Stephen Randel - The Chupacabra

Chupacabra — A legendary creature believed to inhabit parts of Latin America, particularly Mexico. Its name translates to “goat sucker.” The name comes from the creature’s reported habit of drinking the blood of its victims.

While the chupacabra may or may not exist, the violence in Mexico is very real. Despite efforts by officials on both sides of the border, more than fifty thousand drug-related murders were reported between 2006 and 2011. Many of the victims were tortured first. Many were women or young people. The overwhelming majority of the weapons used in these crimes came from the United States.

Midnight was approaching, but the normally quiet residential street was alive with sirens and flashing lights. Several Austin police department officers filed in and out of the large white house facing the cordoned-off street. Standing in the middle of the street, two detectives surveyed the chaos.

“So, Frank,” the taller of the two said. “What you got for me?”

“Well, not exactly your typical scene.”

“No kidding?”

“Yeah. This one is a hell of a mess.”

“I’m waiting.”

“Well, boss, for starters, over here we’ve got a car turned over on its side.”

“I noticed,” the taller detective replied, glancing at the green sedan next to the curb precariously balanced on the driver’s-side door.

“It’s full of cash. Big bills. Scattered everywhere.”

“Okay.”

“And a couple blocks from here we’ve got another car, partially burned out, with a trunk full of heroin.”

“What about inside?” The senior detective nodded toward the house, sipping his coffee.

“It’s bad. Real bad. Patrolman shot dead at close range. Died instantly.”

“Who was it?”

“Dale Clarke. You know him?”

“Yeah. Damn.”

“Inside we’ve also got the traumatized family of the retired doctor who owns the place and a bunch of little old ladies, friends of the family. One of them tried to bite me.”

“Bite you?”

“The feisty one did. You’ll spot her. The whole thing was some kind of home invasion. They were all tied up.”

“Jesus.”

“They saw Dale executed. Happened right in front of them.”

“Can they I.D. the shooter?”

“Absolutely. Hispanic male, and he’s really big. Actually, the best description is from an El Paso border patrol agent who was in the house also.”

“El Paso border patrol? Up here?”

“Yeah. I told you this was a mess. She claims to have fired at the shooter and hit him twice. Don’t know how she could have hit him, though. She’s got one arm in sling. Says the suspect is most likely a member of a Mexican drug cartel. Says this big fellow shot her and her partner a few days ago along the border during a surveillance operation. Says she was up here to question the doctor’s stepson about a string of murders and stolen narcotics out in West Texas. Thinks he might know something.”

“Christ almighty. How the hell did these folks get messed up with cartels?”

“Don’t know yet. Oh, and one other thing.”

“What?”

“Well, it’s kind of weird.”

“What is it?”

“In the back bedroom up on the second floor there’s a dead, hairless coyote wrapped up in duct tape.”

“And why wouldn’t there be?” the senior detective replied sarcastically.

“Boss, you ever see anything like this before?”

“Nope.” The tall detective ambled slowly toward the house. “But it makes perfect sense.”

“How so?”

“It’s Monday.”

“Monday?”

“Yep. The really weird shit only happens to me on Mondays.”

Five days earlier…

The two men shuffled through the scattered underbrush. Moving as quickly as possible with their awkward baggage, they wove their way toward the high ground that would mark the final part of their journey. Distant lightning cast crooked shadows that danced across the desert floor as the men pushed forward, wondering, if only for a second, whether the shadows were truly shadows or obsidian-colored serpents preparing for a venomous attack.

They were scared, but only the younger of the two showed it on his face. It was a gamble sneaking across the border and into the United States this way. Most immigrants gladly paid the professional “coyotes” three thousand dollars to ferry them across the border to safe houses where they could contact friends or family to begin life anew away from the violence of their homeland, but these two men didn’t have the money. Instead, they agreed to carry these heavy burdens across the river and deliver them to a stranger. A drug cartel soldier waited for them a two-hour hike past their crossing point. In exchange, they would be rewarded, or at least they prayed it would work that way. They didn’t know what their parcels contained, but they could guess.

The desert night air was cool, but both men were sweating profusely and breathing heavily. At night, the desert is alive with noise, but neither man heard anything except their labored breathing and the sound of their stumbling strides. The quicker they could make the top of the ridge, the better. The rendezvous spot was a half mile from there.

“Victor,” Ernesto whispered. “How much further?”

“Not far.” Victor stopped to catch his breath.

Moving alongside him, Ernesto wiped his brow. “Are you sure they’ll pay us what they promised?”

“What do you mean?” Victor asked, noting the concern on the young man’s face.

“I hear stories. Sometimes they don’t pay. They just kill you and leave your body for the coyotes once they have what they want.”

“Don’t be stupid, Ernesto,” Victor scolded. “When we get there, let me do the talking. You say nothing. Come on, keep moving.”

El Barquero lay silently under the stormy sky of the Chihuahuan Desert. Three miles inside the United States border with Mexico, he continued his patient wait for the arrival of the cartel mules carrying their burden of burlap bags.

Even prone on the desert floor, the bulk of the man was impressive. “Biggest damn Mexican you ever done saw,” more than one person had whispered. Standing six and a half feet tall and weighing more than two hundred and fifty pounds, every bit of it sculpted muscle, the bronze-skinned giant with a shaved head and pencil-thin mustache drew stares when he entered a room. But the stares never lasted long. It was his eyes. Dark and lifeless, a glimpse of them made even the most brazen of men avert their gaze as the uncontrollable desire to slink down and cower like a submissive dog overcame them. If the eyes are the windows to the soul, this man’s spirit was empty. Their coldness was matched by the malevolent and raspy growl of his deep voice.

His vantage point on the ridge allowed full view of the valley below. He allowed himself to relax into a semi-meditative state, focusing on a single point at the far end of the basin. From years of killing in the dark, he knew the primary weakness of central vision was the lack of color cues at night. By focusing on a single point and shifting his concentration to the peripheral, he was more likely to spot the movement of the couriers. The valley floor was littered with creosote and mesquite trees. As a result, the mules could not march a straight line up to the cut in the ridge to meet their contact. And, of course, their contact wouldn’t be waiting for them like they expected with cold Jarritos, cash, and a ride to a motel room. El Barquero had taken care of that earlier. There would be no contact, only him. He would spot them as they wove through the rugged desert terrain. It was only a matter of time.