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

by Stephen Randel

  “She’s right,” chimed in Agent Martin. “Sneaking around out here in the dark, you’re liable to get shot, either by drug runners or by us. Now, I can’t make you leave, but I highly suggest you go back to your day jobs and leave this to us.”

  “I appreciate your concern,” the General replied. “But our mission is scheduled until Sunday, and we’ll not abandon our campaign. Now, if you don’t mind, we need to break camp and commence transit to Rally Point Dos.”

  “All right,” replied Agent Martin. “But first, you wouldn’t happen to know anything about a flare being launched around here last night?”

  “Indeed,” said the General. “I was illuminating two illegal alien targets.”

  “Actually,” said Private Zulu, “it was some kind of demonic werewolf-vampire coyote. Might have been part zombie as well. Fire Team Leader Charlie saw it!.”

  “Really? A vampire coyote?” Agent Martin said sarcastically as he glanced over at Agent Diaz, who was doing her best not to laugh. “They do tend to come out this time of year, don’t they, Agent Diaz?”

  “You bet. They call them chupacabras. They drink your blood,” Agent Diaz replied in a spooky voice.

  “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell everyone!” Private Zulu said excitedly. “But nobody believes me!”

  “General, what happened to the illegal aliens you were illuminating?” asked Agent Martin.

  “We left the remains of their bodies down below in the valley.”

  “Remains?” Agent Martin asked with an icy stare at the General while Agent Diaz raised her shotgun to the ready.

  “Calm down, agent,” the General said. “They were already dead. Had been for some time.”

  “Well, why don’t we all go down and have a look, then?” replied Agent Martin as he motioned down toward the valley with his shotgun. “After you, boys.”

  Border Patrol Agents Martin and Diaz followed the members of STRAC-BOM down the sloping cut in the ridge toward the location of the bodies the militia had discovered the previous evening. Reaching their location, Agent Martin bent down on one knee to more closely examine the scattered remains. Pulling out a folding buck knife, he used the tip of the blade to poke through the pile of bones and clothes of the first victim before moving to the second.

  “Something sure did a number on these two,” said Agent Martin as he closed his buck knife and returned it to its sheath.

  “Just a coyote,” said Fire Team Leader Charlie.

  “No,” replied Agent Martin as he rose to stand. “I’d say the first one at least was shot. Something awfully high-powered, by the way it shattered the sternum and spine. I’d also say someone did a pretty good job of breaking the bodies up. Maybe to make it easier for the varmints to get at them.”

  “Want me to call it in, Hank?” asked Agent Diaz.

  “Yeah,” he replied. “Have them send a truck out here to collect the remains.” Agent Diaz retrieved her radio and called the instructions into the border patrol base. “General,” Agent Martin continued as he turned toward the men of the militia, “I’ll ask you one more time to do me a favor and get on back home. This ain’t a place for amateurs.”

  “We appreciate your concern,” General X-Ray replied. “But my troops are more than capable of defending themselves if needed.”

  “All right,” Agent Martin acquiesced. “But you’ve been warned. Watch you don’t shoot yourselves.”

  “Hank,” Agent Diaz said. “The vehicle should be here in a couple of hours.”

  “Okay,” he replied. “General, you and your men are free to get back to your little adventures, but I want you to let me know if you come across anything else,” he continued as he handed a card with his contact information to the General.

  “We’ll be in contact,” the General replied. “More than likely with a string of detainees in tow. I’ve got a good feeling about tonight.”

  “Just remember,” said Agent Martin. “An illegal may not be a U.S. citizen, but if you shoot an innocent person out here, I’ll see that you and your men are charged.”

  “We’re fully aware of the rules of engagement,” the General replied. “Now, if you don’t mind, we’re behind schedule for our move to Rally Point Dos.”

  “And where might that be?” Agent Martin inquired.

  “About five miles east of here,” the General said as he pointed down the ridgeline with his riding crop. “An obvious route of travel for our treacherous prey runs through the desert near there. Tonight we’ll be waiting for them.” The General turned, and with a flourish of his riding crop, rallied his men back up to their campsite to prepare for departure.

  “What do you think, Hank?” Agent Diaz asked as she watched the men leave.

  “I think we’ve got enough problems doing our own job without having to babysit these idiots.”

  “I’ll bet you ten bucks one of them shoots himself with his own gun.”

  “If only we could be that lucky,” Agent Martin said as he slung his shotgun over his shoulder. “I keep reading about these local militias popping up along the border. I was hoping we could get lucky and avoid them. Smugglers don’t give a spit about killing. They come across these greenhorns wearing fatigues and carrying guns, it’ll be a bloodbath. I’m thinking we might want to keep an eye on these boys tonight. You got plans?”

  “I do now. How about I go up and bring down the horses?”

  “Sounds good,” he replied as he retrieved his radio. “Base. This is Patrol Seven. Would you instruct the vehicle you’re sending out to bring along some extra water, food, jackets, and feed bags for the horses and some night vision equipment? We’re going to follow these boys tonight and make sure they don’t get up to any trouble. Over.”

  • • •

  Avery awoke late on Saturday morning to the frenetic jangling of Max’s dog tags in the hallway as the fierce little dog attempted to shake the stuffing out of a kitty-shaped chew toy. Avery had only gotten a few hours of sleep that night. Partly because he had been working most of the night gathering evidence to confirm his suspicions that North Korean operatives were actually the ones responsible for the RFK assassination, partly because of the lingering pain in his stomach from the infernal sabotaged tacos he had consumed, and partly because of his twisted and haunting dreams. His groin, still tender from the attack by the yoga mat–toting young woman, didn’t help matters, either.

  Avery stormed past Max and stumbled downstairs in his bathrobe as he headed straight to the refrigerator in the kitchen. Ripping open the door open to access its contents, loudly rattling the condiment jars in the refrigerator door in the process, he furiously searched for a Mountain Dew. Cursing to himself as he discovered he was out, he hustled back to his office to put on his tracksuit and grab his fanny pack. A dull headache throbbed in his skull from the lack of sugar and caffeine as he bolted from the house and made a beeline to the drugstore a few blocks away. Nearly running over a small boy exiting the store, he shuffled down the aisle that contained assorted packaged foods until he reached the section containing soft drinks. Looking across the aisle at the refrigerated section, he debated whether he should grab the cold sixteen-ounce bottles or the warm two-liter bottles on the shelf. Deciding volume was more important than temperature, he scooped up four of the large plastic bottles. Heading to the register, he used his fingertips to pull a large bag of potato chips from a shelf, spilling several other bags of snacks onto the floor in the process. Ignoring the mess, he tucked into line behind a woman holding a large container of diapers and an elderly couple at the front of the line paying for their purchase.

  “Your total is fourteen dollars and twelve cents,” the skinny redheaded teenager behind the register said to the couple.

  “Here you go, sonny,” the elderly man said as he handed his bank card to the kid behind the counter.

  “Just swipe it right there on the keypad,” he replied. The elderly man ran the card through the reader on the side of the pad and went to replace the ca
rd in his wallet. “Sir,” the boy began. “You need to run the side with the magnetic strip through.”

  “I did,” the man replied.

  “No, it was facing up and out.”

  “Here, Harold,” the man’s wife said. “Give it to me.” The woman swiped the card through the reader correctly. Avery shuffled his feet impatiently as he waited in line.

  “Now select debit or credit on the screen,” the boy instructed.

  “Debit or credit?” the man asked. “It’s a bank card from the credit union. I wanted checks, but they charge too much for them. Twelve dollars a box they want for them. It’s outrageous. Plus, nobody takes a cotton-picking check anymore, and if they do, they want more personal information to write across the top than we had to give to get our first mortgage. Betty, remember that little place in Corsicana?”

  “Oh, it had the most beautiful rosebushes out front!” his wife gushed to the cashier.

  “Just push debit!” yelled Avery as he leaned around the woman in front of him.

  “Hold your horses, boy,” the man said as he turned to look at the disheveled bearded man in the bright tracksuit. “I’m getting to it.” The man pressed the debit button on the keypad. “What’s a PIN?” he inquired of the boy.

  “Your Personal Identification Number,” he replied. “Just type it in and press enter.”

  “I ain’t got one.”

  “Sure you do,” said the boy.

  “Nope.”

  “Harold,” said his wife. “Try your social security number.”

  “I ain’t giving them my social security number, Betty!” Harold scolded her. “Remember the police officer who came to the last AARP meeting and told us about the thieves who take your identity. I ain’t paying for some criminal to buy a condo in Vegas with my information. We’re on a fixed income.”

  “Just press credit then,” the boy instructed. “It’ll work that way, too, and you don’t need a PIN.”

  “Like hell I will!” Harold rebuked.

  “Why not?”

  “I ain’t paying no interest on this.”

  “Sir, you won’t be charged interest.”

  “See, Betty,” Harold said, turning to his wife. “Just like the police officer said. If it sounds too good to be true, it is.”

  “Just pay him, you fossilized imbecile!” screamed Avery.

  “You bite your tongue, boy! I spent twenty years in the navy and I’ll roll you like a carpet if you don’t watch your mouth,” Harold said, scowling and pointing his finger menacingly at Avery. The woman holding the diapers nervously stepped from between the two men and wandered toward the back of the store as the manager approached from the makeup aisle.

  “Sir,” the store manager said as he approached Avery, “I’m going to have to ask that you please keep your voice down.”

  “Piss off!”

  “Sir, you need to control yourself. I can and will refuse service to anyone who acts belligerently towards employees or customers of this establishment.”

  “You’re a very rude man,” Betty said to Avery with disgust in her voice. “My husband is a veteran on a fixed income. You need to show some respect.”

  “You need to hurry up and get the hell out of my way!” the caffeine and sugar–deprived Avery exploded again.

  “One more word from you,” said the manager, “and you’re out of here. You understand me?” Two more male store employees had made their way to the front of the store and stood behind the manager.

  Avery, sensing that he was again outnumbered, considered his options. He could swallow his pride and cooperate, leave the store without his supplies, and face walking another two blocks to the nearest grocery store, or he could make a break for it without paying and use his combat skills to battle his way home. Deciding that since he had neglected to bring his Filipino fighting sticks with him, defending himself from the mob wasn’t a practical solution, he reluctantly gave in.

  “Please, kind sir,” Avery said with clear sarcasm in his voice. “Complete your transaction. If I may assist you and your lovely bride in any way, please let me know.” The store employees monitored Avery until the elderly couple had paid for their goods using cash from Betty’s purse and exited the store. Avery paid for his soda and chips and quickly followed. Noticing the couple getting into their car in the parking lot, Avery sneered at Harold as he lumbered past. “Break a hip,” he muttered as he stumbled home as quickly as he could.

  Back in his office, Avery guzzled warm Mountain Dew straight from a two-liter bottle as he madly pounded away at his keyboard.

  To: Reginald J. Haversack

  United States Senator (R-Minnesota)

  Dear Senator:

  I know who you are. For almost three decades, you may have fooled the constituents of your state and deceived your slow-witted cadre of Washington D.C.’s inner loop. My extensive research into your family’s genealogical tree has led me to the startling discovery that you are indeed directly related to Vladimir Lenin. My investigation has discovered that in 1903, during the gathering of the Congress of the Russian Social Democratic Labor Party in Brussels, your maternal great-grandmother was involved in a scandalous liaison with the father of modern Socialism. The infamous encounter occurred in a men’s bathroom stall after the cocktail social at the end of the conference where your great-grandmother was the unfortunate loser of a Russian drinking game that loosely translates to “Pass the Babushka.” The game is similar in nature to the children’s card game “Slap Jack” except that the base halves of Russian nesting dolls are lined up smallest to largest in front of the participants and filled with vodka. The loser of each round is required to drink the contents of the dolls in one shot, progressing from the smallest doll to the largest. Your great-grandmother apparently mistook the game for “Slap King,” losing eight consecutive rounds in less than thirty minutes. Lenin, the fiend, took advantage of the poor, helpless woman and never called her back, as he had promised. Your illegitimate grandfather was indeed born in Duluth, Minnesota, after your great-grandmother immigrated to the United States, as your Senate biography states. However, your Senate biography does not discuss her taking the last name of Haversack to avoid the embarrassment and shame of her bastard Marxist progeny. Why do I inform you of this now? It’s quite simple, really. After your recent lambasting of the current administration’s policies as “Insidious Closet Socialism” was unanimously lauded by your conservative colleagues and hence has become the latest Republican Party rallying cry, even gracing the cover of the latest edition of Newsweek, I feel certain that the details of your direct genetic link to the greatest of the Socialists would lead to vociferous ridicule and your inevitable impeachment. Senator, I am willing to keep this ignominious fact hidden from the world on one condition. As Vice Chair of the Senate Appropriations Committee and current member of its Education Committee, you have significant influence over funding decisions. Given that no current accredited university in this country offers educational programs in cryptozoology, I ask you to wield your policy-making prowess and require all future state university funding to be contingent on immediate establishment of undergraduate and master’s level curriculum regarding the study of unknown and mystical creatures. The need for qualified cryptozoologists has never been more imperative. Yetis, Loch Monsters, and other cryptids are facing urgent habitat issues stemming from the exponential increase in the burning of fossil fuels. My own research indicates that here in Texas we may soon face a catastrophic infestation of chupacabra as the vampire-like creatures migrate north from their historic feeding grounds into the heart of the southwestern United States, bringing their bloodsucking terror with them. Immediate funding for the establishment of these programs is needed to allow for better understanding of this growing threat to our country. Senator, as you must do your part, we all must do our part. Myself, I’m willing to graciously accept assignment as head of the Cryptozoology Department at the University of Texas at Austin, as soon as the coming semester. Of course, I w
ould expect adequate financial compensation, immediate tenured status, around-the-clock access to the Central Intelligence Agency’s computer network at Langley, Virginia, with “Top Secret” security clearance preapproved, and a monthly car allowance with a reserved faculty parking space near the main door. Additionally, my class load would need to be scheduled for evenings only, as I’m not an early riser. If you do not comply with my demands, I will have no choice but to approach my extensive network of media contacts with the sordid details of how you, Reginald J. Haversack, the spawn of Lenin, have infiltrated the Republican Party.

  Sincerely,

  Avery Bartholomew Pendleton

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  You Go, Girls!

  El Barquero had been in his car for nearly five hours since leaving the farmhouse outside Piedras Negras. After crossing the border, he flew along the roads leading northwest toward El Paso. It was a little past noon, and he was still a hundred miles or so from El Paso when he reached the town of Marfa, Texas.

  Pulling up to a rundown house on the edge of town, he parked his car in back and went to the sliding glass door at the rear of the small house. He tested the door to see if was locked. It wasn’t. Slipping inside, he paused in the dingy, sparsely furnished living room and listened for noise. The sound of heavy snoring mixed with tejano music came from a bedroom down the hallway. Stealthily approaching the door, he pulled a black semiautomatic pistol from his back waistband and screwed a short sound suppressor from his pocket onto the barrel. Pointing the gun into the room, he used his free hand to gently open the door. Peering inside the dark room, illuminated only by the light that filtered in through a thin dirty piece of cloth nailed to the wall to act as a shade across a small window, he spotted his informant passed out on a thin, stained single mattress on the floor. He was splayed out on his back, wearing only a pair of white boxer shorts and a blue T-shirt pulled up over his belly, an empty bottle of tequila rising and falling on his chest as he deeply inhaled and exhaled, wheezing on the way up and snorting on the way down.