Stephen Randel - Trail of the Chupacabra

“Rosalina,” Barquero whispered as he removed his foot from the dead man’s throat. The cool night wind blew over him as he closed his eyes. Somewhere in the desert, something howled.

Ziggy ran through the desert night like he’d never run before, which really meant like he’d never run before, because Ziggy didn’t regularly run, unless chased. Ziggy had never been naturally predisposed to physical activity. He’d tried some yoga here and a little Pilates there, but it wasn’t really his thing. Of course, though, he’d been chased, quite a bit, actually. Mainly in school, but the races weren’t terribly long. A swift beating and forfeiture of his milk money usually occurred before he could make much of a getaway. For the most part, Ziggy practiced the defensive art of rolling into a small ball for protection. He found that the schoolyard bullies would get tired of kicking him after a few minutes. No one knows for sure if the armadillos learned this tactic from Ziggy, or Ziggy learned it from the armadillos.

He ran until he reached the hills. Then he ran some more. His lungs seared despite the cool night air. Soon the hills turned into canyons. He twisted and turned his way back and forth. Finally, when he couldn’t take another step, he collapsed. His skinny chest heaving, he looked up at the sky. The heavy clouds slowly parted, and a full moon shone its bright light down on him. Milky clouds of stars illuminated the canyon walls with a faint glow. Drenched in sweat and parched for water, he searched his shorts for something, anything. All he found was the set of tarot cards that Mae Mae had given to him back in New Orleans. In despair, he threw them away. The cold wind blowing through the canyon walls tossed them about like dry leaves. He began to cry. Over the hills came the howl of something. For a moment, Ziggy regained some clarity and began to crawl on his bloodied knees, now caked with dirt.

Like, why am I here? Why did I ever, like, come with Avery? Solemn and desperate thoughts filled his mind as he pressed on. I just want to go home. Home to Austin…just, like, want to go home. Ziggy stopped. He couldn’t go anymore. He curled up and went to sleep.

A few hours later, Ziggy woke up. The sun was beginning to rise in the east. Dry salt was crusted around his mouth. He needed water. Ziggy sat up and looked around. He couldn’t stand, but he could crawl. So he did. It was slow going at first, as the hard ground hurt his knees. Get long pants…like, really long pants. But he kept going, not really sure which direction to take. Like, away from the sun, man . Mile after mile he crawled. The twisting canyons gave him little sense of direction. After a few hours, he rounded another of the countless bends in the hills. Scattered around the canyon floor were his tarot cards. He was right back where he’d started. Dejectedly, Ziggy dragged himself to the one piece of shade he could find and curled up into a fetal position. This is, like, it, man.

Avery, STRAC-BOM, Esmeralda, and El Coyote had been at the Mexican Army’s mobile headquarters all night. Not even the bitter coffee they were drinking could keep their heads from bobbing up and down. Private Foxtrot held a bag of ice to his head. He was still groggy from the exploding stick of dynamite.

“One more time,” General Morales asked. “You eight are from Texas, and you two are from Mexico. Now, what were you really doing there? And don’t give me any more of that chupacabra bullshit again.”

“General,” Avery said, “we’ve been over this many times. My deep knowledge and vast experience with the process of interrogation by the authorities impels me to ask you to please shut your cornhole and let us go.”

“Sergeant, restrain that man!”

“What? You guys eat a lot of corn down here,” Avery replied as he was being handcuffed. “Am I wrong?”

“Your story. One more time,” General Morales ordered.

“Sir,” General X-Ray began, “as a matter of professional courtesy among generals, may my men and I be held in a separate area from that lunatic?”

“You and that man share the same charges. And stop referring to yourself as a general! I’ve made some calls, Mr. Rizzo. You’re no more a general than I’m an Italian prince.”

“Hey, General,” Private Zulu said. “I didn’t know you was Italian.”

“Only half.”

“Damn, General,” Private Foxtrot added. “What about all them family war heroes and stuff?”

“He lied to you,” General Morales said, holding up a stack of papers. “You and your men are nothing more than a renegade band of civilians involving yourselves in things you have no business doing. Right here, more than a dozen documented incidents along the U.S./Mexican border related to your activities.” General Morales threw the papers down. “All the time doing more harm than good. Do you know how long we’ve been planning to raid that compound? How many good men died? Do you even know who runs that place?”

“Who?” asked Fire Team Leader Charlie.

“Some say his name is Guillermo Eduardo Rios, others Emilio Aguilar. All we know for sure is that he goes by the name of the Padre and that he’s been a wanted man for suspicion of drug trafficking, money laundering, and murder for over twenty years. International authorities around the world have him targeted. Last night, for the first time, we had a chance to catch him and some of his senior leadership red-handed. If it weren’t for your incompetence, we would have succeeded. You interfered in a military operation, and in this country I can make you disappear for a very long time for that.”

“I’d like my phone call now,” Avery said.

“You’ll get nothing until I get to the bottom of this,” General Morales said.

“This isn’t a threat, your honor, but merely a statement of fact. My highly trained team of permanently retained legal advisors will…”

“Shut up, or I’ll have you gagged. And from now on, you will address me as General Morales.”

“Okay, but I’m just saying…by the way, Morales, I mean General Morales, any chance your family is from Midland? I knew a man from there by that name once. Beautiful singing voice, but he couldn’t bowl worth a crap.”

“General Morales,” Esmeralda pleaded, “sir, El Coyote and I have nothing to do with these men. Those bastards killed my sister.”

“And they burned down my business,” El Coyote added.

“You are the same as them,” General Morales said as he stroked his mustache and admired Esmeralda’s exquisite bosoms. “I lost men and equipment, too. I liked you as a lucha libre , El Coyote. I very much liked you in your day. You never lost your mask, but what you did last night was a mistake. What if every citizen in Mexico took up arms against the cartels? What would happen then?”

“We’d get our country back.” The stone-faced El Coyote crossed his stout arms in front of his burly chest. General Morales paused for a moment; his expression softened, and then he sat down in a chair.

“Maybe, it’s just I’ve been after the Padre for so long…I don’t know.” General Morales rubbed his forehead. “What to do with you? What to do?”

“Sir,” Cesar said as he entered the room and saluted.

“Yes, Colonel.”

“The computer, sir.” Cesar held out the silver laptop.

“Hey,” Avery said. “That’s mine. It’s official American property.”

“Shut up,” General Morales and Cesar said simultaneously.

“But I found it.”

“General,” Cesar said, “our men have been working all night on it, but we can’t access the information. We can get it to our specialists in Mexico City, but it’s going to take some time.”