"Who are you?" The old man growled and spit a stream of brown tobacco juice into the dirt.
"Agent Carson, FDA. I'm hear about some reports of unexplained livestock deaths we've received from this area. I need to check out the barns, the fields, the whole nine yards."
"Yeah, I know why you're here. Go on in. Your girl's down at the barn, I reckon she's waiting on you." He opened the gate and I drove on through. Girl? What girl is he talking about? I thought as I drove. I pulled up beside a black SUV with government plates and got out of my truck. I opened the back door and flipped up the seat. I didn't know if churrascos hunted during the daytime or not, but I grabbed Bertha and slid her into the back waistband of my jeans just in case. I slipped a couple of extra magazines for the Desert Eagle into my back pockets, making sure I had one in cold iron, one in silver, and one alternating those two with phosphorous rounds. I can't think of anything that really enjoys being set on fire, and it'll kill most things pretty well. I had an old leather satchel that looked enough like a briefcase for my taste, so I grabbed it, stuffed Uncle Father Joe's file in it, and dropped a couple of throwing knives in a side pocket just for good measure. They weren't very big, but they were silver-plated, so they were good against all kinds of nasty critters.
I got as loaded as I could and still look a little bit like a government agent, then I closed up the truck and headed for the barn. I didn't know who else was here, but I figured they were connected to that SUV and might even be useful. Besides, the old boy out at the road did say it was a woman down here, and it had been a few days since I'd had any companionship of the good-smelling curvy variety.
I crossed the dirt front yard and stepped through the open door to the barn. Even with sunlight streaming in from one end, it was pretty dark in there, so I couldn't see crap. I smelled fresh hay, and horse poop, and the other smells you usually associate with barns, but there was one smell that seemed a little out of place. I followed my nose deeper into the darkness and stopped when I heard a gun cock behind my head. That would be where the smell of expensive shampoo had been coming from.
"Put you hands on your head and turn around slowly." The voice was coming from just a few feet behind me, so that tipped me off right away that she was kinda new to this. If you're alone and trying to take down a bad guy, or even somebody who might be a bad guy, and that person is a lot bigger than you, don't get close enough for them to turn around, smack your arm 'til your gun is pointing straight up, then wrap a huge fist around your gun and the hand that's holding it. Because that leaves them with another hand about the size of a normal person's whole head with which to choke you, punch you, shoot you, stab you or otherwise make your life miserable or short.
I didn't do those things, not because I couldn't, but because I didn't feel terribly threatened and I was curious to see what woman was out here pretending to be with the government. And I wanted to see what kind of gun she thought I was going to be afraid of. So I did as she asked. I put my hands on my head and turned around.
She was doing a lot better job of impersonating a government agent than I was. She had the whole costume - cheap-looking black suit, white shirt, black tie, shades pushed up on her head. She did have some serious heels on her boots, and her boobs were bouncing around under that crappy jacket like two kittens wrestling in a burlap sack, but the Sig Sauer pistol she had aimed at my face held my attention pretty well. I thought I saw the bulge of a backup around her right ankle, but I wasn't sure about that. She looked to be in her mid-twenties, so I had about a decade on her, not to mention a foot in height and a couple hundred pounds. Her long dark hair as pulled back in one of those no-bullshit ponytails that looked like they're so tight they make your eyes water just thinking about yanking that hard on your hair. Or maybe she used gel. I couldn't tell, it was dark.
"Here I am. Now what?" I asked, trying on my best disarming smile. There just aren't many disarming looks that come along with this many tattoos, this much hair and being this damn big. Apparently that smile didn't get the job done either, because she took a step back and steadied the gun with her left hand.
"Now you tell me exactly what the hell you're doing here." She said. It sounded a lot like she was trying to sound tough, but didn't swear enough in her everyday life to pull it off. It's not easy, swearing well under pressure. I cuss like a sailor most days, so it's second nature to me now, but this girl was still wearing her profanity training wheels.
"You first. And I'm gonna sit down if you don't mind." I reached around behind me for a milking stool and settled onto it.
"Get back on your feet and answer my questions!" She barked. That's when I knew it was either A - her first field job, or B - she was out here on her own without an assignment. I was betting on B.
"No. And why don't you have a seat and put that gun away. Your arm's got to be getting tired and I don't want you to drop that thing and shoot either one of us in the foot."
"I will not under any circumstances surrender my firearm to a suspect. And my arm is just fine, thank you --"
She shut up as I stood up, slapped the gun out of her hand and stuck Bertha in her face. The bore on a fifty-caliber pistol is bigger than that poor child's nose, so she shut up in a hurry. I motioned over at another stool, and she pulled it over and sat, never taking her eyes off my trigger finger. For my part, I never bothered to put my finger on the trigger. If I needed to knock this little girl out, I'd just punch her. I didn't see any reason to think about shooting her. She didn't look like a chalupacobra, or whatever the hell I was looking for.
I pushed the button on my earpiece and dialed Skeeter just in case. He answered on the first ring. "Yeah, Bubba?"
"Skeeter, can chupabubbles shapeshift?"
"No, why do you ask. And it's a chu-pa-ca-bra."
"Whatever. I ain't planning on swappin' cell phone numbers with it. I'm planning on killin' it. And never mind why I asked, I'll tell you about it later." I hung up and turned back to the girl, who was trying to be subtle while she inched her stool over to her gun. "If it makes you feel better, go get it." I said.
She looked at me like I had grown two heads and one of them looked like Abraham Lincoln. "You're going to let me have my gun?"
"Sure. I got my gun, you oughta have your gun. Now you try and shoot me and I'll get irritated, so please don't do that. You wouldn't like me when I was irritated." She didn't get the Incredible Hulk TV reference, but I amused myself, and that's all that mattered. She got up and grabbed her Sig, turning back at me.
"Don't do it. Just dust off your piece and put it back in the holster. Anything else is going to cause you a lot of pain and me a fair amount of paperwork and penance. And I still owe twenty-seven Our Fathers for last Friday night alone." She did as I asked and then sat down on the stool opposite me.
"Who are you?" She asked. "And don't use the FDA line. I already did."
I grinned at her. "That's what the old coot by the road told me. He figured we must really be with the government since we didn't talk to one another. My name's Bubba, and I kill monsters. I'm here about the enchilada that's been sucking on goats." I stuck out my hand.
"You mean the chupacabra?" She asked with a smile of her own. She shook my hand, then said "I'm Amy Hall, Department of ExtraDimensional, Mystical and Occult Nuisances."
"DEMON? Reaching a little for the acronyms nowadays, ain't they?"
"I don't name the department, I just shoot the nasty things." She didn't even crack a smile at me.
"No shit?" I knew the government had offices for everything, but I didn't know they were messing around in my neighborhood.
"No shit. We try to keep tabs on most of the major players, but every once in a while something new crawls out of the woodwork and we have to take a look. By the way, nice work with the vampire clan down in Charlotte last year."
"You heard about that? Well, thanks. There was a lot of 'em, but they died just like everything else."
"Yes, and in your case everything else has include
d a nest of vampires, a family of bloodthirsty faeries, a necromancer and his zombie horde, a lovestruck werewolf, a rakshasa, three demons that we know of, a cupid, and at least seven hauntings. You've been a busy boy, Mr. Bubba."
"Just Bubba. You go throwin' mister around too much I'm gonna worry that my daddy really has come back from the grave to kick my ass like he always said he would."
"Again." She said without batting an eye.
"Beg pardon?"
"Your daddy might come back from the grave again to kick your ass. We have a file on that, too."
"Yeah, well, me and pop settled that one, so you don't have to worry about him coming back for any more visits. So if you know all about me, you had to figure I'd be all over this like white on rice, so why bother sticking the government's nose in?" I wanted to cut this interrogation off before she got into stuff I didn't enjoy talking about.
"Maybe I just wanted to meet you." She flashed me a smile that I'm sure had a lot of boys all over Washington weak in the knees and stiff in other places, but it didn't have no effect on me. I've been flirted with by some of the best strippers in the world, and if they can't sucker my fat ass back into the VIP room, no moderately cute government agent with a file on me thicker than a billy goat's forehead was gonna bat her eyelashes and twist me around her cute little pinky finger .
"And maybe I'm dancing Swan Lake tomorrow night when I get home. But I don't think that's real likely either, so let's cut the BS and be straight with one another." I leaned forward with my elbows on my knees to get myself almost down to eye level with the pretty agent. "So Agent Hall - why are you here?" I dragged out each word, making everything real distinct like you do when you're talking to a little kid, or an idiot, or anybody who works for the government.
"We're looking into the chupacabra attacks. And yes, I knew you would likely be investigating this yourself. And I really did want to meet you. What you've done, with no support, no infrastructure to speak of, it's truly impressive." From the way she was talking she knew a lot about me, but didn't know nothing about Uncle Father Joe or the Church's involvement. She probably knew about Skeeter, but seemed like she thought we were independent contractors. I was pretty content to keep it that way, too.
"I got Skeeter. He's pretty infrastructure-ish himself." I said, leaning back a little.
"Yes, Skeeter. William James MacIntyre Kwame Jones III. An interesting figure, to say the least." It had been a few years since I'd heard anyone say all of Skeeter's names, and it always made me grin. Skeeter was adopted, which is how a black kid ended up in Uncle Father Joe's whitebread Baptist family. They'd wanted to name him after his daddy, William James MacIntyre, Jr., but a couple of cousins objected to giving a black baby the old family name, so his mama added in the Kwame Jones in there to make it sound more "urban." I loved Skeeter's mama, she was one of the sweetest women I ever knew to walk the earth. Maybe not the sharpest knife in the drawer, but sweet as pumpkin pie, and she loved that boy just like she had given birth to him. Cancer took her about four years ago now, and they tell me Skeeter was inconsolable for a week. I didn't know, because after the funeral I went home and got drunk for two weeks myself. We didn't talk about her, but her picture on his desk is the one thing I never mocked Skeeter about. Just like he never made fun of my Mickey Mouse wristwatch. Some things are sacred.
I made a u-turn before my trip down memory lane got too sappy, and pulled back up alongside Little Miss Gubmint Agent. "Yeah, Skeeter's my buddy. So I ain't alone. And I do just fine without any government interference. So if you'll just get back in your little Suburban and head on home to Washington or Atlanta or wherever they've got you based, I'll appreciate it."
"I'm afraid I can't do that, Bubba. You see, I've got two jobs down here. Figure out what the chupacabra is and what to do about it, and figure out what to do with you."
I stared at her, not an unpleasant activity, but not one that was really getting me anywhere nearer to finding the chalupa-thingy. "What do you mean, figure out what to do with me? I mean, I've got some ideas that involve whipped cream and bungee cords, but that's probably a discussion better left to another time."
"Almost certainly. But that's not what I meant. You see, Bubba, you've gotten yourself involved in some things that the United States government feels are best kept out of the hands of civilians, so we need to figure out what to do about that."
"Well, Miss Agent Hall, the way I see it is I work for the Holy Roman Catholic Church, and since we still have a little bit of a separation of church and state here in this country, you don't get to tell the Church what to do. And since I do what the Church tells me, and you don't get no say-so in that, then you don't get no say-so in what I do. So now I'm gonna go out yonder in that field and look at some dead goats and see if I can figure out where this chimichanga monster is hiding. Then I'm gonna shoot it. And if I need to, I'm gonna shoot it a bunch more. Then I'm going home. And I might stop along the way for an adult beverage and some female companionship along the way. So if you'd like to provide some assistance in any of those endeavors, feel free. And if not, then you should get back in your little vehicle out there and haul your tight little ass on up the road."
"I'll help you find the chupacabra, but we may have different opinions of what needs to happen after we find the creature." She smiled what I think she was trying to make be a grim smile and put her hand on her sidearm.
"You can have all the opinion, Agent Miss Amy, I'll handle the shooting." I turned my back on her and went out to continue my investigation. The hair on the back of my neck stood up the whole time, reminding me that I was turning my back on a government agent with a loaded weapon.
*****
I stomped across the field, Miss Agent Cutie-Pants following along, stumbling a little in her screw-me heels and doing her best to dodge the cowpies and goat poop that littered the pasture. The oldest scene was mangled beyond all investigation, with dozens of muddy footprints obscuring any evidence that may have remained. I took a few pictures with my phone and emailed them to Skeeter.
He called me back a minute later. "These pictures are useless, Bubba. I can't see nothing but a bunch of footprints and a cute girl."
"I know there ain't much to work with, Skeeter, but see if you can find me any information on what you can see in the pictures."
"I told you, I can't see nothing but this chick, Bubba." A moment of silence, then "Oh! You want me to figure out who the girl is and what she's doing there. Is that it?"
"You got it, Skeeter. Thanks. Hit me back when you got something." I pushed the button on my Bluetooth headset and clicked Skeeter off.
"What did Skeeter say?" Agent Poop-on-Boots asked.
"He's gonna run it all through some kinda computer doohickey and get back to me."
"He won't find anything."
"Well ain't you just little Miss Optimistic?"
"I know the deal, Bubba. I won't show up on any facial recognition software, at least not in any database you and your friend have access to."
I didn't have anything to say to that, so I kept my mouth shut and trudged on to the newest slaughter site. This one was in much better shape, without all the footprints in the dirt. The goat was laying in the middle of a cleared out patch of dirt, and there were several distinct tracks around it. I pegged one set for the farmer's, cause I can recognize a size eleven Wolverine work boot from half a mile off. The other two sets looked for all the world like bare human feet, but I went ahead and took pictures for Skeeter. The last thing I needed was them turning out to not be human footprints and then having to listen to Skeeter say "I told you so" for the next six months.
"They look human." Agent Amy said, taking several pictures with her own phone. She knelt down to get a better shot of one of the footprints and I subtly snapped a picture of the way the slacks stretched tight across her round rump.
"You can delete that picture, Bubba. Or I can shoot your big toe off. Whichever." I looked down and she was pointing her Sig and my le
ft foot. I deleted the photo and she re-holstered her weapon. "I'm glad we understand each other."
"I'd like a few more lessons in understanding the rest of you, Agent Amy. You doing anything after we get done here tonight?"
"I don't think we're getting done here tonight, Bubba. I think we're going to end up in Mr. Mueller's south pasture waiting for the chupacabra."
"And why the hell would we want to do that when we could be off somewhere nice and warm getting better acquainted?" I leaned down and gave her a grin.
She didn't grin back. "Because I don't mix business with pleasure. No matter how little pleasure I think my be in the offering."
I had no idea what she was talking about, but I didn't think it was real complimentary. I took a couple more pictures and started off toward the next dead goat. Along the way I saw the bare footprints lead off to the right, toward a thick stand of undergrowth. I decided this was not the time to bring that up to Agent Smarty-Britches, and trudged along through the field to the next attack site. It was just like the rest of them - a dead goat in the middle of a field, no blood anywhere, huge gaping holes in its throat and a few footprints around the body. The same Wolverine work boots and the same bare feet. I was starting to get an idea, and I didn't like it at all.
"Well, Agent Amy, ain't nothing going to happen around here 'til nightfall, so we might as well head out and come back later. I like your idea of staking out the south pasture. Why don't we go get some adult beverages, maybe a steak the size of Rhode Island, and wait for dark together?"
"Bubba, I am a federal agent. I do not fraternize with freelancers. Not to mention the fact that I am a vegetarian. And this is a dry county. Strike three, you are out, sir." Damn, that was the worst shutout I'd seen since I turned Skeeter loose on the cast of Thunder from Down Under on an ill-fated trip to Vegas with him and Uncle Father Joe. Lemme tell you, a Catholic priest and a scrawny homosexual are not the best choices of wingmen for a straight boy in the City of Sin. I've never gone to be before sunrise so many days in a row in Las Vegas.
Scattered, Smothered and Chunked - Bubba the Monster Hunter Season 1 Page 15