. I know how to bring ’em in the world. After that, it’s up to some other schmuck to sermonize them regarding the finer points of a healthy lifestyle regimen.”

  Kip walked toward his father’s chair. The leather was cracked and peeling. The matching ottoman was in even worse shape. The once dark mahogany leather was now nearly white with age. A yarn afghan woven to replicate the Texas state flag lay draped across one arm of the chair. A dog-eared copy of National Geographic rested on the other. Kip glanced around the chair and the small lamp table next to it. He didn’t see the pipe.

  “Sure it’s here?” Kip asked.

  “Look under the blanket.”

  Kip lifted the afghan, revealing a corncob pipe and tobacco pouch resting in a glass ashtray. The ashtray was etched with an image of Galveston’s Strand District.

  “Why keep it covered?” asked Kip.

  “So Avery doesn’t find it and use it in one of his experiments.”

  “Experiments?” Kip asked as he handed the ashtray and its contents to Bennett.

  “Experiments, projects, research. Hell, whatever it is he does day and night in his room.”

  “So, how you feeling, old-timer?” Kip asked, settling into Bennett’s chair.

  “Well, I’ve been better.”

  “You following the doc’s orders?”

  “I’m following my orders.”

  “Any chance you might want a second opinion?” Kip inquired.

  “Look, son,” Bennett said as he filled his pipe from the pouch. “I was in the room the day half the doctors in this town were born. Most are young, cocky punks with the bedside manner of a hyena. You want to know the grand history of medicine? It goes like this. A thousand years ago, if you were sick, they told you to eat this ground-up root. Pretty soon they decided the root didn’t work, so just take this potion instead. After a while, they decided the potion didn’t work, so just take this pill. Now they say the pills don’t work because the disease has developed a resistance to the drug. Now you need a holistic cure. So what you do is just eat this ground-up root. The reality is we don’t know much more about how to keep people alive than we ever did. I’m sick and I’m an old man. Some day I’m going to pass and be with your mother again. I’m not changing my ways now. I know what I need to do, and I’m doing it. If all you plan on doing is nagging at me too, you can get right back on that plane and…”

  “Good to see you, too,” Kip interrupted.

  Bennett smiled warmly at his son and said, “Aunt Polly has your old room fixed up for you. Go on and move your stuff in. Oh, and be sure to say hello to Avery. Otherwise, he might think you’re some kind of spy.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Seriously.”

  Avery actually wasn’t Kip’s brother, but the son of Bennett’s second wife, Emma. Bennett had married Avery’s mother four years ago knowing full well that her son was a unique soul, but it wasn’t until she suddenly passed away, two years to the day from their wedding, that he realized exactly how peculiar his live-in son was. Without his mother to serve as a buffer between the men, Avery had become increasingly erratic, emotionally despondent, and mildly delusional. Soon after losing his mother, Avery quit his job as a computer repair technician and sequestered himself in his upstairs bedroom. Bennett, however, had loved Emma and promised her before she passed to allow Avery to continue to live with him in the house. Besides, Bennett knew he wasn’t getting any younger or healthier and needed Avery’s occasional help and company, as bizarre as it usually was.

  As Kip approached Avery’s room, he couldn’t help but notice a strange odor emanating from that end of the hallway. It smelled vaguely of co
rn chips and butane gas. The partially open door to Avery’s room had a sign that read SKUNK WORKS nailed to it. Kip pushed open the door and spied Avery hunched over a dingy white keyboard surrounded by five computer monitors of various sizes. The monitors were resting on a wooden picnic table pushed up against the far wall. The middle section of the table appeared to have been sawed out, creating a U-shaped workspace with room for the collection of eclectic monitors. His keyboard rested on a folding tray table in the middle of the cut-out section, while Avery sat on the still attached bench. Either failing to notice Kip’s entry or intentionally ignoring it, Avery continued to type deliberately on his keyboard using only his two index fingers.

  The best way to describe Avery would be “soft.” Less than average height, he wasn’t exactly overweight, just soft and kind of squishy. Years of sitting in front of a computer with only an occasional swipe at exercise had transformed him into a pale, slouching lump of a thirty-year-old man. His overly large head was covered in an outrageous tangle of dark brown hair. An overgrown beard that would have been called untidy if only it had been trimmed in the last year encircled his perpetually pursed lips. His pale blue eyes, however, were most interesting. He didn’t look. He stared. A stare that alternated between a blank gaze and bright-eyed excitement, rarely anything in between.

  While in the house, which Avery rarely left unless forced, he wore an old terrycloth robe that was originally dark green. Now it more closely resembled a woodland camouflage of stained and faded spots. On the odd occasion Avery when would appear in the outside world, he wore a canary yellow tracksuit and black high-top sneakers, usually untied.

  Much of Avery’s time was devoted to his work. This was comprised of refurbishing his collection of computers and using the Internet to research his personal projects, mostly ridiculous, and his theories, mostly conspiratorial. For the remainder of his day, he preferred to compose letters to editors, politicians, academics, and anyone else he thought posed a threat to his health, welfare, or intrinsic freedom. That meant pretty much everyone.

  “Excuse me,” Kip said.

  “State your business,” Avery replied in an annoyed tone.

  “I wanted to introduce myself. I’m Kip; we haven’t actually had the chance to meet.”

  “Of course it is and of course we haven’t,” replied Avery without looking away from his monitor. “The insane doctor who lives down the hallway informed me of your impending visit. I’ve been monitoring your approach to my office since your arrival. If you were anyone but who you say you are, I would have treated you as another of the nefarious intruders or gluttonous interlopers we all too regularly receive and incapacitated you posthaste. You see I’m quite proficient in several styles of Filipino stick fighting, including the most lethal variant, the Doble Baston. However, I’m sure the doctor informed you of that already.”

  “No, actually he didn’t,” replied Kip.

  “Consider yourself duly forewarned.”

  “Appreciated,” Kip said as he stepped into the dimly lit room. The light from the glowing computer monitors and a few faint wisps of sunlight leaking in around the drawn window shades provided the only illumination. Above Avery’s workstation hung a large corkboard. Thumbtacks held in place dozens of pages of legal pad paper inscribed with wildly chaotic flowcharts, sketches of black canine-shaped images, and technical diagrams. Apart from the area of the deformed picnic table, the walls were lined with bookshelves and metal racks crammed with a various assortment of dog-eared magazines, scientific and historical books, manuals, spare computer hardware, and tools. A wooden ladder was propped against one of the bookshelves. Several pairs of old tube socks hung on the rungs. A small bed sat at the far end of the room. The bed was stripped of its sheets, which were bundled at the foot. Above the headboard and taped to the wall was a vintage White Star Line travel poster depicting the mighty Titanic being pushed away from the Southampton pier by a small tugboat dwarfed by the enormous ocean liner. On the pier, a young woman in the crowd wearing a striped hat stood, waving a white handkerchief as if to solemnly say goodbye.

  “Quite a setup you have here,” Kip said with an undertone of sarcasm.

  “Don’t mock what you don’t understand,” Avery replied quickly as he finally turned away from his monitors and addressed Kip directly.

  “Sorry,” Kip said, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “What don’t I understand?”

  “Ever since the dawn of time, those that have demanded more of life than simply being spoon-fed useless information or preferred to avoid being beaten senseless with lemming-like cultural and religious traditions have had to search for empirical truth on their own. Take for example today—the vast majority of people who inhabit this country are intellectual plebeians who measure their merit and worth by the number of possessions they can accumulate via revolving debt they either don’t understand or won’t ever have the financial wherewithal to repay. Why? They don’t know. They’d rather not know. All they understand is that two HDTVs are better than one and not nearly as noble as three.” Avery covered his ears with his hands and whispered in a hushed tone, “I’m a free thinker. My setup, as you refer to it, is my crucible.” His voice rose as he spread his arms slowly above his head, “The Romans, yes, the mighty Romans, utilized refractory containers to meld brass out of copper and zinc, allowing them to rule their universe. I, however, employ my crucible to melt and alter the properties of ignorance.”

  “Okay…so how’s that working out for you?”

  “Not bad,” Avery replied, spinning back around on the wooden bench and leaning his face in close to his monitors. “Keeps me busy and in a relatively low tax bracket.”

  “Can I ask a question? How the heck did you manage to get that picnic table in here?” Kip inquired.

  “I disassembled it in the backyard and reassembled it in here to suit my purposes. Don’t worry. It’s only temporary. I’m having IKEA design a custom workstation for me as we speak. I sent them the technical specifications and blueprints to work from several months ago.”

  “I didn’t realize they did custom work.”

  “They will for me. I’m allowing them a share of future revenues from each unit sold. It will undoubtedly be a huge success. Could very well secure the financial future of the company.”

  “I’m sure they’ll appreciate that,” Kip said as he wandered around the room, surveying the contents of the shelves. He noticed a stack of three books that didn’t look as dusty as some of the others. “Hmm, Crop Circles,” he said, reading the title of the first book. “Ranch and Farm Management and UFOs,” he continued as he perused the other two. “Some kind of connection?”

  “Of course there is,” Avery said, sniffing and wiping his nose with the back of his hand. “UFOs make the cows dizzy.”

  “Can’t believe I never put the two together,” Kip said as he rolled his eyes.

  “Don’t feel too bad—nobody else has, either.”

  “Well, anyway, I’m going to be staying across the hall in my old room for a couple of weeks,” Kip said as he replaced the books on the shelf.

  “As I mentioned before, the doctor has already informed me. I think it’s a bad idea, but the doctor is insistent. Please understand my work keeps me busy at odd hours. Please refrain from playing loud music, or, for that matter, any music at all.”

  “No problem,” Kip said as he turned to leave. As he did so, Avery returned to furiously pounding away at his keyboard.

  To: The Chairman and CEO

  IKEA International Group

  Dear Sir:

  I am writing to follow up on my recent communiqué of technical construction data for the next generation of world-class computer workstations. I have failed to receive any status reports or updates from you or your representatives regarding construction progress or anticipated completion and delivery date of said office furniture. As I have not received correspondence via phone, fax, letter, or email, I’m left with the only reasonably possible conclusion
that your carrier pigeon must have lost its way, possibly somewhere in the vicinity of the Azores. Please understand the colossal importance of the timely consummation of this endeavor. With recent revenues of $30 billion, I fail to see how IKEA intends to approach the $40-billion mark without the immediate launch of this revolutionary furnishing. If design complexity is an issue, I’m willing to negotiate on the number and location of cup holders, but not the attached refrigerator and microwave. They are sacred cows, necessary for product differentiation in the marketplace. If I do not hear from you or your representatives in a timely fashion, I will be left with no choice but to reconsider my overly generous revenue sharing proposal of an even 50/50 split. Even worse, you may force my hand to approach Target Corporation with an exclusive partnership offer. When the international business community becomes aware that you ignored one of the greatest business opportunities of the century, you will never be able to show your face in Western Europe again.

  Sincerely,

  Avery Bartholomew Pendleton

  P.S. - If your carrier pigeon arrives before you review this dispatch, please forgive the duplication of effort.

  • • •

  From his podium, Brigadier General X-Ray surveyed his troops, decked out in their full wardrobe of surplus military gear. They were gathered in the headquarters of the Southwest Texas Revolutionary Armed Confederate Border Operations Militia (STRAC-BOM for short). All members of STRAC-BOM’s three two-man fire teams, Alpha, Bravo, and Charlie, sat in folding lawn chairs in the large rectangular cinderblock building on the outskirts of Tornillo, Texas, an unincorporated area near the western edge of El Paso County, about forty miles southeast of El Paso itself. A warning sign posted outside proclaimed NO TRESPASSING – THIS IS TORNILLO, NOT WACO – SURVIVORS WILL BE PROSECUTED – IN GOD WE TRUST – STRAC-BOM. The corrugated metal roof creaked as the dusty wind blew across it.

  “Gentlemen,” began the overly pompous General X-Ray, pointing his leather riding crop toward the large topographical map stapled to the wall. On the map, buildings and landmarks were highlighted in red. An American flag pin designated the approximate position of the militia’s headquarters. “This fine and decent American community of Tornillo is connected to Guadalupe, a known hotbed of liars and thieves, determined to infiltrate our glorious State of Texas by way of the Puente La Caseta International Bridge,” the General said, slapping the map with his riding crop for effect. “It’s a veritable two-lane river of immigrant travel that flows in one direction. Fire Team Leader Alpha! What direction might that be?”