Stephen Randel - Trail of the Chupacabra

Outside, the sun baked Austin. From a distance, the big white house with the prominent columns in front shimmered in the heat. Inside, Maximilian licked himself. He was a French bulldog, so it was all right. They tend to do that. A lot. Max, the sturdy alabaster dog, snuffled along the baseboards, looking for snacks. He didn’t find anything worth eating. Maybe a few things for chewing, but he wasn’t interested in chewing. It was too hot. Eating, maybe. Chewing, too hot. Outside, a noise caught his attention. He leapt up toward the low windowsill and slammed his front paws on the glass with a bang. His flat face pressed against the picture window, leaving a fresh smudge of drool on top of the other smudges of drool that lived on top of the other smudges of drool that defined his window. It was definitely Max’s window, and everyone knew it. The smudges were just his way of signing his work. It was an artist thing.

Outside, a long vehicle pulled up to the curb. What’s that? Max’s stubby tail pricked up, and a low growl reverberated deep from within his stocky chest. Bennett, his elderly master and Avery’s stepfather, although only Max acknowledged his authority, called him into the kitchen. Max obeyed and gave Bennett a curious look with his blocky head cocked to one side, and then immediately ran back to the window and began to bark hysterically.

“What the hell is that damn dog doing now?” Bennett asked his son Kip and sister-in-law Polly, both eating a lunch of pimento cheese sandwiches and Polly’s homemade pickles at the table. The sandwiches were excellent, but Polly’s pickles were rank. Her recipe, handed down from her mother’s mother, landed somewhere in between sickeningly sweet, half-sour, mildly dilled, and completely fermented. They tasted awful, but they packed an alcoholic punch. More than two, and driving was not recommended. Kip tried to inconspicuously hide his pickle in his napkin. Bennett, a retired doctor, rose from the table and headed toward the front door, only to nearly be run over by Avery as he pounded down the main staircase, stumbling most of the way.

“Got it,” Avery yelled as he leapt the last two steps to avoid tripping. “As you were.” He brushed past his stepfather.

“Jesus,” Bennett said as he grabbed the banister for support. “Boy, you’re as useful as a trapdoor on a canoe.” Avery pulled open the front door just as the motley and extremely sleepy members of STRAC-BOM reached the porch. The General, in his tanker uniform, led the way.

“Avery Bartholomew Pendleton, I presume,” the General said as he saluted.

“Never heard of him,” Avery said as he returned a half-hearted salute. “Refer to me as Agent 00Zero.”

“Private Zulu has informed me of your real identity.”

“Never mind, then. Inside, quickly!” Avery frantically waved the camouflage fatigue–wearing men into the house. “The black helicopter traffic has been infrequent lately, but we can’t take any chances.” Max eyed the seven strangers with suspicion as they entered. “Don’t worry, though — I’ve swept the interior for bugs and surveillance devices. Can’t be too careful with the current administration in Washington.”

“Well put,” the General replied.

“Avery,” Bennett asked as he filled his pipe with tobacco, “what the hell is going on?”

“These are my associates. We’ll be embarking on an important scientific journey shortly. Kindly refrain from opening my mail or entering my office while we’re gone. It’ll be booby-trapped.”

“You’re leaving. Why didn’t you say? I’ll help you pack.”

“Good day, sir,” the General said as he extended his hand to Bennett. “How are you this fine morning?”

“Well, the Baptists and the Johnson grass are taking over.” Bennett shook the General’s pudgy hand. “Other than that, I’m pretty fair, I suppose. You are?”

“I’m General X-Ray, the commanding officer of the Southwest Texas Revolutionary Armed Confederate Border Operations Militia. I’m sure you’ve heard of our courageous exploits protecting America from invasion. My men and I will be escorting Avery on a top-secret mission to Mexico. Have no fear for his safety — my men are highly trained professionals.”

Bennett surveyed the troops. “What are you hopping around for?” he asked Private Foxtrot.

“Sir, got to pee, sir.”

“Down the hall.” Bennett pointed as Private Foxtrot scurried toward the bathroom, closely followed by Fire Team Leaders Alpha and Charlie. “Can I get you or your men anything?”

“I’m so hungry I could eat the butt off a low-flying duck,” Private Tango said.

“Polly, can you wrangle these boys up some sandwiches?”

“Why, I’d be delighted,” the flame-orange-haired Polly replied. “You just give me two shakes of a lamb’s tail.” The portly Aunt Polly wobbled into the kitchen on her rickety high heels, followed quickly by the sound of a plate shattering. “Crabapples! Pardon my French, gentlemen,” she called out.

“Second one today.” Bennett rubbed his head before lighting his pipe. “General, you and your men make yourselves at home.”

“Let me collect my things, and we’ll be off,” Avery said as he pounded back up the stairs toward his room, turned office, turned laboratory, turned junk bin.

“Lovely residence,” the General said as he paced around the first floor of the house. Noticing an oil painting of Stephen F. Austin hanging on the wall, he snapped to attention and saluted. Max sniffed the General’s leg before lifting his own and marking him with a quick squirt. “What the…”

“Max!” Bennett yelled before grabbing the dog by the scruff of his neck and shuffling him into the kitchen. Bennett returned with a roll of paper towels. The General patted his leggings dry. A few minutes later, the entire group crowded into the kitchen. Polly scampered to place food on the table for the group. Her rear end looked like two bobcats fighting in a flour sack as she bounced around the kitchen. The men of STRAC-BOM inhaled Polly’s sandwiches. Max made a killing off scraps that fell to the floor. Most of the militia avoided the pickles, the exception being Private Zulu, who polished off three before his head began to spin.

“These are great!” the private exclaimed before hiccupping.

“You might want to take it easy on those,” Kip whispered to the visibly swaying private, who had started on another one. “And for God’s sake, don’t blow on an open flame.”

A few minutes later, Avery and the militia ambled toward the school bus with Avery’s gear. Private Tango helped Private Zulu, who was weaving back and forth while singing a Willy Nelson song that he clearly didn’t know the lyrics to.

“Boy couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket.” The General crumpled up a parking ticket stuck under the buses’ windshield wiper. “We’re not anywhere near that goldang fire hydrant.” He tossed the ticket into the gutter. “Mount up, boys — we ride!”

“We’re missing a man,” Avery said. “Need to pick him up on the way.”

“Easy enough.” The General fired up the bus. Bennett, Kip, and Polly watched the men from the front porch as they piled into the long vehicle.

“What a strange group of men,” Polly said. Bennett draped his long arm over Polly’s shoulders.

“I’ve been to two World Fairs and a Mexican donkey show, and I’ve never seen anything like it,” Bennett said.

“Do you think we’ll ever see Avery again?” Polly asked as she clung to Bennett’s arm.