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

by Stephen Randel

  The first two pellets were easy to find and retrieve. They clunked heavily against the metal bottom of the trash can beside the sink as he dropped them from the tweezers. The third one took some time, and the wound bled heavily before the pellet finally relented and clunked into the trash can as well. Rinsing the wounds again with alcohol and saline, he clasped one of the pre-threaded stainless steel suture needles tightly with the tweezers. Methodically, he used the curved needles to stitch up the three holes in his side. Cleaning the area one last time, he bound up his midsection again.

  El Barquero turned back into the small motel room and pulled a heavy black plastic trash bag from his rucksack. Returning to the bathroom, he stuffed the bloody towel into the bag along with the spent bandages before throwing the sack into the bedroom. Packing up his medical supplies, he straightened and cleaned up the bathroom. After loading two more rounds into his pistol’s clip, he crashed heavily onto the bed. On his back, naked and holding his pistol in one hand, he immediately fell into an exhausted sleep.

  • • •

  Back in the big white house, Kip sat at the kitchen table, drinking coffee and picking over a pile of scrambled eggs and bacon from a platter in the middle of the table. Bennett sat beside him, reading the newspaper, while under the table, Max lustily gnawed away at a dried pig ear treat. A small television on the kitchen counter relayed the morning’s latest news.

  “Violence continues to plague the Texas border,” the field reporter said into her microphone as she stood on the side of the highway outside of Tornillo, her cameraman panning the desert behind her. “Just today, in the early morning hours, gunfire ripped through the desert here, some forty miles southwest of El Paso. This latest incident involved the death of three Mexican nationals and the wounding of two United States border patrol agents. This follows directly on the heels of two other bodies that were discovered in the desert the day before. All of the dead are suspected of being involved in the smuggling of illegal narcotics.

  “What concerns officials and civilians in this area outside of Tornillo the most is that the violence happened on the U.S. side of the border. Prior to these shootings, most of the deadly skirmishes between rival Mexican drug cartels have limited themselves to the south side of the border and within the city of Juarez itself. The question for residents and law enforcement is whether these are isolated incidents or the beginning of a new, bloody drug war on U.S. soil.

  “Here with me today is one of those concerned residents. What’s unique is that he’s actually taken steps to become personally involved in protecting his community by forming a local civilian militia. To protect his identity, he goes only by the name of General X-Ray,” the news reporter said as the General, still in his camouflage fatigues and tanker helmet, stepped into the view of the camera. “General, your local militia, STRAC-BOM, I believe is the name…”

  “Southwest Texas Revolutionary Armed Confederate Border Operations Militia is the official name of the organization,” the General corrected the reporter as he reached for her microphone.

  “Yes, I see,” the field reporter replied as she wrestled her microphone from the General’s grasp. “Now, general, what inspired you to form your own militia?”

  “Well,” the General began as he reached again for the microphone, the alert reporter jerking it back from his reach, “like many citizens of our fair community, I’d become increasingly concerned with the lack of competency of local and federal law enforcement in stopping the flow of illegal aliens across our border. It’s a veritable Hispanic Ho Chi Minh Trail out there. Then, one day while I was out rattlesnake hunting, it came to me.”

  “The idea to create a civilian militia came to you while rattlesnake hunting?” the reporter inquired.

  “No, that came later,” the General replied. “What came to me first was a question, a monumentally important question. What would Sam Houston do?” he said as he held his wrist up to the camera to show a camouflage plastic wristband with the letters WWSHD printed in white. “These, by the way, are available for three dollars and ninety-nine cents plus a modest shipping and handling charge on the STRAC-BOM website. The answer to the question was of course that Sam Houston would raise an army to defeat the enemy. That’s the Texas way.”

  “And just how many men have you raised for your militia, general?”

  “For purposes of security and strategic advantage, I’d rather not divulge that information. The enemy’s intelligence staff monitors that type of data. Suffice to say, we have multiple Fire Teams of highly trained and heavily armed soldiers all committed to protecting the freedom of our glorious homeland. We operate under the creed of bullets, beans, and the Bible.”

  “What activities have you and your men been involved with?”

  “Recently, we’ve been involved in several land-based surveillance and interdiction operations. We’re currently evaluating opportunities for water-based missions, as well as contemplating the ability to develop air superiority capabilities.”

  “Would your land-based activities have anything to do with the violent events that occurred last night in the desert behind us?” the reporter asked as she carefully guarded her microphone from the General’s grasp.

  “Absolutely not,” the General emphatically replied. “What you have out there,” he continued as he pointed back toward the desert with his leather riding crop, “is purely the work of amateurs. If my patriots had been involved, I assure you the body count would have been significantly higher.”

  “What would you say to those who feel immigration issues and battling violent drug cartels should be left to the authorities?”

  “Left to the authorities?” the General mocked. “They couldn’t hit a longhorn steer in the butt with a handful of gravel. My highly accomplished marksmen are the only properly trained and equipped outfit in this area for these types of bloody engagements.”

  “General, some have argued that as a nation originally founded and built by immigrants, the current backlash against Mexican civilians crossing the border simply looking to build a better future for their families is slightly hypocritical. In fact, when Mexico won its independence from Spain, what we know today as Texas was in fact part of Mexico, and the Mexican government openly encouraged immigration from United States citizens, regardless of race, to settle the land freely. Your thoughts?”

  “Then they changed their mind few years later and sent Mexican soldiers to stop U.S. citizens from settling. And what did Sam Houston do?” the General asked as he waved his WWSHD wristband in front of the camera again. “He kicked the ever-loving snot out of Santa Anna’s butt at San Jacinto! That’s what he did. They changed the rules, not us. Screw ’em!”

  “Thank you for your time, general,” the reporter said as she turned to face the camera.

  “And don’t forget your WWSHD wristbands at the STRAC-BOM website!” the General shouted as he tried to push his way back into the picture.

  “Reporting live,” the reporter said as she struggled to hold the General out of the frame with her outstretched arm. “On location outside of Tornillo, I’m Elise Gomez. Back to you, Harrison.”

  “Civilian militia,” Kip muttered as he shook his head. “What next?”

  “What’re you mumbling about, yankee?” Bennett said without taking his eyes from his newspaper. “You New York City boys got them Guardian Angels protecting your precious dirty water hot dog carts, don’t you?”

  “Who you calling a yankee? I haven’t been gone that long. Besides, there’s a big difference between unarmed safety patrols and armed militia,” Kip replied as he rose from his chair to answer the ringing phone by the back door. “Hello,” Kip said into the phone. “Yes, it is…definitely glad to be home, how’ve you been? Fantastic. Sure, hold on. Pop, it’s your buddy Miguel.”

  “Ask him if it’s good news or money. If not, take a message,” Bennett barked out, not looking up from his paper.

  “You catch that, Miguel?” Kip said into the phone. “Sure thi
ng, one of us will be around. Thanks. Say high to Esmeralda for me,” he added before hanging up the phone and wandering back to his cup of coffee. “Miguel is having one of his sons drop off some frijoles for you today.”

  “Hot damn. Best thing I’ve heard all morning. You know, you make a pretty good personal secretary, boy. How’s your dictation?”

  “Take it easy, old man. I’ll leave that walkway unfinished if you’re not careful,” Kip replied as he noticed the yellow-suited Avery amble into the kitchen and head directly to the refrigerator.

  “Good doctor,” Avery said as he cracked open a cold can of Mountain Dew and took a swig, “I’ll be requiring your truck today.”

  “Kiss my ass,” Bennett replied without looking up from his paper.

  “Seriously,” said Avery as he took another noisy drink from the can. “Where are the keys?”

  “What do you need my truck for?” asked Bennett.

  “I’m headed to a small town outside of El Paso to examine a freshly deceased chupacabra corpse.”

  “Hell, boy,” Bennett said as he put down his paper. “That’s over five hundred miles. I wouldn’t let you take my truck five blocks.”

  “Doctor, I can tell you don’t completely grasp the seriousness of this situation. Did you hear me when I said chupacabra? Chupacabra? It’s only the holy grail of cryptozoology. This could really put me on the map.”

  “The map of crazy,” Bennett replied.

  “What about you, Kip? Let me borrow your car? You know, you’ve always been my favorite stepbrother.”

  “He’s your only stepbrother,” said Bennett.

  “You going to bring it back with a full tank of gas?” Kip asked.

  “Absolutely. I’ll even have it washed. I’ll change the oil, vacuum the interior, whatever you want.”

  “Just fill the tank and bring it back in one piece,” Kip said. “The key are in the drawer over there.”

  “Much obliged,” said Avery as he grabbed the keys and another Mountain Dew from the fridge before pounding his way back up the stairs.

  “Number-one son, have you completely lost your cotton-picking mind?” asked Bennett. “That lunatic drives worse than your Aunt Polly.”

  “Just trying to make friends with my stepbrother,” replied Kip. “Besides, it’s a rental. Unlimited mileage.”

  “Better hope it has unlimited insurance, too,” growled Bennett as he finished his cup of coffee.

  “By the way, do you have a push broom somewhere?” asked Kip. “I’m going to need one to put some texture on that concrete walkway after I pour it so it won’t be slick in the rain.”

  “Got one out in the garage you can use. You know which end to push, right?”

  “Careful.”

  “Okay, okay,” conceded Bennett. “It’s beside the workbench. It’s as new as a WWII French army rifle. Never used, only dropped once.”

  Upstairs, Avery hastily stuffed some supplies, a set of somewhat clean socks and underwear, and a few monster reference books into a battered cardboard packing box. Lifting the box from underneath to keep the sagging bottom from spilling open, he lumbered down the main stairs of the house and exited out the back door, not bothering to say goodbye to Kip or Bennett, who continued to drink coffee and read the morning news. Avery placed his belongings in Kip’s rental car, which was parked next to Bennett’s huge black pickup truck in the garage. After throwing a large ice chest in the trunk, he started the sedan and backed out into the alley before speeding off.

  A few blocks later, Avery stopped at a local convenience store and purchased several bags of ice, a package of plastic straws, and all the sixteen-ounce Mountain Dew bottles the store carried. His ice chest now properly provisioned, he sped away through the light Sunday morning traffic of Austin’s streets, headed toward Ziggy’s. Pulling up in front of the shop, he noticed the sound of rhythmic banging coming from inside the old house. Pounding on the front door, he tried to get Ziggy’s attention over the noise of the loud drumming. After a few minutes of pounding and cursing by Avery, the loud drumming stopped and Ziggy appeared at the front door.

  “Like, hey, man,” said Ziggy as he let Avery into the store. “Like, check out my new African talking drum.” The skinny tie-dyed hippy slipped off the hourglass-shaped drum with cloth strings running down its side hanging from a strap over his shoulder. “Like, when you squeeze it under your arm, it, like, changes the pitch from the mallet whacks, man. It’s, like, super freaky.”

  “Darn,” said Avery as he headed for the stairs to the book section, “I was hoping an African warrior party was spit roasting you over a fire.”

  “That’s, like, not funny, dude,” Ziggy replied as he followed Avery upstairs while banging out fast staccato notes on his drum. “You, like, seriously got to watch your karma, man.”

  “Stop that infernal racket, you little troll!” Avery bellowed. “You’re giving me a migraine.”

  “That’s, like, from all the caffeine you drink, dude. You should, like, really get down with, like, some herbal tea instead.”

  “Not enough sugar,” replied Avery as he rummaged through the books and reference guides in the medical section. “Where did you put that book on autopsy techniques?”

  “It’s, like, downstairs, man.”

  “Then what are we doing up here? Show me.”

  “Like, chill out, dude,” said Ziggy as he led Avery back downstairs and over to a table loaded full of candles of various sizes. The table had only three legs. Where the missing leg used to reside, a three-foot stack of books held the table upright. “It’s, like, that thick one in the middle.” He pointed to the stack of books propping up the table.

  “Out of my way,” Avery said as he pushed past Ziggy and swiped the large book from the middle of the stack, sending half the candles sliding to the floor from the now heavily listing table top.

  “Like, knock it off, man!” Ziggy cried in horror. “Those are, like, my best candles, dude,” he said as he scooped up the fallen candles from the floor and placed them on another table nearby.

  “I’ll require your scalpel.”

  “Like, what?” Ziggy replied. “My antique scalpel? Like, that belonged to my grand-pappy?”

  “I don’t care if it belonged to Jack the Ripper. I need to borrow it. Quickly now, I’m in a hurry.”

  “I can, like, tell, dude,” Ziggy said as he went to retrieve a small wooden box from a bookshelf on the other side of the store. “You, like, really got to bring this back, man.”

  “Never fear, my good man,” Avery said as he examined the blade. “Not quite as sharp as I’d hoped for, but it’ll do.” Avery made way his to the shop door with his newly acquired supplies.

  “Like, aren’t you going to pay for those, man?” Ziggy implored.

  “Put it on my tab,” Avery replied as he slammed the door behind him.

  “Dude,” Ziggy said as he shook his head dejectedly, “like, not again, man.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Road Trip

  Polly yanked the steering wheel hard to the right, sending the big pink Caddy onto the shoulder of the road. Laying on the horn, she whipped past the slow-moving van in front of her.

  “Lord, help us,” Big Esther cried from the back seat as she grabbed at Jolene’s hand for support.

  “Watch my nails, honey,” Jolene said as she pried Big Esther’s death grip from her freshly manicured hand. “I just had them done.” Big Esther grabbed for Little Esther’s hand instead.

  “You’re going to need the Lord’s help, all right,” Miss Pearl said as she turned to the girls in the back seat. “Going to need the Lord’s help to get you through my church’s service. If Pastor J.C. Naughton finds out ya’ll ain’t been saved, he’ll go all fire and brimstone on you. I can’t believe you fools want to go through with this.”

  “Oh, don’t make such a big deal out of it, Pearl,” Polly said as she swerved back onto the road. “It’s church. Church is church. Me and the two Esthers haven’t miss
ed a Sunday in twenty years.”

  “Yeah, but you’re talking about that namby-pamby Methodist church on the south side of town,” Pearl replied. “Preacher Naughton calls you Methodists a cult. Not quite as bad as Catholics, but definitely worse than Episcopalians. No, this is an honest-to-goodness Southern Baptist house of God. They don’t pull any punches, and when they punch, they aim for the face. And Jolene, you heathen, when was the last time you even went to church?”

  “Well, it’s been quite a while,” Jolene said as she examined her face in the mirror of a small makeup compact. “I’m religious, all right, just in my own unique kind of way.”

  “How’s that?” Pearl scoffed.

  “Well,” Jolene began as she put her compact back in her oversized designer knockoff purse, “I’m fairly non-denominational. I view religion as something of a combination of beliefs gathered from a number of faiths. Say, if a Protestant train was heading west at a hundred miles an hour and a Buddhist train was heading east at a hundred miles an hour on the same track. Once they crash, I just pick up the best pieces from the debris.”

  “Jeez Louise, Jolene,” Pearl said shaking her head in disbelief. “Don’t you dare let Preacher Naughton hear you talk about religion like a train wreck. He’ll skin me alive just for associating with you devils.”

  “But doesn’t God want us to believe in love and happiness?” Polly asked.

  “Not in this church, baby,” Pearl replied. “This place done taken all the fun out of fundamental.”

  “Pearl, if you don’t like this preacher, why do you go to his church?” asked Big Esther.

  “Because he’s the only person I know that’s angrier than me,” Pearl replied. “Kind of makes me feel better about myself in comparison.”