Space Rocker: The Novel
by Michael Steenbergen
Copyright 2010 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Novel's
NAVIGATION
----------------Chapter 1
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
Chapter 2
12
13
14
15
16
17 18 19 20 21
Chapter 3
22 23 24 25 26
18
19 20 21 22 Chapter 4 22
22 23 24 25 26
27 28 29 30 31
32 Chapter 3
---------------- |
James Duncan’s last conscious thought was “Will my lunch
make it? I know I’ll be hungry if I live.” Then he was
overwhelmed with fear. He was feeling that falling
sensation that in dreams or nightmares almost always
preceded dying.
The impact was tremendous! The crashing crunch of metal
and horrific breaking of glass rang through the
professor’s ears as he was enveloped in darkness.
It was not immediately clear if Space Rocker was dead.
Space Rocker was his full knick name. The body did not
move and blood trickled slowly from many wounds, but it
did not pump or gush. That was a bad sign considering
the gaping wounds. The chest seemed very still as if it
had no breath. That was another bad sign. Regardless,
Space Rocker was dead or unconscious and unaware when
the native hunting party arrived.
As the natives sifted through the wreckage they first
examined, then immediately destroyed all of his
photographic equipment. It was tribal law. They took
more time as they examined the other tools of
archeology, even books and electronic data devices. Just
because the 21st Century knew nothing about the Chapeck
Aneal, it certainly did not mean the Chapeck Aneal knew
nothing of the outside world. In fact, they were most
informed.
The native leading the hunting party suspected the
bloody body in the twisted wreckage was that of a grave
robber. The leader, distinguished by more feathers and
jewelry than his peers, was looking directly at Space
Rocker’s body when it jerked in a violent spasm. Rocker
had choked on the blood trickling into his mouth and
tried to sit upright. He was alive! One of the natives
raised his spear and moved forward with a stabbing
motion. A gesture from the heavily feathered figure
stopped his in mid stroke.
It was the custom of the tribe to capture or kill all
trespassers. For centuries, the Indian cultures of the
Americas had suffered looting, genocide and subjugation.
Though peaceful by nature, this tribe now allowed no
intrusion from the outside world. Trespassers were
dispatched as casually as hunting or chasing away small
game animals and rodents. Killing, however, still
remained a last and final option. The tribe maintained a
sacred respect for all living creatures from plant to
insect to bird to animal to man. No creature was ever
killed wantonly or wastefully.
Killing was only for self defense and sustenance. If
trespassers were armed and aggressive, or if they
looted, the sanctity of life did not protect them from a
swift arrow or the poison dart. Any contact with the
outside world was at the will, and on the terms, of the
tribe.
Moonlight glinted off the spear tip, dimly flickering
across Rocker’s crumpled form. He lay near the fire
where the natives had tossed him. Two of the warriors
had carried him from the crash site on a makeshift
litter of leaves and reeds. His khaki pants were
shredded. His shirt had been ripped entirely off his
body. Abrasions and scratches crisscrossed his chest and
back. Blood gleamed as it seeped from his wounds. Some
injuries had been caused by the twisting, ripping metal
of the plane as it smashed into the mountain, and other
wounds had been caused by the branches and limbs of the
thickly forested jungle.
He looked bad, but it was generally superficial. The
leather bag that Rocker always wore as a good luck token
dangled from his neck. It was this small satchel that
had caught the eye of the leader. The feathered figure
stooped forward and gently lifted the token from around
Rocker’s neck. Rocker moaned as he felt the leather
strap slipping over his head. He never took the bag off
his neck and even in a mostly unconscious state, he was
resisting. Several natives moved to grab him tightly and
stop him from moving.
|
|
