The Chupacabra tct-1

by Stephen Randel

  “Very well, Padre. Do you want me to arrange for a fight? I can have the farm ready anytime.”

  “Not right now, Sandro,” the Padre said as he ground his cigar out on the cantina’s pockmarked wooden floor with his boot. “Right now, I’ve got something else I need you to do for me. You two,” the Padre said, motioning to his guards, “give us a minute.” The two burly men ambled to the bar to wait, never taking their eyes off what was happening inside the cantina or with the Padre. “Sandro, I need you to cross the border and take care of something for me,” the Padre said quietly amidst the din of the noisy room.

  “Yes, Padre,” Sandro replied, leaning forward to listen to his boss. “Take care of something, or someone?”

  “Good man,” the Padre said as he smiled at the tattooed man. “We have an issue with a thief. A very big but very naughty thief that is no longer of use to us.”

  “Who?”

  “El Barquero,” the Padre hissed.

  “I never trusted him,” Sandro said with an evil grin as he spat on the floor. “Never liked him.”

  “Do you want to take some men with you?”

  “No, Padre. I want to do this myself.”

  “Very well, then,” the Padre replied. “But, Sandro, be very careful with this man. I don’t know if he expects anything, but you need to assume that he does.”

  “Yes, Padre. How do I find him?”

  “He has a silver case with him.” The Padre removed a black smartphone from his pocket. “The case has a GPS tracking device in it. Push the tracking application on the phone like this,” he said as he launched the tracking device on the phone. A map of the local area pulled up on the phone’s screen. “Press this button to locate. There, you see?” the Padre said as the image expanded to show a map of western Texas. “He’s near El Paso. I think he’s going to try and take another shipment in the desert. I can’t have a war with the other cartels right now. Not until El Barquero’s weapons shipment arrives.”

  “Yes, Padre,” Sandro said as the Padre handed him the phone. “I’ll take care of him.”

  “Good. Now, listen carefully. I want you to bring back his head to me. If he has the shipment from the desert already, let me know and I’ll tell you where to take it. No point in crossing the border again with it.”

  “Yes, Padre.”

  “And Sandro,” the Padre said as he leaned forward and placed his hand on Sandro’s muscled, tattooed shoulder to make his point. “Be sure to come home with the silver case.” He peered into Sandro’s eyes. “I want my money back.”

  • • •

  Later that evening, in the desert, two cartel couriers waited in the dark for the delivery they expected in the next few hours. Smoking cigarettes and drinking beer, they laughed and told jokes in Spanish as they listened to the pop music on their jeep’s radio, their AK-47s resting on their laps.

  One hundred yards away, El Barquero viewed their location through the night vision goggles attached to his face. He had left his vehicle a mile back on a small dirt road before hiking to his current position. The two men had not been hard to find. Confirming that there were only two men, El Barquero slowly slithered on his stomach toward their position, his sound-suppressed sub-machine gun strapped across his back, his silenced pistol in one free hand. Deliberately taking his time, he silently crossed the broken ground between himself and the jeep, stopping in the shadows ten yards to the rear of their position. The glow from the men’s cigarettes provided enough illumination to make out their faces without the assistance of his night vision equipment. Removing the goggles, the huge Mexican assassin quietly rose to one knee. Raising his pistol, he sighted in on the back of the head of the courier in the driver’s seat. He planned on shooting each man once in the head in quick succession. He would then close in to finish the job. Slowly adding pressure to his pistol’s trigger, he prepared to fire.

  Unexpectedly, the courier in the passenger seat abruptly tossed his cigarette to the ground and exited the Jeep. Walking into the brush behind the Jeep, the courier unzipped his fly and relieved himself on the desert ground. El Barquero approached the urinating man from behind. Closing the distance between himself and his prey, El Barquero stuck his pistol into his front belt and removed one of the curved hand scythes from the small of his back. Clamping his left hand over the courier’s mouth, he drove his knee hard into the small of the man’s back for leverage before drawing the scythe across the man’s throat. Pulling hard on the handle of his blade, he ripped the razor-sharp blade in a downward motion from the man’s left ear to his right clavicle. The sharp steel sliced the man’s throat clean through to his spine. Slowly, El Barquero lowered the struggling man, who was spewing red arcs of blood from his severed jugular and still urinating a scattered stream into the desert night, quietly down to the ground. Keeping his hand tightly clamped across the dying man’s mouth, he waited as the man bled out in a pool of dark blood quickly swallowed up by the dry desert floor.

  When the man stopped moving, El Barquero turned and approached the rear of the Jeep. The man’s full attention was on the music from the radio. As one song ended, the courier reached for the tuning knob and scanned for another station. Spinning the tuner through bits of static and stations with poor reception, the man caught a glimpse out of the corner of his eye of movement in the Jeep’s rearview mirror. Turning to address his partner, the only thing he found was the long black sound suppressor of El Barquero’s pistol pressed against his temple. A single muffled thump sounded as the man slumped over onto the steering wheel, his cigarette falling to the floorboard.

  • • •

  In his room, Avery grumbled as he typed.

  To: Editor in Chief, National Geographic

  National Geographic Society

  Dear Sir:

  In response to your recent article regarding the majestic beauty of cloud formations, I’m writing to let you know that once again your incredibly biased publication has completely lost the plot. While I’m sure many of your vapid subscribers immensely enjoyed the glossy full-color photos of seemingly harmless cloud formations gracing the article while they vacantly thumb through your magazine as they slouch on their commodes for their ritualistic morning constitutionals, your failure to discuss the real cause of the dramatic increase in the number of such unique vapor formations is a clear violation of your Society’s journalistic duty to provide a balanced and fair message to your audience, no matter how inane the vast majority of them are. The shocking increase in the formation of these cloud groupings, particularly the cirrus variety, is directly related to high-altitude government chemical spraying. Even the smallest child can see the physical results of their diabolical spraying from commercial and military aircraft. These trails of chemicals, better known as chemtrails, crisscross our clear blue skies in the wake of airliners deploying their poison. The trails provide perfect visual evidence of the crime in progress. The resulting cloudlike formations caused by the overlapping and conjoining of these chemtrails fill our urban skies by the hundreds. By my visual observation, airline traffic and the chemtrails have increased by over thirty percent in the greater Austin, Texas, area in the last two years alone. Not surprisingly, so have the number of maladies and afflictions that are associated with them. You can’t throw a peanut in this town without hitting someone with an allergy to it. Staph infections, lesions, and annoying rashes are at an all-time high. Coincidence? I think not. The answer is simple. Our government is deliberately poisoning its population. Why? Greed. Sick people are more economically valuable to pharmaceutical companies and our economy than healthy ones. Trillions of dollars are spent annually to cure the sick and infirm. The cure is of course some synthetic wonder drug with a happy-sounding trademarked name cooked up in a secret underground laboratory guarded by elite Special Forces commandos, as natural and holistic remedies can’t be patented. The dollars generated by these drug sales propel the economy forward and prop up equity market values. The more profitable pharmaceutical companies a
re, the more dollars they have available for soft-money political contributions and under-the-table kickbacks. It’s nothing more than a circular symbiotic relationship of evil and greed. To be fair, you should have informed your subscribers that when they lie on their backs in gentle fields of soft green grass and imagine what they see in the fluffy clouds overhead, they aren’t seeing cute bunny rabbits or the profile of Abraham Lincoln. Instead they’re seeing eczema and athlete’s foot raining down as aerosol-delivered nanoparticles. Diligent truth-seekers like myself have a hard enough time populating our websites and online forums with the real explanation for these innocuous-looking cloud formations of death without you assisting in the coverup. I expect a fully accurate discussion of this conspiracy in your next issue.

  Sincerely,

  Avery Bartholomew Pendleton

  P.S. I have yet to receive a reply from your organization regarding my previous communication suggesting an annual swimsuit issue.

  • • •

  Later that evening, Max sniffed his way down the dark upstairs hallway on his usual midnight patrol. Snuffling along the baseboards, he made his way down the hall to the bedrooms at the end. Inquisitively, he approached the door leading to Avery’s room. A dull light emanated from below the closed door. Taking a whiff under the door, the little dog shook his head and sneezed, sending his collar tags jangling. Max lifted his hind leg and marked the door. Satisfied that his house was safe, Max returned down the hall to his master’s bedroom. Leaping onto the foot of the bed, he curled up by Bennett’s feet and snored himself off to dreamland.

  Inside his office, Avery sat at his makeshift picnic table workstation covered with monitors. Typing away with the index finger of his left hand, his right hand furiously scrolled his mouse across his X-Men-themed mouse pad as he scanned various websites and message boards. Briefly interrupting his typing, he reached for the Mountain Dew can to his left. Bringing the can to his mouth, his attention still glued to the flashing monitors in front of him, Avery searched in vain for the straw that wasn’t there.

  “Miserable, good-for-nothing Polly,” Avery cursed under his breath as he took a long slug before replacing the can and reaching into the pocket of his bathrobe for his eleventh praline of the night. Clicking through different conspiracy and monster-hunting websites, he fumed to himself at the lack of bandwidth his local cable provider offered. Clicking with his mouse, Avery pulled a program up on one of his monitors. It was a program he built himself. The application’s icon was a small picture of Albert Einstein. Double-clicking the scientist’s face, he activated the automated Internet search engine designed to scour cyberspace for recent references regarding chupacabras. The monitor screen began to slowly populate with references.

  Turning his attention to another monitor, Avery typed the website address www.MonsterTruthersMessageBoard.com into the browser and hit the “Enter” key. The homepage of the site that pulled up showed a collection of black and white photos of Bigfoot, the Loch Ness Monster, fairies, and other mysterious and mythical creatures. The banner at the top of the page proclaimed “Monsters Can Run, But They Can’t Hide.” A counter at the bottom of the webpage showed fours users logged into the message board section. Avery logged in with his username of “NinjaMan,” and the counter clicked over to read five. Avery scanned the recent chat threads in the online chat forum section of the site, clicking on one entitled Monster Sightings. “HammerheadSam,” “Grindylow,” “WitchBitch,” and “Cannibal520” were all exchanging messages. Avery knew them well. He began typing in the “Enter Message” window. When he was finished, he pressed the “Enter” key to post the message for the others to see.

  From: NinjaMan – Cannibal520, any updates on chupacabra activity in the Arizona sector?

  Avery finished off the last of his Mountain Dew while he waited for a reply. A few seconds later, Cannibal520’s reply posted.

  From: Cannibal520 – Nothing here. I do have a three-headed turtle sighting and a possible lead on a unicorn in Nevada. Hey, anyone out there interested in buying a Bigfoot plaster print? I paid this guy in Texas $200 for it a while back, but I’m willing to let it go for $100. I need to buy some more RAM for my computer.

  From: Grindylow – I’ll trade you some jackalope antlers for it.

  From: Cannibal520 – No, thanks, Grindylow, I really need the cash.

  From: NinjaMan – Grindylow, how about chupacabra sightings in Louisiana?

  From: Grindylow – Couple of Loup Garou spotted late last week on a plantation outside of Thibodaux. Close enough?

  From: NinjaMan – Not the same.

  From: HammerheadSam – Sorry, NinjaMan. Nessie sightings are up twenty-six percent, Bigfoot and Yeti sightings down eight percent, and goblins unchanged. No chupacabras here in Florida, but I did get some confirmation on a day-walking vampire in Tampa.

  From: NinjaMan – BFD, probably just another Scientologist. Whatever you do, don’t give it your Social Security Number.

  From: WitchBitch – Hey, guys. I’m coming down from New Jersey next weekend for BloodSplatterFestXII in Las Vegas. Anyone want to be my date? Lots of great horror film premieres.

  From: HammerheadSam – OMG! I’ll go!

  From: WitchBitch – I thought you couldn’t leave the state of Florida?

  From: HammerheadSam – I’ll cut my ankle monitor off!

  From: WitchBitch – I don’t know. How about you, NinjaMan? You’re really hot, and I’ve never been with a guy who has been into orbit before.

  Avery choked on the last of the pralines he was eating as he realized what WitchBitch was referring to. He’d posted a picture of a young Lee Majors as his photo avatar and listed his occupation as former astronaut when he originally registered on the site.

  From: Cannibal520 – NinjaMan, if you drive, you can crash at my place in Tucson on the way. I’ll make my Mom sleep on the couch and you can have her room.

  From: WitchBitch – Come on, NinjaMan. It’ll be totally awesome. I’m even going to wear my gold Princess Leia metal bikini! LOL.

  Avery went to type, “Oh, darn, I’m busy that weekend working on a secret project for a foreign government.” Unfortunately, when Avery hit the “H” key, a small piece of the praline he was eating fell from his mouth and jammed in the keyboard. Instead of “Oh” he typed “Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.” Panicking, Avery went to hit the “Delete” key but mistakenly hit the “Enter” key below it. An instant later, his reply posted on the board.

  From: NinjaMan – Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

  From: WitchBitch – WTF, NinjaMan? Are you masturbating?

  From: HammerheadSam – I am, Leia! Could you type, “The more you tighten your grip, the more star systems will slip through your fingers,” for me. Please!

  From: WitchBitch – Sick ass pervert!

  From: Cannibal520 – HammerheadSam, only you could be so bold! LOL.

  From: HammerheadSam – Yes, baby! I’m populating the galaxy with star systems! Ahrggg! Who’s your Jedi now, Leia!

  From: WitchBitch – I’m out of here! Bastards!

  From: Grindylow – Way to go, HammerheadSam. Not cool at all.

  From: HammerheadSam – LMFAO! I was kidding. Some people are so sensitive.

  Avery watched as the “logged-on” counter clicked to four. Having removed the marauding praline nugget from his keyboard’s “H” key, Avery logged off the message board and stumbled down the stairs to the kitchen to retrieve another Mountain Dew and refill his bathrobe pockets with pralines.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Firefight

  The men of STRAC-BOM were hunkered down in the shallow foxholes they’d dug in front of their campsite at Rally Point Dos. General X-Ray resided under the dining fly in his command post set a few meters back from the men in their ragged holes. Fire Team Leader Bravo and Private Tango sat at their post in the middle of the surveillance line. Both men were whittling on sticks in the dark.

  “Dang it!” Fire Team Leader Bravo said as he cut his finger
with his pocketknife.

  “Let me see,” said Private Tango as he turned on his flashlight to examine the wound. “Ain’t nothing but a paper cut.”

  “Hurts like hell, though.”

  “Turn that light off!” commanded the General, who had moved forward to see what the commotion was all about. “You’ll give away our position. Now, what’s all the noise about?”

  “Just cut my finger, sir,” replied the Fire Team Leader.

  “Is it on your trigger finger?” the General inquired.

  “No, sir.”

  “Then tape an aspirin to it and get back on watch. These illegal aliens are sneaky.”

  “Sir,” Fire Team Leader Bravo said. “I’m pretty sure we’re the only ones out here. We haven’t seen anything but those two bodies in the desert in two whole nights. The men are exhausted from lack of sleep, and we haven’t had anything hot to eat since we got out here. Don’t you think maybe we ought to pack it up and go home? We could still get back in time for breakfast.”

  “And just how tired and hungry were the American soldiers stranded in the Ardennes? They didn’t surrender at the Battle of the Bulge, did they? Quit your bellyaching and continue your mission. Operation Land Shark concludes at 1800 hours.”

  “Jeez, general,” moaned Private Zulu as he shined his flashlight on his wristwatch. “That’s a whole 1500 hours from now.”

  “Turn off that damned light!” the General screamed. “I want complete noise and illumination integrity restored in this foxhole!” he ordered as he returned to his command post.

  • • •

  Three hundred yards to the southwest of STRAC-BOM’s position, El Barquero made his way silently through the brush and rocky outcroppings of the desert floor. His night vision equipment had alerted him to the presence of a group of men and their vehicles camped along the ridgeline. It didn’t take long to ascertain that they weren’t cartel soldiers or law enforcement. Still, he didn’t want to have them involved in his work this evening, so he passed them to the east, giving them a wide berth. Through his goggles, he could make out movement to his south. It was three men carrying parcels on their backs. They appeared to be armed with assault rifles. Memo had been correct. The shipment was right on schedule. El Barquero quietly checked his weapons and moved toward the advancing men, looking to intercept their route.