Stephen Randel - Trail of the Chupacabra

“Jesus H,” the General said as he put on his mirrored sunglasses and chomped on his Juicy Fruit. “He’s infecting the brigade. It’s bad for morale.”

“They look fine to me,” Avery said as he looked at the singing men in the back of the bus. Private Tango was playing air guitar. “They seem engaged, although one of them is picking his nose. Will he eat it?”

“Private Foxtrot!” the General roared without even having to look back. The private wiped his finger on his fatigues.

“Damn,” Avery said, disappointed.

“Does he at least know any country music?” the General asked, looking at Ziggy, who seemed oblivious to everyone.

“Which country?” Avery replied.

“Our country.”

“The one we’re currently in?”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“No, what?”

“No, he doesn’t.”

“Shit.”

“No shit.”

“I was afraid of that.” The General checked his map, which was sitting on the dashboard. Ziggy spun around again in the stairwell. In back, Private Zulu bobbed his head while Fire Team Leader Bravo pumped his fist. Private Foxtrot tried in vain to get a flame from his cigarette lighter. He wanted to hold it up and wave it back and forth. It wasn’t happening, just some weak sparks.

“Come on, man!” the private exclaimed as he flicked his defective red, white, and blue–decorated lighter.

“How much longer to the border, General?” Avery asked.

“Couple more hours. Depends on where we decide to invade.”

“I was hoping you’d planned that out already.”

“I’m working on it,” the General said as he wiped the sweat off his forehead.

“You don’t have a plan?”

“It’s in progress.”

“How’s that progressing?”

“That’s on a need-to-know basis.”

“I’m paying for this, General. I’m pretty sure I need to know.”

“Know how much?”

“All of it.”

“Well, to be completely honest, I was thinking that we could…”

The men on the bus suddenly stood up and erupted in cheers as Ziggy pretended to smash an imaginary guitar on the floor of the bus.

In theory, cutting a man’s head off with a hacksaw is easy. In reality, it’s much more difficult and significantly messier than it sounds, much more, even for Carnicero, and he had lots of practice. When he was finished, even the toughest of his men were uncomfortable. They shuffled back and forth and bowed their heads as Carnicero tossed the bloody saw to the side.

“One less informant,” he said as he wiped the blood from his face. “Who recruited him?” No one answered. “Who?” All of the men stepped to the side of the room except one.

“He was my cousin,” the man said proudly.

“You brought him in?”

“Yes.”

“So should I kill you, too?”

“No, Carnicero. No, please.”

“Why not?”

“He was my cousin, a real tough guy. I thought we could trust him. I didn’t know anything about what he was doing. I swear. I swear on my children.”

“But you see, that’s the problem. You should have known. He was your family. We’re a family. In families, there are no secrets.”

“I didn’t know.” The man dropped to his knees. “I swear to God, I didn’t know he was talking to the police. I swear to God, Carnicero.”

“I know you didn’t,” the longhaired man said as he turned and walked away. “But you should have.” A cartel soldier from the back of the room stepped forward and shot the man in the back of the head.

“Air conditioning!” The General pounded on the dashboard. “I need some damn air conditioning. Private Zulu, what did you do to my damn refrigerated air?”

“Nothing. I don’t think.”

“It’s hotter than a stolen tamale in here. I want my frozen air!” The General pulled over to the side of the road. “Fix it.”

“Do what?”

“Now! You must have broken it when you requisitioned it.”

“Sir, yes, sir!” Private Zulu replied as he climbed over Ziggy, who was curled up in the stairwell. Zulu went to the front of the bus. A passing semi blared its horn as it roared by. “Pop the hood, General!” The private looked around inside. He didn’t have a clue. The engine was so high he could barely see inside. Climbing up on the fender, he pulled at some stuff, poked some things, banged on this and that, and finally decided to switch some wires around. Diversion. That was what the General had always preached when in a jam, and Private Zulu was in one now. He could definitely hotwire a bus, but he damn sure couldn’t fix the air conditioning on one. He definitely needed more diversion. “General, do we have any Freon?”

“Hell, no.” The General stuck his head out the window as another semi blew past and let its horn go. Gravel sprayed the private.

“Okay. Give me a minute.” He stared into the engine. “Do we have a hammer?”

“Yep,” the General replied out the window. “Fire Team Leader Alpha, bring him our smashing iron.”

“You know what you’re doing?” Fire Team Leader Alpha asked as he handed Private Zulu the hammer.

“Totally.”

“Totally what?”

“I totally have no idea what I’m doing. Do you?” Private Zulu asked.

“No.”

“Should we tell the General?”

“Are you crazy? Just hit something.”

“Okay.” Private Zulu whacked away at the engine with his hammer for a few minutes. “Try it now, General.”

“It’s working!” the General cried out. “Cool air.” Private Zulu and Fire Team Leader Alpha looked at each other incredulously.

“Good work,” Fire Team Leader Alpha said.

“It’s all in the wrist.”

Both men climbed back inside. Private Zulu bowed to the applauding men onboard.

“We’re off!” The General put the bus in gear. If a buses’ engine could scream in bloodcurdling agony, that was the sound it made. It shuddered and lurched side to side. It misfired loudly. It misfired again. The bus managed to make it about a mile down the road before the General pulled over again, the vehicle shaking and sputtering all the way. However, the air conditioning worked beautifully, and that was good. Mechanically, everything else about the bus was awful. Private Zulu and Fire Team Leader Alpha went to work on it again. They pushed and pulled anything they could find. When that proved fruitless, they went back to work with the hammer. The sun was setting.

“General.” Private Zulu stuck his head inside the bus. “It’s too dark to see anything, and we’re pretty beat. Maybe we just ought to spend the night here and see if we can get a mechanic in the morning.”

“No mechanics. Get a flashlight and keep working on it, Private.” Zulu and the Fire Team Leader alternated holding the light and taking things apart and putting them back together. Unfortunately, for every part of the engine they disassembled and put back together, they ended up with an extra piece or two that didn’t fit.

“Got a spare screw and another washer here,” Zulu said.

“Put ’em with the rest,” the Team Fire Leader said as he yawned. Zulu tossed them in the pile.

“This is freaking impossible,” complained Private Zulu. “I’m so confused I don’t know whether to scratch my watch or wind my butt.”

“I think everyone on the bus is asleep. Maybe we should grab some shut-eye. I’ve got a bad feeling that this is going to be a long mission.”

“Sounds good to me. Probably best to sack out under the bus. Don’t want to wake the General,” Private Zulu said.

“Firm thinking, Private.” The two men slithered under the vehicle and tried to get as much rest as possible. Not really an easy task on the shoulder of a highway. Flying gravel, blaring horns, and the occasionally marauding scorpion made uninterrupted sleep next to impossible. In the morning, they were awoken by the sound of a tow truck pulling up behind the bus. Fire Team Leader Alpha rubbed his eyes, flicked a scorpion off his chest, and crawled out from under the vehicle. A man wearing a mechanic’s shirt was approaching.