more time as he clenched his teeth, Private Zulu twisted the two exposed wires together and pinched them off. The engine turned over. It was running. Zulu jumped into the driver’s seat and put the school bus into gear, grinding the gears in the process. As he swung around to exit through the gate, he sideswiped another bus. Then he heard more hooting: lisping, diseased, choking, dying bird hooting. Stomping on the gas, he sped out of the lot. Looking back, he saw Fire Team Leader Charlie racing to his truck. The Fire Team Leader caught back up with him before they even made it back to the interstate. Neither man let off the gas until they saw the Tornillo exit.
CHAPTER NINE
Ghost From the Past
Back in his office, Avery packed his roller bag, fanny pack, and ice chest for the upcoming journey. He wanted to be sure he wouldn’t run out of Mountain Dew. More importantly, he hoped he would have sufficient time on the trip to continue his critical correspondence. He’d been quite aggravated lately, even more than usual. His “hit list” of targets destined to receive a rambling, scathing petition was at an all-time high. He was hot. It made his blood boil. He needed to get a few letters sent off immediately, before STRAC-BOM arrived, in order to cool down. If nothing else, Avery was persistent, kind of like a bad rash. He wanted to start his epic road trip feeling good about himself, and the best way for Avery to feel better about himself was to annoy someone else. He figured he’d be up all night anyway. So he typed away.
To: Subscription Department
Dear Whoever,
I’m writing you today to kindly ask you to politely, comfortably, and conveniently bend over and stick your head up your ass. I’ve been a loyal subscriber to your somewhat entertaining, mildly informative, but mostly advertising-ridden rag for over twenty years. I was probably your first customer. I remember when I used to have to walk thirteen blocks to a rundown smoke shop to buy your periodical before you actually started mailing it out. I remember when your crappy magazine came with rusty staples and warped pages. I remember when it came with full-color advertisements for dehydrated Sea Monkeys on the back pages. Trust me, I’ve ordered them. Horrible pets. No sense of obedience. Taste horrible. Anyway, I’VE PAID MY SUBSCRIPTION! But, given your recent correspondence, you apparently don’t know that. Why do you insist on bombarding my mailbox with countless renewal letters marked URGENT — THIS IS YOUR LAST ISSUE? Really? Seriously? At the bottom of your last letter, or, more precisely, your latest threat, it clearly states that my subscription runs until February of next year. Why would I renew now? Are you financially insolvent? If so, what’s the point? If you go bankrupt, will my subscription be transferred to another magazine?
P.S. — Please bring back the Sea Monkeys.
In the desert, a pack moved. But it didn’t move in unison. Some animals strayed behind, yipping and dancing in the moonlight. Some fanned out to the side, sniffing the night air. But always, no matter where they were, they all paid attention to the large beast at the front of the pack. He was hungry. His stride was long and purposeful. He owned the pack. One look from him, and the others would cower and then obediently follow.
The big animal paused in the dry sand. He raised his muzzle and smelled the air. Others behind him began to stir and whine. One growl from him, and they stopped. He looked back at his pack. He was the alpha. They wouldn’t move if he didn’t want them to. The big animal loped off into the distant moonlight. He covered the ground effortlessly with his long stride. When he disappeared from view, the rest of the pack paced back and forth anxiously.
Soon he returned. In his jaws was the carcass of an animal. Domesticated. It was weak and nearly dead, but not totally dead. It would serve the pack well. The big animal stood guard as his pack ate. The goat died quickly. His pack was sated. As the clouds parted and the moon peeked through, he howled.
“A goddamn school bus!” the General screamed as he pounded the steering wheel of the bus cruising along the road toward Austin. “Yellow? Are you completely insane, Fire Team Leader Charlie? What were you thinking?”
“It’s big.” The Fire Team Leader ducked his head.
“It’s cowardly yellow!”
“It fits all the men. It was all we could find.”
“It stands out like an oil derrick on a putting green!”
“It’s asymmetrical counter-camouflage, sir,” Fire Team Leader Charlie replied. “It kind of mingles in, you know? General, have you ever seen a school bus get a parking ticket?” The Team Leader winked at Private Zulu.
“Are you trying to make a point?” the General asked.
“Sir, yes, sir.”
“Then what is it?’
“No one will notice us.”
“Unless they notice we’re not kids,” Fire Team Leader Bravo chimed in.
“Yeah, we should get some kids!” Private Foxtrot added enthusiastically. The bus went silent.
“Idiot,” the General mumbled. “How far are we from Austin?”
“About thirty miles, General,” replied Fire Team Leader Alpha.
“General,” Private Tango said. “I need to eat something.”
“Break open some rations.”
“We didn’t bring any.” The shy private ducked his head.
“What? No rations! We’re going on an invasion. No rations…what the…why we’ll never…goddammit!” The General slammed down on the brakes. The long bus snaked back and forth on the highway before pulling over to the side of the road. “You jackasses!” he screamed as his pudgy face turned even redder than normal. “No rations?”
“We’re broke,” Fire Team Leader Alpha said as he picked his nose.
“Bust ass,” Private Foxtrot added.
“We’re so broke, the bank asked for their calendar back,” Private Zulu chimed in, picking his nose as well.
“If we even had paper plates, we’d have to wash them,” Fire Team Leader Charlie said.
“We’re not broke, men,” the General said, encouraging his men, “just severely bent. But not for long, mind you. Paying customers live just that way.” The General pointed down the road toward Austin. “And all the lost gold of Mexico!”
“Lost gold?” Private Foxtrot asked.
