• • •
Back in Austin, Avery continued composing…
To: Chief Executive Officer
Radwire Gaming Studios, Ltd.
Dear Sir:
I’m corresponding with you today as a longtime and extremely loyal fan of your first-person shooter series, Zombie Slaughter. The original game was a groundbreaking achievement of blood, gore, violence, and terror. Any time wives of prominent politicians demand an immediate national boycott of your product, you know you’re on to something special. All that said, with your recent release of Zombie Slaughter 5.0, which was awarded several gold medals by prestigious gamer publications, I feel it’s my duty to raise several points of critical concern. First, I was fine with the technical glitches, fairly worthless cheat codes, and occasional lack of reality in earlier versions of the game. Ten years and five releases later, it’s time to get it right. First) Put simply, we need more blood. Zombies are notorious for their soft, moist, decomposing flesh. Direct headshots with large-caliber weapons shouldn’t just splatter; they should EXPLODE! B) Even though he’s been a rather loyal companion over the years, Machinegun Mike in the single-player mode is in desperate need of reprogramming. I swear I sometimes think the zombies are smarter than he is. He never provides adequate covering fire for me, and I spend half my time backtracking to shoot some flesh eating zombie off his back. Not exactly what I’m looking for in a computer-controlled partner when the consequences are kill or be turned into a zombie yourself. 3) Regarding Level Seven, entitled “Insane Amusement Park,” by my count you need to dispatch seventy-two maniac zombie clowns to clear the level. Have your programmers ever actually been to an amusement park? At best, you might see half a dozen clowns, tops. Seventy-two? I’m not buying it. I considered the idea that maybe you were suggesting that the zombies were procreating, but scientists have irrefutably proven that the only thing a zombie cares about is food, namely, human brains. They have no sex drive. Plus, all the zombie clowns are male. Are you suggesting gay zombie sex? That’s really pushing the envelope. Lastly, why so short? I completed version 5.0 in less than six hours. It used to take over twelve hours with earlier releases. Why are you putting all your development dollars into the online multiplayer version? I don’t want to waste my time competing against some twelve-year-old snot-nosed punk in Germany. For a video game priced at fifty-nine dollars, I expect more single-player levels, more blood, a better computer-controlled partner, and fewer homosexual zombie clowns.
Sincerely,
Avery Bartholomew Pendleton
Avery cracked open another can of Mountain Dew as he finished sealing his latest complaint letter in an envelope and addressing it by hand to its intended victim. The sun would be coming up soon, and he really needed to get some sleep. Closing down the various screens and programs he had open on his computer monitors, he decided to check his Einstein search engine one last time before going to bed. Jiggling his mouse cursor over the screen of one his monitors, the Jethro Tull screen saver disappeared, revealing a screen full of listings regarding chupacabras. Perusing the list, he noticed the same old tired and useless articles and websites. He loudly yawned and scratched his furry beard as he scanned down the monitor screen listings while lifting his can of soda to his mouth.
Suddenly, seeing a listing he’d never seen before, he choked on the swig of Mountain Dew he was inhaling. Wiping his screen with his hand to remove a few splatters of soda, he noticed how dirty the screen actually was. Rubbing his damp and dusty hand off on his bathrobe, he quickly clicked on the link for “One Perfectly Preserved Chupacabra for Sale – Five Hundred Dollars.” The advertisement didn’t provide many details about the chupacabra, only that it was authentic and was located in Tornillo, Texas. Most disappointingly, the listing didn’t contain a picture of the item.
“Tornillo? Where in the name of Crom is Tornillo?” he said as he reached into a file cabinet to retrieve a battered Texas road atlas. Scanning down the list of cities, he came to the page and coordinates for Tornillo. Flipping to the page listed, he searched for the coordinates on the numbered and lettered guides along the margin of the page.
“Excellent,” he said in delight as he spotted the small border town. Avery grabbed the ancient red rotary-dial telephone at the edge of his workstation. Using his chubby fingers, he dialed the phone number listed on the advertisement. Tapping his fingers impatiently, he waited as the phone rang.
• • •
The sound of the phone ringing in General X-Ray’s office startled Private Zulu as he embarrassedly closed the porn site he was viewing. Peering at the ringing phone, he wondered whether he should answer. Hesitantly, he reached for the receiver.
“Southwest Texas Revolutionary Armed Confederate Border Operations Militia,” Private Zulu said into the phone.
“This is Avery Bartholomew Pendleton,” a loud and rather bossy voice on the other end of the line replied. “I’m looking for a Private Zulu. Put him on the line posthaste.”
“Uh…this is Private Zulu speaking. How can I help you?”
“Are you the one who posted a listing for a mint-condition chupacabra?”
“Uh, sure. You looking to buy it, mister?” Private Zulu responded as he worried that maybe he’d priced it too low if someone was calling already.
“Is it alive?”
“No.”
“How long has it been deceased?”
“Don’t rightly know.”
“Do you have a photo of the creature?”
“No, I don’t have a camera.”
“Describe it for me.”
“Well,” the private began, “it kind of looks like a vampire werewolf from hell.”
“Good God, man!” Avery shouted. “More detail. Be specific. This is important!”
“It’s got sort of black skin. Real smooth skin and huge fangs.”
“The fangs are all intact?”
“Pretty much.”
“Excellent. They’re valuable. How big is it?”
“About the size of a coyote.”
“Big or small coyote?”
“Pretty big. I’d say forty pounds.”
“Male or female?”
“I didn’t really look.”
“Where did you find it?” Avery demanded.
“Out in the desert.”
“On this side of the border?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Dammit, I was right. They’ve crossed over. We’ll have to work quickly,” Avery said as he gulped from his Mountain Dew. “Time is of the essence.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because we’re about to be invaded by waves of these nefarious blood suckers as climate shifts drive them north. That’s why.”
“The General says the only thing invading are them Mexican illegal aliens.”
“Is your general a cryptozoologist?
“No. I think he’s Presbyterian.”
“Then he’s not qualified to comment. Is the creature in your possession currently?” Avery asked as he rubbed the back of his neck in frustration.
“Uh, yes. I got it in the deep freeze.”
“The freezer! Jesus, man, get it out of there immediately. Thaw it in the refrigerator. I can’t perform an autopsy on a block of chupacabra ice!”
“An autopsy?”
“Yes, an autopsy. A post-mortem examination, to be specific.”
“Hey, now, Mr. Pendleton. Wait a second. I’m just looking to sell this thing. I don’t want it all chopped up or nothing.”
“My good man, until a qualified cryptozoologist like myself can authenticate the provenance of your find, you won’t be able to find anyone who’ll be willing to purchase the beast. However, once certified legitimate, we’ll be able to sell the find for ten thousand times the amount you’re asking. You’ll be a hero. Probably need to do some television interviews with me. Possibly some lecture circuit work. You might want to keep your calendar open just to be safe.”
“Ten thousand times?” Pri
vate Zulu said as he tried to work out the math on his fingers. “How much is that?”
“Millions, private. We’ll be rich.”
“We?”
“Of course. I completely plan on cutting you in for your efforts. That’s only if what you’ve found is what I think you’ve found. Now, how well are you provisioned with autopsy equipment at your headquarters?” Avery asked as he grabbed a worn Hello Kitty spiral notebook and a chewed-on pencil from his workstation, then began to hastily scribble down a list of things he would require.
“What kind of equipment exactly?” the confused private asked.
“First, I’ll need a stainless steel cadaver dissection table no more than thirty-six inches in height, preferably with a recessed top.”
“Sure, we got one,” said Private Zulu, thinking of the folding metal table the men of STRAC-BOM would use to clean fish on the rare occasion when they caught something. “Although, I don’t think it has a recession on it.”
“It’ll have to do. Now, I’ll bring my own scalpel, but I’ll require a set of dissection knives in various lengths from seven to fourteen inches and a proper bone saw. How’s your stock?”
“Pretty good,” replied Avery as he thought about the mixed set of different-sized steak knives in the mess hall and the rusty hacksaw hanging in the militia’s workshop.
“Excellent. How about forceps?”
“Uh, we got plenty of those,” the private replied as he picked up a box of binder clips from the General’s desk.
“Good man. Now, by my estimation, it should take me approximately eight hours to travel to your destination, not including rest stops. I’ll leave from my office…”
“Where’s that?
“Austin. I plan on leaving at approximately noon. I have some things to gather. That should put me in sometime around eight in the evening. We’ll conduct the evaluation of the chupacabra at your organization’s headquarters. Will there be anyone else there?”
“On a Sunday night, shouldn’t be.”
“Perfect. Be there no later than eight, and whatever you do, for God’s sake, don’t mention this to anyone. If word of this gets out, the scientific community will be on us like scavenging vultures on a rotting jackrabbit. If you spot television camera crews or men wearing black suits and dark sunglasses, get the specimen to a safe haven and leave word for me at MonsterTruthersMessageBoard.com. I’m listed under the name ‘NinjaMan.’”
“Uh, okay,” replied the slightly rattled Private Zulu as he chewed on one of his fingernails, not really sure what he’d gotten himself into.
“And Private Zulu, don’t forget to thaw out my chupacabra,” Avery said as he hung up the phone and punched his fist into the air in celebration.
PART THREE
CHAPTER TEN
Motel Hell
The hospital room slowly came into focus as Agent Diaz woke from her slumber. She was sitting in a mildly uncomfortable chair with her feet propped up on a small ottoman. She started to reach and rub her eyes before the pain from her right shoulder reminded her that her arm was in a sling. Looking beside her, she saw her partner sleeping in a hospital bed with tubes and monitors attached to his body. At that moment, a doctor carrying two cups of hot coffee in Styrofoam cups entered the sterile-looking room.
“How’re you feeling, Agent Martin?” the doctor asked as he offered Maria one of the cups. “Don’t worry. It’s not from the hospital. I bring in my own coffee.”
“Really sore,” she replied, accepting the coffee with her left hand. The strong aroma of coffee helped to clear her head as she took a sip. “Is he going to be all right?”
“He’ll be fine.” The doctor glanced at the chart at the foot of the bed. “He won’t lose the leg, but he’ll be laid up for some time. No more riding horses for him in the near future.”
“Be sure to stand on the other side of the room when you decide to break the news to him. He won’t like it much.”
“Maybe I’ll have you tell him, then. He wouldn’t stop asking about you when they brought him in. You saved his life, you know,” the doctor said as he checked the I.V. drip bag hanging above Agent Martin’s head. “He’d lost an enormous amount of blood when you got to him. The tourniquet you made was the difference.”
“How long is he going to sleep?” Agent Diaz asked as she took another sip of the hot coffee.
“Probably most of the day. Lean forward, and let me take a look at those stitches in the back of your head,” the doctor said as he placed his hand on her head and tilted it down. “Sorry, but we had to shave a small spot back here to put the stitches in.”
“Good thing I like wearing a hat,” she smiled.
“You should really go and get some rest as well,” the doctor said.
“Thanks, but I’ll stay. I want to be here when he wakes up.”
• • •
A few miles outside of El Paso, El Barquero sat patiently in his car. It was parked across the street from a seedy motel just off the highway. Blood from the wound in his side had soaked through the bandages and into the black shirt he was wearing. Ignoring the pain, he waited for someone to pull into the motel. Twenty minutes later, a late-model sedan pulled up and parked in front the motel’s office. A weary salesman got out of his car and walked through the early morning light to the office. A few minutes later, he returned to his car. Using a small pair of binoculars, El Barquero spotted the room key in his hand. Putting his car in gear, he crossed the highway and pulled into the parking lot. Slowly he followed the salesman’s car as it pulled into the back parking lot of the two-story motel.
El Barquero exited his car with his black rucksack and silver briefcase full of money. Following the man, who was pulling a wheeled suitcase and carrying a brown, square leather sample case, he climbed the motel’s outdoor staircase, trailing the man by a few yards. The man removed the room key from his pocket as he approached room number 209. Nervously, the man looked back over his shoulder at the imposing man behind him.
“Can I help you?” the man asked.
“Open the door,” El Barquero said as he brought his hand from behind his back into view. The salesman’s eyes bulged as he saw the menacing black handgun with a silencer attached to the barrel in the large Mexican’s hand.
“Please,” the terrified man said, “you can have my wallet. Just let me keep my samples.”
“Open the door now,” El Barquero’s raspy voice replied. The salesman’s hand shook as he tried to fit the key into the lock on the door, finally getting it to open. “Inside,” El Barquero calmly said to the man. Once they were inside, pointing his gun toward the man, he looked back to make sure the upper walkway and the parking lot were still empty before putting the “Do Not Disturb” sign on the outside door handle and closing and locking the door. Engaging the security chain, he turned and faced the trembling man in front of him. The man was still holding his brown case and roller bag.
“What do you want from me?” the shaking man asked.
“Put down your bags.”
“Please,” the man said has he put his things down, “I’ve got a family.”
“How long is the room rented for?”
“Two…two days.”
“Good,” El Barquero said as he raised his pistol and shot the man twice in the heart. The two faint thumps from the silenced handgun were followed by a thud as the man collapsed to the floor.
El Barquero grimaced from the pain in his side as he dragged the man by his collar to the closet on the opposite side of the bed. He placed the dead man in a seated position in the closet with his belongings, the brown sample case resting in the man’s lap.
Placing his silver case on the bed, El Barquero removed a first aid kit from his rucksack and carried it into the small bathroom. Clicking on the bathroom light, he turned the sink’s hot water faucet on high while he lined up a bottle of alcohol, a container of saline solution, a scalpel, tweezers, and curved suture needles on the tank of the toilet to the side of the sink. W
hen the water from the faucet began to steam, he plugged the drain and filled the basin. Removing his shirt, he unwrapped the bandages from his midsection. His muscular upper body reflected in the bathroom mirror as he examined the wound to his side. Using a washcloth soaked in hot water, he removed the dried blood from around his wounds. Once the caked blood was gone, it was easy to spot the fresh blood leaking from the three small holes in his side where the double-ought buckshot from Agent Diaz’s twelve-gauge had impacted. He knew he was lucky. A few inches farther to his right and he would have received the full impact of the blast.
Turning on the shower, he stripped off the rest of his clothing. Climbing into the shower, he quickly cleaned himself before shutting off the hot spray. Dripping with water, he grabbed a thin, cheap white towel from the rack and dried himself off, staining the towel bloody red in the process. Stepping out of the shower, he admired his nude reflection in the bathroom mirror for a few moments. Then, reaching for one of the bottles on the toilet tank, he doused his whole side in alcohol. El Barquero grimaced at the fire-like pain in his side. Flipping open the plastic lid on the saline container, he squeezed streams of saline into the wounds to flush them out. Next, he took the scalpel and the tweezers and sterilized them with the alcohol. Using one hand to pull the flesh from the edge of the wounds with the tweezers, he used his other hand to slice away small bits of necrotic skin around the buckshot’s entry points with the razor sharp scalpel. After flushing the wounds again with saline, he used the thumb and forefinger of one hand to hold open the wounds while he dug into his side with the tweezers to fish out the heavy buckshot.
The Chupacabra: A Borderline Crazy Tale of Coyotes, Cash & Cartels (The Chupacabra Trilogy - Book 1) Page 20