Stephen Randel - Trail of the Chupacabra

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 and 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.

“Keep moving,” the General yelled as Fire Team Leader Charlie and Private Zulu closed with the rest of the men. “Egress to the bus, pronto! Don’t let them split our ranks.” Around them, the stoic beasts circled with their white fangs flashing. The men of STRAC-BOM circled up. Back to back, they closed their ranks and shouted angrily at the fearsome animals. Private Zulu held up a pack of matches.

“These vampire hounds don’t like fire,” he said as he threw it at the advancing animals before realizing he hadn’t lit the pack first.

“Private Foxtrot,” the General called out. “Ordnance!”

“What ordnance?” Private Foxtrot replied.

“The dynamite. Light up a stick.”

“Them dang army federales took it all, sir.”

“Damn. Stay close to me, men.” The General marched backward. “To the bus. It’s our Alamo!” His men followed without breaking rank. Slowly, ever slowly, they inched toward safety. Several times the coyote pack attempted to separate them, always looking for the weakest link in their pack, more specifically, Private Zulu. Their hackles were up as they knifed in. Always, the men held rank, kicking and screaming at the four-legged intruders. Eventually, the bus came into sight. “Fire Team Leader Charlie,” the General shouted. “Can you make a break for the bus and get her started up?”

“Roger that.” The Fire Team Leader took off running toward the bus. One of the coyotes drifted after him. Running as fast as he could, the Fire Team Leader dove at the bus door, but the monster was upon him. It sunk its fangs into his calf and shook its head violently.

“Let him go, you son of a bitch!” Private Zulu screamed as he jumped on the back of the coyote pulling at his Team Leader. “Bitch! Bitch! Bitch!” he cried as he pounded on the neck of the creature. For just a second, the animal let go. “Shoo, you mangy jackass!” It turned and growled at him. He kicked at it. “Screw you, too,” he yelled as he pulled his Team Leader on board. Fire Team Leader Charlie took the keys from the glove compartment and fired up the bus. Seconds later, the rest of the men, followed by the General, clambered on board. Outside, the starving coyotes surrounded the bus and growled. One of them attacked the front tire.

“Head out!”

“Where?” Fire Team Leader Charlie asked.

“Anywhere!” The Team Leader floored it, scattering the coyotes. The rest of the men on the bus frantically searched for their weapons. Racing across the desert, the animals howled in the background as they chased after the long vehicle. At full speed, Fire Team Leader Charlie took the rise above the spot where the honey pot had held Ziggy and Private Zulu. Even with its weight, the heavy bus caught air as it flew off the top of the ridge. The vehicle bounced twice upon landing while the Team Leader stood on the pedal, leaving the frustrated pack in the distance. He set out for the farmhouse while the militia fired their outdated weapons harmlessly out the windows at shadows.

Above, from the ridge, sets of glowing eyes watched as the bus bounced away.

Avery typed away at his computer…

To: Senior Management

Hotel 9 International

Dear Sir:

I’m writing to express my sincere disappointment with a recent stay at one of your business suite properties. Unfortunately, I’m currently working on a secret, clandestine intelligence operation with a foreign government, so I’ll have to keep this brief and to the point. Certainly I won’t be the first to suggest a major overhaul of your complimentary breakfast buffet. The eggs were dry, the cereal selection was abysmal, the frosting on the donuts was almost nonexistent, and the bacon was anything but thick-cut. Free shouldn’t mean free of quality. Secret operatives like myself require a hardy breakfast to have the energy to track down the most dangerous international criminals on the planet. It’s hard work, all the sleuthing, computer hacking, and what not. Without me operating at full mental capacity, the safety of the free world is at stake. The penalties for interfering with a special agent and his work are severe. To avoid a thorough investigation by the appropriate federal authorities, I demand a complete overhaul of your menu. Smoked salmon and a chocolate fountain for dunking donuts are mandatory. They’re completely non-negotiable. In the meantime, please forward two dozen vouchers for a free night stay via my attorney, Gregory Kennesaw Mountain. His address can be found in the Austin, Texas, directory. You have one week to reply to my demands. I’m now signing off to continue securing the free world from evil. Thank me later.