Stephen Randel - The Chupacabra

“Yeah, but please, people, we can’t bang ’em up,” Fire Team Leader Alpha implored. “Remember what happened to the Winnebago we took to Juarez last month? I think they’re still trying to fix the transmission on that thing.”

“Duly noted, Fire Team Leader,” General X-Ray replied. “The manufacturer should have installed a warning sign on those models regarding the limitations of the vehicle’s ability to overcome roadblocks while in high-speed reverse.”

“I guess so, but my boss ain’t really buying the story about the pack of rabid javelinas nesting behind the RV,” said Fire Team Leader Alpha.

“He’s on to nothing,” replied the General curtly. “Besides, we paid cash up front for the ATV rentals and put Private Zulu’s house with the new porch up for collateral if damages were to be incurred.”

“What the hell!” yelled Private Zulu as he leaped from his chair, knocking it over in the process. “How’d you put my house up without me knowing?” he cried.

“That’s why we require copies of past tax returns, financial statements, bank records, and mortgage information prior to joining STRAC-BOM, Private Zulu. Be proud, son. You’re making a noble sacrifice for your great country and your proud heritage. Besides, damage to equipment on this mission is as prohibited as failure to successfully complete the mission is.”

“Mamma’s going to right skin me if she finds out,” Private Zulu moaned as the men helped him back into his chair.

“The only ones getting skinned will be the nefarious interlopers,” the General continued, after taking a long slurping drink from the Mr. Pibb can resting on the podium. Wiping his mouth with his sleeve, he belched. “Individual Fire Teams will share an ATV with one man driving and one man navigating and riding shotgun. I’ll coordinate combat activities from the fourth ATV and serve as immediate reinforcement or emergency EVAC, if required. Communication will be via walkie-talkies. Radio silence will be maintained at all times unless I initiate communication. The border patrol monitors radio frequencies, and we don’t want them aware of our activities.”

The General again paced slowly back and forth in front of his troops with his hands clasped behind his back. The riding crop twitching in his grasp appeared like a straight leather tail as he spoke. “We’ll rally here Friday evening for equipment check and shakedown at 1800 hours. ATV training is at 1900 hours. Operation Land Shark will commence precisely at 2000 hours. I want this brigade fully operational and in place for the early Saturday morning border crossings. Operations will formally conclude Sunday at 1800 hours or when the tide of illegal vagrancy has been stemmed, whichever comes first.”

“Sir?” Private Foxtrot asked.

“Yes, private.”

“Will we be back in time for the Cowboys game on Sunday?”

“I think it might be a night game,” Fire Team Leader Charlie chimed in.

“No, I think we play Monday night,” added Private Zulu. “We should be okay.”

“Not so fast, men,” said the General. “Monday night you’ll all be here with me debriefing Operation Land Shark. A timely and accurate post mortem of an operation this critical in our fight for freedom is imperative.”

“Sir,” said Fire Team Leader Bravo. “I’d like to formally request that we debrief Operation Land Shark during the Cowboys game.”

“Impossible,” snapped the General.

“But it’s the Cowboys, sir,” pleaded Private Foxtrot.

“Who we playing?” the General asked.

“Sir, Philadelphia, sir!” Private Zulu interjected.

“I see,” the General said, rubbing his chin as he paused to think. “Philadelphia…very well, then, operational debrief will occur here Monday evening at 1800 hours. Fire Team Leader Bravo, since this was your request, you and your troops…err, troop, are responsible for requisitioning guacamole and chips.”

“General, sir,” Fire Team Leader Alpha said meekly. “Monday night I’m supposed to go to the city for my taxidermy class. I already missed three of the last six weeks.”

“Then missing one more won’t really put you that much further behind, will it?” The General’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “Fire Team Leader, I expect you here Monday night promptly at 1800 hours, or you will find yourself on permanent kitchen patrol and latrine duty here at the HQ. Do I make myself crystal clear?”

“Crystal, sir,” Fire Team Leader Alpha replied despondently as he hunched over and stared at his scuffed, aging desert combat boots. “Guess I’ll never get that dang muskrat mount finished,” he muttered dejectedly.

“Very well, then!” General X-Ray proclaimed as he snapped to attention. “I’ll see you men here tomorrow at 1800 for equipment check. Uh-rah!”

“Uh-rah!” the brigade replied.

Avery lay in his small bed. His sleep was restless and tortured by dreams. He dreamt of an Aztec priest, painted black, sitting underneath an ancient temple with a grey stone gargoyle at the top. The priest was holding a sacrificial stone knife. A small fire burned in front of him. Lighting flashed and thunder cracked as the old man sang in his primeval tongue. The flames of the fire began to jump with the rhythm of his voice. The temple’s broad pyramid was framed against the low-hanging full moon behind it. The dark image of the temple seemed a thousand miles wide. Avery couldn’t understand what the old man was saying, but his eyes warned of danger, of terror. His chanting, his singing had some purpose. Avery didn’t understand what it was. Avery tossed in his sleep. He was sweating and kicking the sheets off his bed. He couldn’t speak. He couldn’t ask the questions he so desperately wanted to. Most terrifyingly, he couldn’t wake up.

The flames flickered higher as the priest’s singing grew in intensity. Slowly, out of the fire it came. Black and hairless, it had eyes filled with flames. Avery tried to get up and run, but his body wouldn’t respond. His mind raced. His mind screamed, but in his dream, his limbs were numb. With deliberate, loping strides the beast moved toward him. Its eyes never blinked. Avery tried to scream. Nothing came out. A long black tongue hung from the side of the beast’s mouth as the noxious odor of sulfur and rotting flesh filled the air. Avery struggled to get a good look at it, trying to catch a clear glimpse of the creature as the backlight of the fire, burning ever higher and hotter, cast dancing and erratic shadows in the moonlight. Suddenly, it was right above him, looking down. Noxious drool from its fangs dripped down on his face. Avery tried to wipe it off, but he couldn’t move. Then the beast raised its head and howled. The Aztec priest stopped his singing and lowered his head in silence. Tears ran down his face. On top of the temple, the gargoyle was gone.

Barquero’s eyes glowed with fire as blood pooled around his feet in the narrow alley. Wiping his curved blade off on the man’s shirt, he pulled out the man’s wallet. Taking the money, he tossed the wallet on the dead man’s chest. The man was on the Padre’s payroll, or at least he used to be.

Barquero had been looking for information. He didn’t get it. The man didn’t know anything, but it didn’t matter to Barquero. The man had seen his face. That was too much.

“ Oye papi ,” said a curvaceous woman with her hands on her hips, looking down the alley. Suddenly, she noticed the man on the ground. His throat was cut. His legs were still twitching. Barquero glared at the woman. His menacing eyes glimmered. The prostitute screamed and ran back the way she had come. Barquero turned and retreated deeper into the alley.