Trail of the Chupacabra: An Avery Bartholomew Pendleton Misadventure (The Chupacabra Trilogy - Book 2)

by Randel Stephen

  “I don’t much care for animals.”

  “Me neither. Operation Open Wound?”

  “Interesting, but disgusting.”

  “General, I don’t give two shits, wait, wait for it, make that three shits, what you call it. Are you in or are you out? I have SEAL Team Six on standby, if you’re incapable.”

  “In, we’re definitely in! But my men need leadership, and leadership means showing them the path before they walk down it. You can’t keep the map to yourself. You have to give your subordinates an idea of where they’re headed, for the sake of morale, even if it’s off a cliff. Esprit de corps is the deciding factor in most engagements. I beg you. The name of the mission is critical.”

  “General, we don’t have time for this. Jesus Christ, do you want to bring in focus groups and do surveys, maybe a media consultant? If so, you’re paying for it.”

  “Of course not. Agent, may I be so bold as to suggest a name for our mission?”

  “Will it get you moving any quicker?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then go ahead.”

  “Operation Mexican Shadow. We’ll be in and out before anyone notices.”

  “Whatever, fine. Now assemble your men and anything you need, and get the hell to Austin!”

  “Agent 00Zero,” the General said as tears welled in his eyes. “Thank you for this opportunity. STRAC-BOM won’t let you down.”

  “Well, see that you don’t. Good day, General.”

  The phone line went dead. The General hung up and called for his men to reassemble in the main room.

  “Boys!” the General announced proudly as he strapped his pistols back around his bloated waist. “We’re back in business. Call in sick for the next few days — we’ve got new orders.”

  “What about being bust-ass broke?” Fire Team Leader Alpha asked.

  “We have a new benefactor, one with money. Now I know Operation Gold Miner didn’t exactly go as planned, but we’ve been given another shot. The only catch is we’re going to have company this time. Two civilians willing to pay for our services.”

  “Don’t that make us like mercenaries, General?” Private Foxtrot asked.

  “No, it just means we’re employed.”

  “With benefits?” Private Foxtrot asked hopefully. “’Cause this back tooth of mine has been leaking puss like crazy.”

  “No benefits!” the General shouted. “It’s contract work. Now pull your crap together, men. It’s time to get frosty. Fire Team Leader Charlie!”

  “Sir, yes, sir.”

  “Take your private and requisition some transportation big enough for seven men, plus two.”

  “Requisition?” the Team Leader asked. “You mean, like, rent something? I thought we were out of cash.”

  “No. Steal something. Private Zulu’s only real value is that he can hotwire anything. Isn’t that right, Private?”

  “You bet, General,” Private Zulu proudly replied. “Screwdriver and a sharp knife, and I can light the fire and spin the tires on anything Detroit ever made.”

  “Outstanding, Private. Now, Team Leader, get to it. I want you back here with ground transportation by twenty-three hundred hours and not a minute later.”

  “Yes, sir,” Fire Team Leader Charlie replied. “Come on, Zulu.”

  “And remember,” the General added. “Something that blends in.”

  “Right, sir.”

  “Now, the rest of you men. Put away those gall-darn cleaning supplies and start organizing the gear. I want a full shakedown in less than four hours.”

  Fire Team Leader Charlie and Private Zulu headed to the Team Leader’s pickup while the rest of the men rushed to pack their gear and gather supplies and provisions.

  “You got something in mind, Team Leader?” Private Zulu asked. “I’m pretty good at starting up cars, but I never actually stole one before. Well,” he said sheepishly, “I stole a dirt bike once, but it was on a dare from a girl.”

  “Let me think on it a spell, Private. I’ll come up with something.”

  The two men drove around Tornillo for a while, looking for a suitable target. Over the next hour, they spotted sedans, minivans, station wagons. The only problem was that loads of people around the small town recognized them and waved as they passed by. Pretty soon they both decided that El Paso might have a far better selection of cars for theft and most certainly a whole lot fewer people that they went to church with. After they made their way up the interstate, the outskirts of the big city appeared on the horizon.

  “Where should start looking?” Private Zulu asked.

  “I don’t know. Got any ideas?”

  “How about the impound lot?”

  “Naw,” said Fire Team Leader Charlie. “Too much security. Folks coming and going all the time.”

  “What about the mall? It’s got a pretty big lot.”

  “Same thing, too many people around — plus, they’ve got cameras. Hey, wait a minute, look over there.”

  “At what?”

  “That school bus lot.”

  “The one with the big fence?”

  “Sure, I’ve got some bolt cutters in the back. A bus would be perfect for all the boys and our gear.”

  “Don’t seem right somehow. It’s like stealing from the kids.”

  “For the love of Sam Hill, you’re the one that suggested sticking up lemonade stands. Hell, the kids will love it. It’ll probably give them a day or two off from school. Beside, the government is cutting back school budgets all the time. They’re the ones really stealing from kids. We’re small time. Nobody will notice.”

  “All right, good point, but the General said something low-key. Big and yellow don’t spell low-key to me.”

  “Of course it does. Buses are downright common. Plus, you ever see a cop giving a school bus a parking ticket?”

  “No.”

  “Then, there you go.”

  “Sounds good to me. Then let’s check it out.”

  The two men pulled off the highway and slowly drove around the fenced lot, examining it for weaknesses in its defenses. “You sure we should be doing this in broad daylight?” the private asked. “The General, he says covert operations are best executed under the cover of the dark, with overwhelming manpower, treachery, or all of the above.”

  “Good point, but it means we’ve got some time to kill. What do you want to do?”

  “How about a movie?” Private Zulu suggested. “It’ll be cool inside. This heat is killing me.”

  “Sorry.” The Fire Team Leader apologized for his truck’s clunky air conditioning. “You want to go to that big movie cinema across town?”

  “The SuperMegaJumboPlex? You bet, they got all the new stuff,” the private said as he picked his nose and flicked the findings out the cracked window, only to have it blow back in. A bit later, the men arrived at their destination and approached the ticket counter. “What should we see?” Private Zulu asked as they dodged a throng of teenagers.

  “How about that one?” Fire Team Leader Alpha suggested as he pointed to the top of the board.

  “The Artist?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What’s it about?”

  “Don’t know, but I heard it was up for all the awards.”

  “Okay by me. Hope it’s got a car chase.” The men purchased their tickets, went inside, and hit the concession stand. Taking their seats, they crammed fists of popcorn into their mouths as the previews rolled. The next several hours left the men rather confused, but less sweaty than before. The movie wasn’t exactly what they expected.

  “Well,” Fire Team Leader began as they left the theater. “What did you think?”

  “I think I’m never coming back to this place again. We got swindled. The dang audio was busted for the whole movie, and nobody even bothered to fix it. I couldn’t hear a word they were saying.” The two disgruntled men climbed into the pickup and headed back to the bus lot. The sun was going down, and they had to get to work. Pulling up to the depot,
Fire Team Leader Charlie pulled over on the side of the road. They could see the gate was locked. “Which one should we swipe?” the private asked.

  “Which ever one is handiest, I suppose. Just curious — can you drive one of those things?”

  “I guess so. Can’t be that hard, although, come to think of it, that’s what I said about algebra, and that bitch ’bout done killed me. How come they always want you to find X? That sucker is long gone by now.”

  “Don’t worry. You’ll be fine. All right, let’s get that gate open.” The men climbed out, and the Fire Team Leader grabbed his bolt cutters. Sneaking along the quiet road until they reached the gate, the men prepared to cut the chain around the fence. Suddenly, the sound of grinding gears came from behind them. “Private, take cover, now!” The men dove into a small drainage ditch beside the road just as a school bus pulled up to the gate. The driver got out and unlocked the chain before getting back into the bus and pulling into the lot. He parked it in an empty space. A minute later the driver climbed out and headed for the main office. “Hurry up, Zulu, grab the one that just pulled in. It’s already warmed up. I’ll wait here and keep watch.”

  “What?”

  “Quick. You may not have much time.”

  “I’m going alone? That wasn’t the deal.”

  “We didn’t have a deal. Now get moving. I’ll watch your six. I’ll hoot like an owl three times if someone is coming.”

  “You better not leave me.”

  “You know we never leave a man behind. It’s in the STRAC-BOM Code of Conduct. Right after incoming fire always has the right of way.”

  “Yeah, I remember. Okay, cover me.” Private Zulu scampered into the lot and made his way to the bus. The door was open. Private Zulu used his screwdriver to remove the ignition cover and expose the wires inside. “Dang it!” exclaimed the Private, as the colors of the wires were different from what he was used to. Which one is it? He struggled to open the blade on his rusty Swiss Army knife. Gotta remember to clean this som’bitch. Eventually, he got the knife open. Fumbling with the wires, he used his pocketknife to strip the plastic covering off the ends of all of them. Holding his breath and squinting, he twisted two of the wires together. Nothing happed. He tried two more. Nothing. He tried two more. Bang! A filling in one of his back molars exploded. Head spinning, lying on his back, the gearshift between his scrawny legs, he heard a faint sound, another, and then one more. It could have been an owl, but it would have to have been an old, diseased, choking, dying hoot owl, with a pronounced lisp. Actually, it didn’t really sound like an owl at all, but it was enough to get the private motivated. Pulling himself to his feet, he noticed movement in the office. Terrified, he grabbed the wires again, then braced himself and touched them together. Sparks flew, and the engine lurched. Trying one more time as he clenched his teeth, Private Zulu twisted the two exposed wires together and pinched them off. The engine turned over. It was running. Zulu jumped into the driver’s seat and put the school bus into gear, grinding the gears in the process. As he swung around to exit through the gate, he sideswiped another bus. Then he heard more hooting: lisping, diseased, choking, dying bird hooting. Stomping on the gas, he sped out of the lot. Looking back, he saw Fire Team Leader Charlie racing to his truck. The Fire Team Leader caught back up with him before they even made it back to the interstate. Neither man let off the gas until they saw the Tornillo exit.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Ghost From the Past

  Back in his office, Avery packed his roller bag, fanny pack, and ice chest for the upcoming journey. He wanted to be sure he wouldn’t run out of Mountain Dew. More importantly, he hoped he would have sufficient time on the trip to continue his critical correspondence. He’d been quite aggravated lately, even more than usual. His “hit list” of targets destined to receive a rambling, scathing petition was at an all-time high. He was hot. It made his blood boil. He needed to get a few letters sent off immediately, before STRAC-BOM arrived, in order to cool down. If nothing else, Avery was persistent, kind of like a bad rash. He wanted to start his epic road trip feeling good about himself, and the best way for Avery to feel better about himself was to annoy someone else. He figured he’d be up all night anyway. So he typed away.

  To: Subscription Department

  Wicked Gamer Illustrated

  Dear Whoever,

  I’m writing you today to kindly ask you to politely, comfortably, and conveniently bend over and stick your head up your ass. I’ve been a loyal subscriber to your somewhat entertaining, mildly informative, but mostly advertising-ridden rag for over twenty years. I was probably your first customer. I remember when I used to have to walk thirteen blocks to a rundown smoke shop to buy your periodical before you actually started mailing it out. I remember when your crappy magazine came with rusty staples and warped pages. I remember when it came with full-color advertisements for dehydrated Sea Monkeys on the back pages. Trust me, I’ve ordered them. Horrible pets. No sense of obedience. Taste horrible. Anyway, I’VE PAID MY SUBSCRIPTION! But, given your recent correspondence, you apparently don’t know that. Why do you insist on bombarding my mailbox with countless renewal letters marked URGENT – THIS IS YOUR LAST ISSUE? Really? Seriously? At the bottom of your last letter, or, more precisely, your latest threat, it clearly states that my subscription runs until February of next year. Why would I renew now? Are you financially insolvent? If so, what’s the point? If you go bankrupt, will my subscription be transferred to another magazine? Newsweek, maybe? Good God, I hope not. Their coverage of first-person shooters (FPS) and role-playing games (RPG) is pathetic. And no, I don’t want to buy a gift subscription! Who am I going to give it to? Some anonymous kid in Tokyo with a pithy Internet handle who shot me in the back of the head after a marathon twelve-hour online session? The little jackass! And another thing that pisses me off, why the hell does the issue that shows up in my mailbox in August state very clearly on the front of the magazine that it’s your October issue? Naturally, I assume as the writers of a video game magazine you smoke a lot of pot, but it’s supposed to slow you down, not speed you up. At least, that’s what I’m told. I eagerly await your next edition.

  Sincerely,

  Avery Bartholomew Pendleton

  P.S. – Please bring back the Sea Monkeys.

  • • •

  In the desert, a pack moved. But it didn’t move in unison. Some animals strayed behind, yipping and dancing in the moonlight. Some fanned out to the side, sniffing the night air. But always, no matter where they were, they all paid attention to the large beast at the front of the pack. He was hungry. His stride was long and purposeful. He owned the pack. One look from him, and the others would cower and then obediently follow.

  The big animal paused in the dry sand. He raised his muzzle and smelled the air. Others behind him began to stir and whine. One growl from him, and they stopped. He looked back at his pack. He was the alpha. They wouldn’t move if he didn’t want them to. The big animal loped off into the distant moonlight. He covered the ground effortlessly with his long stride. When he disappeared from view, the rest of the pack paced back and forth anxiously.

  Soon he returned. In his jaws was the carcass of an animal. Domesticated. It was weak and nearly dead, but not totally dead. It would serve the pack well. The big animal stood guard as his pack ate. The goat died quickly. His pack was sated. As the clouds parted and the moon peeked through, he howled.

  • • •

  “A goddamn school bus!” the General screamed as he pounded the steering wheel of the bus cruising along the road toward Austin. “Yellow? Are you completely insane, Fire Team Leader Charlie? What were you thinking?”

  “It’s big.” The Fire Team Leader ducked his head.

  “It’s cowardly yellow!”

  “It fits all the men. It was all we could find.”

  “It stands out like an oil derrick on a putting green!”

  “It’s asymmetrical counter-camouflage, sir,” Fire Team Leader Charlie replie
d. “It kind of mingles in, you know? General, have you ever seen a school bus get a parking ticket?” The Team Leader winked at Private Zulu.

  “Are you trying to make a point?” the General asked.

  “Sir, yes, sir.”

  “Then what is it?’

  “No one will notice us.”

  “Unless they notice we’re not kids,” Fire Team Leader Bravo chimed in.

  “Yeah, we should get some kids!” Private Foxtrot added enthusiastically. The bus went silent.

  “Idiot,” the General mumbled. “How far are we from Austin?”

  “About thirty miles, General,” replied Fire Team Leader Alpha.

  “General,” Private Tango said. “I need to eat something.”

  “Break open some rations.”

  “We didn’t bring any.” The shy private ducked his head.

  “What? No rations! We’re going on an invasion. No rations…what the…why we’ll never…goddammit!” The General slammed down on the brakes. The long bus snaked back and forth on the highway before pulling over to the side of the road. “You jackasses!” he screamed as his pudgy face turned even redder than normal. “No rations?”

  “We’re broke,” Fire Team Leader Alpha said as he picked his nose.

  “Bust ass,” Private Foxtrot added.

  “We’re so broke, the bank asked for their calendar back,” Private Zulu chimed in, picking his nose as well.

  “If we even had paper plates, we’d have to wash them,” Fire Team Leader Charlie said.

  “We’re not broke, men,” the General said, encouraging his men, “just severely bent. But not for long, mind you. Paying customers live just that way.” The General pointed down the road toward Austin. “And all the lost gold of Mexico!”

  “Lost gold?” Private Foxtrot asked.

  “Of course.”

  “Who lost it?” Fire Team Leader Bravo inquired.

  “Probably some Mexicans.” The General put the bus back in gear and prepared to pull back on the road. “They tend to misplace things — identification documents, peace treaties, precious metals. Private Tango, reach inside my rucksack and grab that book.”