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

by Stephen Randel

  “Well, pretty much north, sir,” Fire Team Leader Alpha replied.

  “Excellent!” the General replied as he began to pace back and forth in front of his troopers. “As ya’ll well know, little if anything is being done to dam the flood of anti-American infiltrators who leach into our glorious country by night to threaten not only our American way of life, but also our way of life as God-protected Texas Christian citizens.” Pointing his riding crop toward the bridge that connected the two areas, he continued, “You’re also aware that our previous attempt to monitor and interdict illegal aliens directly at this bridge crossing met with an unwelcome response from local, federal, and international authorities.”

  “Unwelcome response?” said Private Tango. “Hell, they threw Fire Team Leader Bravo in the dang Rio Grande, punched me in my good eye, and impounded all our guns for two weeks. We was damn lucky to get ’em back at all. Heck, Private Foxtrot even had to have his wife pawn his Guns and Ammo magazine collection to make bail.”

  “Fire Team Leader Bravo!” General X-Ray exploded, his pudgy face reddening even more than normal, “Control your troops!”

  “Belay the commentary, Private Tango,” Fire Team Leader Bravo said as he boxed the ears of the private sitting in front of him. “Technically, sir, with only two men per Fire Team, he’s my troop, not my troops.”

  General X-Ray’s nostrils flared in rage as he stared menacingly at Fire Team Leader Bravo. A pig-like squeal slipped from his lips as he held onto the podium to maintain his balance.

  “Will y’all just shut up and listen!” General X-Ray bellowed.

  “Sir, yes, sir,” the entire six man brigade of militia members unenthusiastically mumbled in unison.

  “Now,” General X-Ray paused as he regained his composure, “given that our attempts to block this port of illicit entry have met with initial resistance and that Private Zulu has been as of yet unable to requisition the appropriate ordnance for executing Operation Water Lion...”

  “Sir?” Private Zulu asked meekly, raising a skinny hand.

  “Yes, private,” General X-Ray replied as he rubbed his bald head with both hands and squeezed his eyes shut. “What now?”

  “Sir, I really got no idea where I’m going to get real landmines, and even if I do, how’re we actually going to mine the Rio Grande? Ain’t we going to need some kind of environmental permit for that? I tried to put a new porch on my house once and it took damn near six months to get permission just to do that.”

  “No, we’re not going to need permission,” General X-Ray replied sarcastically. “STRAC-BOM is a constitutionally empowered organization bound and determined to restore a literal interpretation of the founding fathers’ wisdom and the Constitution of the United States of America. The Second Amendment grants us the lawful right and, I dare say, the profound obligation to bear arms to defend ourselves from tyrannical infringement by all enemies, be they foreign or domestic, and right now, gentlemen, we have enemies at both gates. Don’t you understand? There are hundreds of God-fearing groups of great patriots like us in this country serving as civilian militias. The difference is we don’t live in Michigan or Indiana. We live in Texas! We live directly on the wire. We’re the first line of defense. We have the privilege of being the first to fight, the first to make a difference in this country of unconcerned indifference. Gentlemen, in this vital struggle against alien invasion, we are the glorious and righteous swords of freedom. And goddammit, swords don’t need permits!” the General screamed.

  “Uh-rah,” the brigade responded rather unemotionally.

  “Now, with the main land route impeded by authoritarian fascists and Operation Water Lion on indefinite hold,” General X-Ray continued in a more subdued voice, “we’ll need to proceed with the logistical preparations for Operation Land Shark immediately.” Turning back to his topographical map, the General pointed to a yellow-shaded region of the map with his riding crop. “Focus your attention on this area of the battlefield, if you please,” he instructed. “This area here, roughly three to six miles inside the border and approximately twenty miles long, constitutes one of the main areas for illegal alien rally points. The foothills provide cover for the invading vagrants, and it has close access to the interstate. Our mission is to survey, monitor, and interdict said immigrants before they can rendezvous with transportation. The terrain is rugged. Fire Team Leader Alpha has graciously procured favorable rental terms for four ATV vehicles from his employer to aid in our campaign.”

  “Yeah, but please, people, we can’t bang ’em up,” Fire Team Leader Alpha implored. “Remember what happened to the Winnebago we took to Juarez last month? I think they’re still trying to fix the transmission on that thing.”

  “Duly noted, Fire Team Leader,” General X-Ray replied. “The manufacturer should have installed a warning sign on those models regarding the limitations of the vehicle’s ability to overcome roadblocks while in high-speed reverse.”

  “I guess so, but my boss ain’t really buying the story about the pack of rabid javelinas nesting behind the RV,” said Fire Team Leader Alpha.

  “He’s on to nothing,” replied the General curtly. “Besides, we paid cash up front for the ATV rentals and put Private Zulu’s house with the new porch up for collateral if damages were to be incurred.”

  “What the hell!” yelled Private Zulu as he leaped from his chair, knocking it over in the process. “How’d you put my house up without me knowing?” he cried.

  “That’s why we require copies of past tax returns, financial statements, bank records, and mortgage information prior to joining STRAC-BOM, Private Zulu. Be proud, son. You’re making a noble sacrifice for your great country and your proud heritage. Besides, damage to equipment on this mission is as prohibited as failure to successfully complete the mission is.”

  “Mamma’s going to right skin me if she finds out,” Private Zulu moaned as the men helped him back into his chair.

  “The only ones getting skinned will be the nefarious interlopers,” the General continued, after taking a long slurping drink from the Mr. Pibb can resting on the podium. Wiping his mouth with his sleeve, he belched. “Individual Fire Teams will share an ATV with one man driving and one man navigating and riding shotgun. I’ll coordinate combat activities from the fourth ATV and serve as immediate reinforcement or emergency EVAC, if required. Communication will be via walkie-talkies. Radio silence will be maintained at all times unless I initiate communication. The border patrol monitors radio frequencies, and we don’t want them aware of our activities.”

  The General again paced slowly back and forth in front of his troops with his hands clasped behind his back. The riding crop twitching in his grasp appeared like a straight leather tail as he spoke. “We’ll rally here Friday evening for equipment check and shakedown at 1800 hours. ATV training is at 1900 hours. Operation Land Shark will commence precisely at 2000 hours. I want this brigade fully operational and in place for the early Saturday morning border crossings. Operations will formally conclude Sunday at 1800 hours or when the tide of illegal vagrancy has been stemmed, whichever comes first.”

  “Sir?” Private Foxtrot asked.

  “Yes, private.”

  “Will we be back in time for the Cowboys game on Sunday?”

  “I think it might be a night game,” Fire Team Leader Charlie chimed in.

  “No, I think we play Monday night,” added Private Zulu. “We should be okay.”

  “Not so fast, men,” said the General. “Monday night you’ll all be here with me debriefing Operation Land Shark. A timely and accurate post mortem of an operation this critical in our fight for freedom is imperative.”

  “Sir,” said Fire Team Leader Bravo. “I’d like to formally request that we debrief Operation Land Shark during the Cowboys game.”

  “Impossible,” snapped the General.

  “But it’s the Cowboys, sir,” pleaded Private Foxtrot.

  “Who we playing?” the General asked.

  “S
ir, Philadelphia, sir!” Private Zulu interjected.

  “I see,” the General said, rubbing his chin as he paused to think. “Philadelphia…very well, then, operational debrief will occur here Monday evening at 1800 hours. Fire Team Leader Bravo, since this was your request, you and your troops…err, troop, are responsible for requisitioning guacamole and chips.”

  “General, sir,” Fire Team Leader Alpha said meekly. “Monday night I’m supposed to go to the city for my taxidermy class. I already missed three of the last six weeks.”

  “Then missing one more won’t really put you that much further behind, will it?” The General’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “Fire Team Leader, I expect you here Monday night promptly at 1800 hours, or you will find yourself on permanent kitchen patrol and latrine duty here at the HQ. Do I make myself crystal clear?”

  “Crystal, sir,” Fire Team Leader Alpha replied despondently as he hunched over and stared at his scuffed, aging desert combat boots. “Guess I’ll never get that dang muskrat mount finished,” he muttered dejectedly.

  “Very well, then!” General X-Ray proclaimed as he snapped to attention. “I’ll see you men here tomorrow at 1800 for equipment check. Uh-rah!”

  “Uh-rah!” the brigade replied.

  CHAPTER TWO

  They Don’t Name Emperors Buddy

  Avery lay in his small bed. His sleep was restless and tortured by dreams. He dreamt of an Aztec priest, painted black, sitting underneath an ancient temple with a grey stone gargoyle at the top. The priest was holding a sacrificial stone knife. A small fire burned in front of him. Lighting flashed and thunder cracked as the old man sang in his primeval tongue. The flames of the fire began to jump with the rhythm of his voice. The temple’s broad pyramid was framed against the low-hanging full moon behind it. The dark image of the temple seemed a thousand miles wide. Avery couldn’t understand what the old man was saying, but his eyes warned of danger, of terror. His chanting, his singing had some purpose. Avery didn’t understand what it was. Avery tossed in his sleep. He was sweating and kicking the sheets off his bed. He couldn’t speak. He couldn’t ask the questions he so desperately wanted to. Most terrifyingly, he couldn’t wake up.

  The flames flickered higher as the priest’s singing grew in intensity. Slowly, out of the fire it came. Black and hairless, it had eyes filled with flames. Avery tried to get up and run, but his body wouldn’t respond. His mind raced. His mind screamed, but in his dream, his limbs were numb. With deliberate, loping strides the beast moved toward him. Its eyes never blinked. Avery tried to scream. Nothing came out. A long black tongue hung from the side of the beast’s mouth as the noxious odor of sulfur and rotting flesh filled the air. Avery struggled to get a good look at it, trying to catch a clear glimpse of the creature as the backlight of the fire, burning ever higher and hotter, cast dancing and erratic shadows in the moonlight. Suddenly, it was right above him, looking down. Noxious drool from its fangs dripped down on his face. Avery tried to wipe it off, but he couldn’t move. Then the beast raised its head and howled. The Aztec priest stopped his singing and lowered his head in silence. Tears ran down his face. On top of the temple, the gargoyle was gone.

  • • •

  Barquero’s eyes glowed with fire as blood pooled around his feet in the narrow alley. Wiping his curved blade off on the man’s shirt, he pulled out the man’s wallet. Taking the money, he tossed the wallet on the dead man’s chest. The man was on the Padre’s payroll, or at least he used to be.

  Barquero had been looking for information. He didn’t get it. The man didn’t know anything, but it didn’t matter to Barquero. The man had seen his face. That was too much.

  “Oye papi,” said a curvaceous woman with her hands on her hips, looking down the alley. Suddenly, she noticed the man on the ground. His throat was cut. His legs were still twitching. Barquero glared at the woman. His menacing eyes glimmered. The prostitute screamed and ran back the way she had come. Barquero turned and retreated deeper into the alley.

  • • •

  That morning, in the big, white house in Austin, Kip followed the smell of bacon down the stairs and into the kitchen. Bennett looked as if he’d been up for awhile. He was reading the paper while he sat at the kitchen table drinking coffee with a half-eaten biscuit drowned in honey sitting in front of him. The rest of the biscuits sat with a pile of bacon on a white platter in the middle of the table. Max sat in the corner of the kitchen by his water bowl. The dog cocked his head in curiosity as Kip entered the room

  “Morning, boy,” Bennett said, looking up from the paper. “Coffee is over there.”

  “Thanks,” Kip replied as he reached into the cupboard for a coffee mug. Filling the mug to the rim from the pot, he turned and pulled out a chair opposite Bennett.

  “Get some grub in you. I don’t cook much, but I do like breakfast,” Bennett said, pushing the platter toward Kip.

  “Thanks, maybe in a minute,” Kip replied as he sipped the scalding-hot coffee.

  “Sleep okay?”

  “Yeah, not bad. Avery only woke me a couple of times.”

  “He sure is one strange critter. Bangs away on that keyboard all night sometimes.” At that very moment, Avery, wearing his yellow tracksuit and looking even more haggard than usual, stumbled into the kitchen, banging his toe on the door as he entered. “Morning, sunshine,” said Bennett as he smiled at Avery.

  Avery grunted in reply as he retrieved a Mountain Dew from the refrigerator and cracked it open. He placed a plastic straw from beside the sink into the can.

  “Stay up late?” asked Kip.

  “Most of the night. Bad dreams,” Avery replied as he leaned against the sink and slurped heavily from the straw. “Plus, that infernal CIA mainframe is really pissing me off.”

  “CIA mainframe?” Kip inquired as he glanced out of the corner of his eye at Bennett.

  “I’ve been trying to gain access for the last week,” Avery replied. “I keep running into redundant firewalls.”

  “I’m pretty sure hacking the CIA is frowned upon,” said Kip.

  “Of course it is,” replied Avery as he sucked down the last of the soda. “However, it’s imperative I discover everything they know about me. The only way to do that is to access their files.”

  “Avery,” Bennett growled menacingly, “I put up with a lot of horse crap from you. If the Feds come knocking on my door because of your little games, I’m positively going to let them shoot you. I’ll even loan them a damn gun.”

  “Doctor, don’t worry yourself,” Avery said nonchalantly. “My clandestine efforts are completely untraceable. At least, they should be. Besides, if they do come, I doubt they’ll simply knock on the front door. More likely they’ll utilize black ops commandos rappelling from helicopters. Probably use flash-bang grenades to disorient us. Going forward, I’d suggest you both wear earplugs to bed as a precaution.”

  “Got your tracksuit on,” said Bennett. “You heading out?”

  “Later,” Avery replied as he cracked the pull-tab on another can of Mountain Dew.

  “Where you headed?” asked Bennett. “I’ll be sure to avoid it.”

  “Well, first I’ll need to cross town and double back a few times to avoid being tailed, then I need to stop at Magic Man’s bookstore,” Avery said, then drained the second can of soda.

  “Bookstore?” said Bennett. “That place ain’t nothing but a head shop for dopers. You bring any of that junk into my house, first I’ll break your neck, then I’ll throw you out on the street!”

  “Pshaw, old man,” Avery replied, setting down the empty can. “My reality is so compellingly fascinating, I couldn’t ever imagine needing to escape from it.”

  “Avery?” asked Kip. “If you’re worried about being spotted, why the yellow tracksuit? Doesn’t it seem just a little conspicuous?”

  “On the contrary,” Avery replied condescendingly. “It’s an ultra-effective form of urban camouflage that enables me to remain anonymous in a crowd. Besides, it allo
ws for excellent freedom of movement.”

  “You don’t think it makes you stick out a bit?” asked Kip.

  “Not in Austin,” Avery explained. “The conflagration of weirdoes, creeps, punks, goths, bikers, hippies, and eccentrics who reside in this town is what makes Austin such a unique environment to slip through unnoticed. The odd duck doesn’t stand out here. We’re the white noise that most people pass by. Normal people—and by normal I only mean conventional—if not intentionally ignoring us because they fear confrontation, assault, or, even worse, a request for spare change, will simply not see us. It’s a subconscious avoidance mechanism that prevents confrontation.”

  “Really?”

  “Indubitably. A bare-chested man with nipple rings wearing a pink tutu and riding a unicycle could rob a crowded bank in broad daylight in this town and get away free and clear without a single witness being able to describe the perpetrator. They’d have been so uncomfortable they wouldn’t even have made eye contact.”

  “I see,” said Kip, chuckling slightly. “I guess you should be the invisible man, then. What’re you picking up at the bookstore?”

  “Reference materials on the chupacabra, if you must know,” Avery replied.

  “Chupa what?” asked Kip looking rather puzzled.

  “Chupacabra. It means the ‘goat sucker.’ I firmly believe that climatic changes spawned by global warming are pushing their territorial Mexican feeding grounds north. If I’m correct, we may soon find ourselves surrounded by the vampire-like beasts.”