Stephen Randel - Trail of the Chupacabra

“Get me out of here,” the Padre said to his two bodyguards as he tied a rag around his wounded shoulder. The burly Mexicans began to escort him away from the dock. “You three! Come with us. The rest of you stay here. Kill those goddamn government dogs!”

“Bayonets at the ready, men!” General X-Ray ordered. Private Zulu pulled out his rusty Swiss Army knife as the menacing pack approached the open pit in the middle of the desert. The terrified private could smell their foul, reeking breath. His knife blade wouldn’t open. He flipped out the corkscrew instead.

The Padre and his two bodyguards ducked as they ran for the stairs in the back of the lab. The bodies of army soldiers and cartel gunmen surrounded the entrance to the stairwell. The Padre fired his pistol at the one remaining army commando at the stairwell. The soldier went down. His bodyguards grabbed him and helped him to the doorway.

“Not that arm!” the Padre yelled in pain. Around and around the flights of stairs they climbed up.

At the top of the stairs, Avery heard footsteps coming. He backed up over the bodies of two dead cartel soldiers and took a fighting stance in the doorway of the nearest room. Whipping his broom handles in a figure-eight pattern, he steadied himself. He’d been training for this his whole life.

“Deflect… block… strike.” Two men carrying a third emerged from the stairwell. Avery stepped forward. “Be like water…” He whipped his sticks in front of himself and charged. One of the Padre’s bodyguards raised a pistol and aimed directly at Avery. Suddenly, the bodyguard’s chest exploded. From behind the Padre and his men, El Barquero, the Ferryman, shot the other bodyguard in the back of his head. The first guard, his blood splattered over Avery’s tracksuit, already dead on his feet, stood without falling. “Strike, strike!” Avery yelled as he whacked the man twice over the head with his broom handles. The man fell to the floor. The Padre turned and fired into the stairwell. His gun slide locked open. It was empty. He dropped the pistol. From the darkness of the stairwell, Barquero emerged. He stared the Padre directly in the eyes. Barquero’s hate-filled gaze made the Padre freeze. With one hand, Barquero took the Padre by the neck and picked him up. The Padre’s legs shook and twitched above the concrete floor. Barquero squeezed harder. The Padre’s eyes began to bulge. His face turned purple. It was his last few moments on the earth. With them, the Padre thought of his parents. He thought of the priest who did this to him. He thought of Carnicero. A gunshot rang out.

“Let him go!” Cesar yelled. Barquero tightened his grip. “I’ll shoot you in the back, Commander,” Cesar implored. “He’s worth more alive!”

Barquero wavered, and then he dropped the Padre to the cold, hard concrete. The Padre grabbed his throat, choking. Barquero spit on the Padre’s face. Cesar’s men rushed from the stairwell and restrained the man in the priest’s collar.

“He’s mine!” Barquero seethed.

“No, he’s mine,” Cesar said. “He’s mine, and you need to remember that there are as many people after you as there are after him. You get to disappear. That was the deal. I won’t come looking.” Barquero put his pistol back in his waistband. He looked at the Padre. The drug lord, in his immaculate dark suit and polished cowboy boots, wiped the spittle from his face. He looked at Barquero and laughed. Barquero’s eyes were filled with fire. His gun hand quivered. “Go now,” Cesar said, pushing Barquero in the back. “Go!” Barquero walked down the hall. On the way he turned and looked at Avery standing in the doorway. Avery readied his sticks.

“I know you,” Barquero said. “I remember you.”

“Yeah, sorry about all that,” Avery replied. “Complete misunderstanding on your part. Don’t feel bad. Could’ve happened to anyone. Besides, I’ve decided not to press charges.” Barquero stared into Avery’s eyes for a moment. The hair on the back of Avery’s neck stood on end. Barquero turned and disappeared down the hallway without looking back. Cesar’s men pulled the Padre to his feet. “Now, Colonel,” Avery said to Cesar. “About that reward…”

Ziggy could see the saliva hanging from the gleaming jaws of the beasts as they approached the pit. Their blood-chilling growls filled the air. Ziggy held Nancy in his arms.

Private Foxtrot adjusted his Spanish conquistador’s helmet. All three Fire Team Leaders looked at each other and nodded solemnly. Private Zulu and Private Tango shook hands. General X-Ray prepared to give the order to attack.

Then, suddenly, for some reason, the largest of the animals lifted its head and looked up at the night sky. It let out a long, wailing howl at the moon. Slowly, the pack retreated into the darkness…

Back in New Orleans, Mae Mae sat in her rocking chair. Her headache had faded. After a while, she got up and went to her table. She rolled the bones. Then she took out her tarot cards and began dealing them out. Examining the cards, she smiled.

The men of STRAC-BOM and Ziggy sat at the kitchen table of the big white house in Austin. Avery was expected soon. The men were starving and ate whatever Aunt Polly gave them. Her crazy mane of clown-red hair bobbed as her high heels buckled in an attempt to keep her upright.

“Jell-O salad with mayonnaise, pimento cheese, also with mayonnaise, bacon, and grits.” Polly smiled. “Go on. Eat up, boys!”

“Thanks, ma’am,” Private Zulu said.

“Be sure to put some butter on those grits, sugar.”

“Yessum, ma’am. Thank you kindly.”

“Why, General, your men have such nice manners.”

“Thank you. Militia policy. But don’t pay no mind to the private. He thinks a seven-course meal is a possum and a six-pack.” The General tried his Jell-O hesitantly. He managed to choke it down. “Delicious.” Bennett stood in the corner of the kitchen and tried not to laugh. Max, the feisty French bulldog, was on his leash. The end of the leash was tied around the kitchen door handle. Max’s paws scampered in place as he tried desperately to get at Nancy, who was under the table, chewing on a carrot stick. The sight of the big iguana in his favorite spot under the table was driving Max crazy, like an itch right in front of his tail — one he couldn’t reach.

“So, Avery is some kind of hero down in ole Mexico,” Bennett said as he lit his pipe. “You don’t say.” He waved out his match. “Hell, Polly, order these boys a pizza or something. Don’t make them eat that stuff.”

“Bread today is better than cake tomorrow. You boys eat up.”

“You sound like a damn fortune cookie, woman.” Bennett puffed on his pipe. “General, what’s going to happen to you and your men now?”

“Well, sir,” the General said as he wiped his mouth, “we had a bit of good fortune down south. Came back with some artifacts of value. Plan on selling them and re-outfitting the unit.”

“That so?”

“Top of the line, all the way.”

“Flamethrowers?” asked Private Zulu.

“And Tasers,” the General replied.

A horn honked outside. Bennett walked to the front door and saw Avery climb out of a taxi parked behind the mud-stained school bus. He was wearing a tan suit, a skinny black tie, and dark sunglasses. He carried a silver-colored metal briefcase.

“Ma’am,” Private Zulu said, “got any more of them pickles? From last time?”

“Why sure, honey. They’re even better once they sit awhile.” She leaned down to his ear. “It gives them more of a kick,” Polly whispered. “You just stay right there. I’ll get you some.”