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

by Randel Stephen

  “What?” asked Fire Team Leader Charlie.

  “There is some good news,” the General said. “Shelter, boys.” The General pointed to the bullet-riddled remains of the Padre’s abandoned farmhouse. “Follow me.” The group moved out. Within a few minutes, they were in the kitchen, cooking eggs and drinking copious amounts of the Padres’ cold beer and warm tequila.

  “Who wants jalapenos?” the General asked as he flipped the pan and rolled out another perfect omelet.

  “Extra cheese!” Private Zulu cried. The men ate in silence, too busy stuffing their faces to converse. After finishing their supper and another couple of bottles of the Padre’s tequila, the sleepy and happily drunk militia stumbled through the house, looking for bedrooms.

  “General,” Fire Team Leader Charlie asked, “when are we going after that little fellow?”

  “In the morning, Team Leader. In the morning.”

  • • •

  The sun was coming up in Monterrey. Avery slammed a warm Mountain Dew as the sounds of the busy city came to life. He picked up the morning newspaper and reread the headlines just to make sure. It really pissed him off…

  To: The Chairman

  Federal Reserve Board

  Dear Chairman:

  I’m writing today to express my explicit contempt for your lack of action in saving America’s, if not the world’s, favorite son. I know that the bailing out of banks and insurance companies is important (for you, anyway; those free lunches and conferences at swanky hotels are pretty sweet). May I ask a question? Do you take the towels or just the soap and shampoo? Myself, I like the bed sheets and linens. High thread count is hard to find these days, and it saves the maid’s time changing the bed out. I’m sure they’d thank me. I’m a giver, and taking the sheets gives them time back to use for rifling through guests’ belongings and spitting on toothbrushes. But we have business to discuss, Mr. Chairman. America’s culture is being savagely attacked. Without our culture, what do we really have, except expensive healthcare and high property taxes? Okay, you got me. We have good chicken wings, too, really good wings, but the co-pays suck. Are you following me? Trillions of dollars are being spent bailing out corporate America while the most important of our cultural icons is left to hang out in the wind. Twisting and turning, no home, no savior, slowly drying up from the inside out…ultimately it will die, contrary to popular opinion. And so will a whole generation with it. I know what they say about the resiliency of it. Nothing can stop it. Time, temperature, pressure, it’s virtually impervious to everything but the realities of the financial markets. Sure, embalming fluid helps, but only for a while. And that’s only a rumor. I repeat, only a rumor that it contains embalming fluid. However, the filling does contain a certain cellulose gum used in rocket fuel. Can you please help me, for the sake of the nation? Please bail out the Twinkie. Bail it out before the North Koreans buy the brand to enhance their intercontinental ballistic technology. They think they’re still at war with us, and if they take the Twinkie, they might as well have taken South Dakota. To that end, we might not realize its importance until it’s too late.

  Sincerely,

  Avery Bartholomew Pendleton

  • • •

  On the other side of town, the Padre picked up a field radio from the floor beside his dingy mattress and keyed the “talk” button.

  “It’s me. Can you hear me? Good. The meeting is still on.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Circles

  Ziggy ate the fat grasshopper that Nancy brought to him for breakfast. He kind of liked it. Not what he would normally would have for breakfast, but it worked. Being from Austin, he was very conscious of nose-to-tail sustainable cuisine, and this certainly qualified. It was crunchy on the outside, sort of like hummus on the inside. He asked the big iguana if he could have another. Nancy bit him.

  • • •

  Back in the Padre’s ruined farmhouse, General X-Ray rallied his men at sunup. Pounding on bedroom doors around the farmhouse, he woke his troops from the first decent night’s sleep they’d had in several days.

  “Puke and rally!” he commanded as he roused Tango. “That’s an order, Private,” he yelled. “Puke and rally. Operation Skinny is in effect!” The weary and hung-over men climbed out of their soft, warm beds and put on their combat boots. They rallied up in the kitchen, but this time, there weren’t fluffy omelets waiting for them. “We’re moving out and searching for the civilian.”

  “How’re we going to find him, sir?” Fire Team Leader Alpha asked. “He could be anywhere.”

  “We’re going to track him, Team Leader. Just like the fat civilian taught us to look for his chupa…the coyote things.” The men gathered up whatever water and provisions they could carry and went outside. “Now, check the ground, men. The Mexican Army said he wasn’t found inside, so he must have bugged out. Unless they were lying to us, which they very well could have been. Never trust anyone down here. Nonetheless, I want visuals on tracks. Pronto!” The militia circled the farmhouse, looking for clues.

  “What does that look like, Team Leader?” Private Tango asked, pointing at the ground.

  “Well,” Fire Team Leader Bravo said, “could be some blood. Could be some tracks. Could be some bloody tracks. Not really sure.”

  “Not really sure? That’s some good tracks, Team Leader, and they’re heading straight that way.” Private Tango pointed toward the hills in the distance.

  “Better tell the General, I guess.”

  • • •

  Nancy continued leading Ziggy on a zigzag path through the desert. Ziggy, with a sudden appetite for grasshoppers, kept a sharp lookout for crunchy things with wings. Unfortunately for him, not the grasshoppers, Ziggy wasn’t very good at catching them. Nancy looked at him in disgust as he dove into the dust after another one and missed. Nancy hissed and kept on walking. In the distance, Ziggy saw a familiar sight. A long yellow vehicle rested under a shimmering heat mirage.

  “Like, groovy, man.” Ziggy and Nancy headed straight for it. When they reached the bus, Ziggy opened the door and climbed inside. Nancy followed hesitantly. Ziggy looked for food and water. For once he wished Avery had been able to find some Mountain Dew. “All right, Nancy. I know, like, where we are. I’m going to, like, lie down for just a minute, dude.” Ziggy curled up in a bus seat and closed his eyes.

  • • •

  The General led his men into the canyons, still following the tracks left in the desert floor. After they wound and wove their way through the confusing maze, the General stopped and allowed his unit to rest.

  “Man,” said Private Zulu, “that little feller sure can cover ground. We’ve been on his tail for miles.”

  “These canyons are as crooked as a barrel of fishhooks,” said Private Tango as he stuck a finger in his ear, twisted it around, and examined the excavated contents.

  “Uh, General,” Fire Team Leader Charlie said.

  “What is it?”

  “I think we have a major malfunction here.” The Fire Team Leader pointed at the ground. “I think we’ve already been here before.” The rest of the men examined the crisscrossed tracks in the dirt.

  “Lard buckets!” the General exclaimed. “The little bastard got himself lost.”

  “Does that mean we’re lost, too?” Private Foxtrot asked.

  “Of course not,” the General replied. “The way out is right over there. Or was it that way?” He pointed.

  “I was kind of thinking maybe down that way,” Fire Team Leader Alpha added.

  “Well, somebody pick one,” the General said.

  • • •

  Something bit Ziggy. He looked up to see Nancy standing on his chest. The frilled collar under the iguana’s chin tickled Ziggy’s nose.

  “I, like, know, man. But I don’t have the keys.” Nancy stared at Ziggy. “All right, come on then. But if, like, those, evil dudes are still there, I’m splitting, man.” Ziggy and Nancy made their way over the nearby rise and walked
to the Padre’s farmhouse. Ziggy hunched down behind the fence surrounding the property and watched.

  “I think, like, the coast is clear.” Ziggy searched the compound while Nancy sat on the porch of the farmhouse and watched. All of the dead bodies had been taken away, but the blood, bullet holes, and signs of the furious battle remained. Ziggy walked back over to Nancy.

  “Let’s, like, see if he has cable, man.” Ziggy led Nancy inside the farmhouse. Gathering up some chips and salsa from the kitchen, Ziggy settled down with a stack of DVDs into a plush couch full of bullet holes. Miraculously, the enormous flat-screen television that dominated the Padre’s entertainment room still worked, although it did have a long crack in the screen, but Ziggy didn’t mind. He looked for a remote for the stereo. He liked watching television with the sound muted and the stereo on full blast. When he opened a drawer on the end table next to the couch, Ziggy’s eyes lit up. There, inside the drawer, next to the stereo remote, was one perfectly rolled joint and a sterling silver lighter. Ziggy lit up, cranked the volume, and started his movie.

  “Want one?” Ziggy offered a chip with some salsa to Nancy. The big lizard just ignored him.

  • • •

  Avery asked a soldier to go and find the Colonel immediately. Avery typed away furiously at his laptop. It whined and hummed, unlike the top-of-the-line model of the Padre’s, which it was connected to. It pissed him off. Cesar arrived a few minutes later.

  “What is it?” he asked as he entered the room.

  “A transmission on the secure network that was a little out of the ordinary.”

  “What was the message?”

  “The meeting is still on.”

  “Where?”

  “It didn’t say, but by triangulating between the network of communication towers in the area, I’d say the message was sent from here in Monterrey.”

  “Can you be more precise?

  “No.”

  “Damn,” Cesar swore. “Keep listening.”

  “What about your contact?”

  “Nothing yet. You keep working.”

  • • •

  Barquero left some money on the nightstand of the hotel room. In bed, a naked prostitute known to associate with the Padre’s men rolled over and went back to sleep. She didn’t know where the Padre was, but she did know someone who did. She didn’t want to die at the hands of the heavily muscled man, so she talked. Then things got interesting. Barquero put on his pants and left the hotel. Outside, he hailed a taxi on the bustling street.

  “The financial district,” Barquero said to the driver. The ride passed in silence as Barquero thought about the Padre. Killing El Carnicero had been satisfying, but he couldn’t stop until the Padre shared his adopted son’s fate. Barquero remembered the shocked look on Carnicero’s face as the Padre abandoned him in the desert to save his own life. The cruel bastard had to die. Reaching the financial district, Barquero paid the fare. Looking up, he surveyed the office building in front of him. He took note of the surroundings, including the buildings nearby and the parking entrance. Entering the building, he walked confidently past the security desk. Neither of the two men sitting there said anything to him. An elevator took him to the floor he was looking for. From the elevator lobby, he noticed the stairs next to the last bank of elevators. The name of a law firm was printed on the glass doors that led to a quiet and extravagantly furnished office lobby. The sign indicated the firm specialized in international law. Barquero entered the office.

  “Good afternoon,” the smartly dressed woman behind the reception desk said with a smile.

  “Good afternoon.” Barquero marched past her and turned down a hallway containing a row of offices.

  “Sir, you can’t go back there. Sir!” Barquero ignored the woman and scanned the nameplates on the doors of the windowless offices as his long, fast stride carried him down the hall. Reaching a corner office, he found the name he was looking for. Pushing the door open, he barged into the room. Sitting behind a large desk, a startled-looking man wearing a tan suit was talking on the phone. Barquero took out a pistol while grabbing the man by his collar and pulling him up. The telephone receiver fell to the desk.

  “What is this?” the panicked man asked as Barquero led him to the door, the pistol placed firmly in the middle of the man’s back.

  “Walk,” Barquero growled. “Don’t make a scene.”

  “Mr. Salazar, is everything all right?” the receptionist asked as the two men walked quickly past her. “Should I call security?”

  “No,” the visibly shaken attorney said. “Everything is fine.” The two men went to the elevator lobby. Barquero pressed the “down” button. Back at her desk, the receptionist picked up the phone. Barquero watched as she turned her back while dialing. The elevator chimed as the doors opened. Quickly, he pulled his captive to the door leading to the stairs at the end of the line of elevators. When the receptionist turned back around, she saw that the two men were gone and elevator doors were closing.

  “Security,” she said into the phone. Barquero dragged the man down two flights of stairs before stopping and pointing the gun’s silencer directly at the man’s forehead. The man’s face was ashen.

  “Where is he?” Barquero asked.

  “Who?”

  Barquero thumbed back the hammer on the pistol. “You know.”

  “I…I don’t what you’re talking about.”

  Keeping the gun pointed at the man’s head, Barquero punched him hard in the liver. The man’s feet buckled. Barquero held him up against the wall.

  “Your client. Your only client, Salazar,” Barquero said. “He’s in town. There’s a meeting. Where is it? Last time I ask, then I kill you and I’ll find your family. Now, where is he?”

  “He’ll be at the warehouse late this afternoon.”

  “What warehouse?”

  “Here. In Monterrey.” The lawyer gave Barquero the building number for the warehouse.

  “If you’re lying, I’ll find you.” Barquero’s large hand palmed the man’s entire face. He slammed the back of the man’s head into the concrete wall of the stairwell. Salazar’s body went limp. As he slid to the floor of the stairwell, his head left a long smear of blood on the wall. A few minutes later, Barquero emerged from the parking garage. A confused-looking attendant watched as the big man who had just walked under the parking lot gate disappeared from sight.

  • • •

  Ziggy switched out his DVD and grabbed some salsa. It was good straight out of the bowl. He loved the old versions of the Wolfman. It made him feel powerful beyond his frail frame and weak nature. The movie opened with something howling in the night.

  • • •

  “There it is, General,” Fire Team Leader Bravo called out. Down a long shoot of canyon, the desert opened up.

  “Told you we’d find it,” said Private Foxtrot. The General led his men out of the confusing maze.

  “We need to find the bus,” the General said.

  “Oh, crap.” Private Zulu looked behind him. “General…”

  “Fire Team Leader Charlie, we need to egress to the transportation, stat.”

  “General…” Private Zulu said again.

  “Private Tango,” the General continued, “you take point.”

  “General.”

  “What is it, Zulu?” the General asked.

  “Them things.”

  “What things?” the General asked as he turned around. In the hills behind him, something moved. “What in the hell…” The images came into focus as they wove their way down to the desert floor. All of a sudden, one of them shook its head and howled. The rest of the pack spread out around the big alpha coyote with eyes that glowed with red fire.

  “One, two, three, four, five, six…” the General counted. “Oh, crap. Boys…run! The bus is that way!” The men of STRAC-BOM tore across the desert, tripping and falling as they went. “Don’t look back!” the General cried out. The pack of coyotes spread out in a fan-shaped pattern an
d slowly but deliberately loped after them, tongues hanging out. “Make for the bus!” the General ordered. “Reverse echelon with a defensive wedge formation!”

  “A what?” Private Tango asked.

  “He means run!” Fire Team Bravo said. Private Zulu slipped and fell.

  “Help me!” Zulu cried. His Team Leader stopped and looked back.

  “Keep going!” Fire Team Leader Charlie shouted to the rest of the men as he turned back for his trooper. By the time he got to Zulu, the first of the coyotes had arrived. Saliva flew from its white fangs as it snarled and shook its head back and forth over the skinny, fallen private. “Asshole!” Fire Team Leader Charlie said as he kicked the coyote in its ribs with his combat boot. The animal screeched in pain and ran back about ten feet before looking up and snarling. “Give me your hand.” The Team Leader pulled Private Zulu to his feet. The other coyotes arrived and slowly surrounded the two men. The vicious animals’ low growls filled the desert valley. Most were mangy, and all were starving. They drooled, looking at Private Zulu. He was little, weak, and a straggler. That combination set off some long-held primal instinct in their brains, eons old. He was their target. He was dinner. Fire Team Leader Charlie stood between Private Zulu and the growling beasts.

  “Come on!” the General yelled back at the two men.

  “You want some, come get some!” Fire Team Leader Charlie said. The coyotes advanced on the two men, who were doing their best to form back up with the main group without losing sight of their attackers. One by one, the coyotes made testing runs in on them. Slowly, they became more and more confident, charging in ever closer to the two men as they made their way back to their buddies.