one of the happiest moments of my life. But it wasn’t easy to get you to agree. Actually, it was Carnicero’s idea that finally did the trick, although I don’t think he truly understood it at the time. I think he just wanted blood. Poor Rosalina.” He stroked Barquero’s head. “You do realize that her death wasn’t random?” Barquero struggled at his bonds. “That’s right, my friend. Once she was killed, it was only a matter of time before you saw the darkness and embraced it.”
“Not to mention the child,” Carnicero added with a laugh.
“I… will… kill you both.” Barquero’s muscles bulged as he struggled. His dark eyes filled with fire.
“Once she was gone, I knew you would come to me. That’s what people do in their times of despair. They come to their God, and I am a God. People worship me, beg me for work, and do whatever I say unconditionally. They sell their souls to me for a few
“And when you are dead,” Carnicero added, “I will peel the skin from your face and have it sewn onto a soccer ball. My men will use it for their Sunday afternoon game.” He laughed.
“I’m sorry, Barquero,” the Padre said. “You’re going to experience a great deal of pain for the problems you have caused and your betrayal. But at your worst moment, don’t bother praying to God. Pray to me. For ultimately, I’m the one who will end your suffering.” The Padre walked toward the door. “Carnicero, again with the battery.”
“
Avery, Ziggy, and the men of STRAC-BOM stood in a circle by the side of the bus. Nancy was examining a small cactus. They were parked in the middle of the desert. A handful of white clouds dotted the brilliantly blue sky around them. Nancy slowly ambled across the rocky and broken ground, stopping to bask in the sun next to a small cactus.
“How’s your tummy feeling?” Private Foxtrot asked Private Zulu as he clutched his stomach, the death rattle of the bad menudo still rumbling inside him. Private Zulu wiped the sweat from his pale face.
“I’m going to need to get a whole lot better just to die.”
“Now, listen carefully,” Avery said to the group. “I don’t have long to train you men in the art of chupacabra hunting. Normally, it requires an intense, three-day workshop that includes a sophisticated, in-depth personality profiling exercise conducted under hypnosis to match you with the most efficient stalking techniques based on a series of over one hundred separate data points gleaned from your subconscious. The waiting list for the seminar has a backlog of six months. Today, I’ve got about fifteen minutes to bring you up to speed. Now, does anyone have any relevant experience in tracking ancient species?”
“I saw one of them shows about hunting Bigfoot on the television once,” Private Foxtrot said hopefully.
“Completely irrelevant. Sasquatch hunting is child’s play compared to this. With Bigfoot, it’s all about structures. Find the structure the creature uses for shelter, and you’ll find the sasquatch. The chupacabra is the shark of the desert. It has to keep constantly moving or it dies, and it leaves nothing in its wake but silence and the occasional carcass of its victim. No, hunting this creature takes a different approach.”
“What about its motivation?” Private Tango asked.
“Shut up, Private,” the General scolded.
“No, General,” Avery interrupted. “The private may be on to something. Go ahead. Tell me what you’re thinking.”
“What motivates it? What does it want?”
“It wants
“What?” Private Tango looked confused.
“Ziggy, stop speaking Vulcan.”
“
“Don’t backtalk me, you little hippy smurf. In the parlance of the Romulans, you are less intelligent than a group of things that are not known for being intelligent. Now, go play with your lizard.”
“Nancy,” Ziggy called out as he went to find his iguana. “Like, here boy, or, like, girl.”
“My apologies, Private, he meant blood. The chupacabra’s major motivation is blood. It prefers human, but it can survive on goat’s blood if necessary. They’re extremely smart and experts at the art of camouflage, but when they get even the slightest whiff of fresh blood, they tend to lose their minds. Their eyes glow in the dark, and they become single-minded in purpose. If confronted by one, don’t ever turn your back to it. They can leap twenty feet in the air and can outrun a well-motivated springbok.”
“How many are there?” asked Fire Team Leader Bravo.
“My calculations suggest that for a healthy breeding population to survive, there would need to be at least several hundred of them.”
“Why aren’t there any bodies of the ones that die?”
“Well, Team Leader, my hypothesis is that they are cannibals when it comes to their deceased pack members.”
“That would explain it,” Private Zulu said. “Are we going to need some kind of hunting license in case we run into a game warden?”
“Excellent question, Private. Genetically speaking, the chupacabra falls outside of the spectrum of wolves, dogs, and coyotes. As such, the Mexican law is silent on the issue. So consider there to be no limit on the bloodsuckers. Bag as many as possible.”
“If we have any extra, can we barbeque them? Fire Team Leader Charlie makes a damn fine sauce.”
“Absolutely not. These creatures are scientific treasures. You wouldn’t pan-fry a coelacanth, would you?”
“Depends on whether or not I had any cornmeal handy.”
“Personally,” Private Foxtrot added, “I like cracker crumbs myself. Oh, wait a minute…let’s stop talking about food.” The private grabbed at his gurgling stomach.
“Knock it off, men,” the General said. “We’re on an official mission here. We will act according to the rules of the Geneva Convention, which is very clear on the prohibition of cooking prisoners. Even in beer batter, which, for the record, is the best way.”
“Thank you, General. I appreciate your support in this matter. Now, if I’m right, and I usually am, we are in a perfect location to detect a suitable specimen.”
“How come?” asked Private Tango.
“Elementary. Plenty of dry cover and a local source of water.” Avery pointed to a small stream a few hundred yards away. “Over that rise about a mile away is a large farm.” He pointed in the other direction. “They more than likely have a varied collection of livestock that may attract the chupacabra. Plus, I’m almost positive I spotted a group of three traveling through this area last week when using my ultra-sensitive high-altitude satellite monitoring system.”
“What?” General X-Ray asked.
“Like, Google Earth, dude,” said Ziggy, returning with a struggling iguana under his arm.
“I need to get one of those,” the General said enviously.
“We’ll set up a honey pot on the other side of that rise and watch for activity. In the meantime, we’ll start looking for signs of recent activity. Namely, footprints and scat.”
“What?” asked Private Tango.
“Poo. Look for evil-smelling poo.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Hard Bargain
In the desert, a black limousine drove along a rutted dirt road. Inside the vehicle, Colonel Cesar Beltran sat in the back with two armed guards. Up front, another gunman accompanied the driver. The car began to slow as it approached a white fence surrounding a large compound. To the left, a yellow farmhouse sat across from a massive red barn. The back of the compound contained a series of low black buildings that appeared to be some
