Mayan Storm: The End Is Coming

© 2012 Michael Hooks. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 8/3/2012

ISBN: 978-1-4772-5241-3 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4772-5242-0 (e)

ISBN: 978-1-4772-5243-7 (sc)

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Contents

DEDICATIONS

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 35

CHAPTER 36

CHAPTER 37

CHAPTER 38

CHAPTER 39

CHAPTER 40

CHAPTER 41

CHAPTER 42

CHAPTER 43

CHAPTER 44

CHAPTER 45

CHAPTER 46

CHAPTER 47

CHAPTER 48

CHAPTER 49

CHAPTER 50

CHAPTER 51

CHAPTER 52

CHAPTER 53

CHAPTER 54

CHAPTER 55

CHAPTER 56

CHAPTER 57

CHAPTER 58

CHAPTER 59

CHAPTER 60

CHAPTER 61

CHAPTER 62

CHAPTER 63

CHAPTER 64

CHAPTER 65

CHAPTER 66

CHAPTER 67

CHAPTER 68

CHAPTER 69

CHAPTER 70

CHAPTER 71

CHAPTER 72

EPILOGUE

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

DEDICATIONS

Dedicated to Ginny, Jamie, Shelby, Bear, Marianne and Big Jim.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Many thanks to Christine Huffman for her invaluable assistance and to David (a.k.a. Shithead) for his inspiration.

CHAPTER 1

A desperately intense yet rhythmic chant rises up with an ever increasing volume and tempo. The encircling mob edges ever closer while still seeming to be a distant backdrop to her consciousness. The severed head of the great chief of a rival city lay misshapen and bleeding on the lower step of the massive flat topped pyramid in front of which she stood. Several small streams of human blood completed the long journey down from the top of the pyramid only to be consumed by the hot dry sand of the parched earth. Two fierce Jaguar Warriors, clad in full battle regalia carefully assist as she takes the first of ninety-two steps towards the top of the sacred pyramid of Kukulkan. Twenty young priestesses clad only in sheer white robes and carrying small torches surround her as she makes her slow ascent.

Showing only a second of hesitation, she glances upwards towards the startling sky above. She recognizes the resounding sign of approval from the sun god. The heavens are streaked with blood red daggers of fading sunlight, reinforcing the ominous End of Days predictions of the royal star watchers.

The princess and her attendants pause five steps from the top of the pyramid. Her senses are heightened as her fate comes into sharper focus. No longer can she hear her people chanting to the gods, pleading to them for mercy. The palm trees are stilled, yet she feels the slight chill of an invisible wind, the breath of the god of darkness. Her magnificent jaguar hide mantle is removed leaving her covered only by a tiny gold and silver inlayed loincloth. The ranking Jaguar Warrior removes the ancient royal headpiece of gold, jewels, and jade. Her silken brown hair falls to and fans out over her shoulders. Her nearest servant gently gathers it and ties it neatly behind her neck with an ornate shell and jewel encrusted ribbon.

She slowly glides up the final five steps, reaching the broad flat top of the pyramid just as the final red flares of the setting sun are consumed by the glittering ocean in the near distance. Two ancient and grotesquely costumed priests now guide her to the center of the platform. The stench of their human skin robes and blood matted hair overpower the nearby warriors but does not distract her from her mission. She allows the priests to guide her to the altar where she herself had witnessed hundreds of human sacrifices, never believing that it would one day be necessary for her own blood to be given to the gods.

Grasping her shoulders, one of the priests slowly turns her, facing her back towards the multitudes of onlookers below. Her father, the greatest king of the Maya rises up in front of her. He wears fine sandals with thick soles and straps that lace to his knees. His loincloth is of the heavy coat of the jaguar as is his enormous mantle. He carries an obsidian tipped spear as well as his ornate battle shield. A long wicked battle machete hangs at his side. His helmet is of solid gold, polished to a mirror sheen. Rare and valuable feathers of red, green and yellow are affixed to his headpiece, an indicator to all of his decent direct from the omnipresent god, Kukulkan, the Feathered Serpent.

His stern countenance does not change even as a single tear emerges from the eye of the great king. He looks into the large innocent brown eyes of his beautiful young daughter. Her features finer, and her skin lighter than those of the common masses, yet another confirmation that her royal bloodline descends from the celestial gods, not of the Earth. His thoughts briefly flashed to the future she will not live to see. A dark future foretold by the prophesies of generations of star watchers and recorded in the ancient Codex of Heaven. It is to be a future ruled by the evil and misery unless her life force can somehow be protected from the Dark One.

Sadly, the legendary fair skinned celestial warrior from over the eastern waters has failed to intervene.

Time has run out. Evil will now prevail over goodness. Darkness will now reign supreme over the Great One World.

The great king steps aside without a word. He is quickly replaced by attendants who immediately start painting the princess with a thick layer of turquoise blue dye. When complete, a young priest carefully assists the princess as she willingly lays back onto the sun heated rock of the sacrificial altar. She ignores the discomfort of the rough stone as it rubs tiny abrasions into her bare shoulders and back. She turns her head and allows her gaze to sweep over the masses before locking eyes with her executioner. Her heart rate accelerates as he steps towards her with a gold and jewel studded dagger raised above his head, held in both hands. Its wickedly curved blade catches and reflects the firelight from thousands of torches now burning on and below the great pyramid.

The princess arches her back, thrusting her bare chest towards the blade-wielding priest. The aged and leather skinned priest takes another step closer. She focuses on the razor sharp obsidian blade of the dagger as he holds it high above her body. The princess notices a bead of sweat drip from one elbow. In slow motion she tracks its decent to obliteration on the stone floor of the altar. She knows that her sacred blood will soon make the same trek.

In an instant the chanting of the crowd ceases. The princess turns her head away and screams as the priest plunges his knife into her chest. With the skill born of hundreds of sacrifices, the holy man pulls her ribcage apart and cuts free the still beating heart of the princess.

As the priest raises her royal heart to the gods of the heavens, the fading vision of the young princess is drawn upward to the center of the Milky Way, to the Dark Rift, home of Tezcatlipoca, god of the darkness, destructor of worlds.

CHAPTER 2

4:50 PM, 17 December 2012

Shithead’s Condo, St. Augustine Beach, Florida

Its hideous face exploded in a fountain of chunky red and pink chips. His body dropped from view only to be immediately replaced by his ugly twin. This one took a ferocious swipe at me which exposed his red, black, and white armband. The Nazi swastika logo on it was spattered with blood. I didn’t have too aim, he was to close for that, I cranked back on the trigger. Flame blasted from my rifle a fraction of a second after the bullet tore through his forehead. No more targets appeared to my front so I spun around to address the growing battle chaos that is starting to erupt behind me.

I raised my rifle to a hip level firing position as I ran towards the back window. Another intruder is ripping down boards that we had hastily nailed up to prevent their entry. Just as I squeezed off another three rounds I perceived a malevolent presence rearing up behind me. I simultaneously felt the vibration and heard the supersonic crack of several rounds as they zipped past me.

I heard Shithead’s exuberant shout as I realized that his shots had found their target. Don’t come into my house with that punk ass shit!

Unfortunately my shots were slightly off the mark. The intruder ripped down the final board and stepped through the window. As he turned towards me, I squeezed the trigger once again. Nothing happened.

Shit! I’m out of ammo. I pushed forward two more steps and rapidly pressed the slash button on the X-Box controller. The zombie went down in a gush of blood as the bayonet on the end of my M-1 Garand rifle cut through his decaying zombie skin like the Air Force Academy offense through the West Point defense.

His place was quickly taken by several more Nazi Zombies. I immediately dropped the Garand and pulled out my Colt .45 caliber pistol. I unloaded it into the heads of the two remaining zombies and then threw a grenade at them for good measure.

Although already dead, zombies are surprisingly hard to kill. In spite of missing the lower half of his body, one of the yellow eyed zombies continued to crawl towards me.

Shithead waited until the Zom crawled up onto the window sill before leveling his rifle and shooting it in the face. Golden Boy my ass, you suck! Those bastards woulda’ eaten your face off fifteen minutes ago if I wasn’t here watching over you.

Golden Boy is a nickname that I picked up as a kid. My given name is Barak Michael Mayne, most people call me Bear. The aforementioned Shithead is actually my youngest brother, Nathan Bedford Mayne. Everyone calls him Shithead because that’s what he is.

He pressed the pause button and set his controller down in favor of the Budweiser that he pulled out of a sweating galvanized bucket of ice. I’m getting carpel tunnel from playin’ this damn game so much; I need to find something else to do that’s not so rigorous.

Yeah, I’m sure playin’ Nazi Zombie’s is what’s giving you Carpel Tunnel, I said. It couldn’t be that your girl Porsche and all your other little girlfriends are boycotting you because you wouldn’t share the treasure with them.

Could be that too, he conceded as he twisted the cap off of his beer.

In the several months since Shithead and I had discovered a long lost Spanish treasure ship and retrieved millions of dollars worth of gold, silver and jewels, he had increasingly become the target of the affections of many local women as well as a popular television reporter from Atlanta. He is even considering an offer from ABC to appear as one of 24 eligible bachelors on next season’s edition of a television show called The Bachelorette.

It seems as though his popularity with these women has already peaked and might be on the downslide. As the lovely ladies in question came to realize that Shithead had no intention of trading golden doubloons for their amorous attentions, he somehow became less desirable.

Shithead has always been a well-known figure around town but lately he has become quite the local celebrity. After news of our treasure find was made public, Shithead became our unofficial spokesman. Whereas Shithead thrives in the limelight, I’ve tried to remain a bit more low key. My previous occupation required that I maintain a modicum of anonymity which over the years has become something that I am very comfortable with.

So, you wanna tell me about your meeting with your friend Alessandra now or do ya wanna take me to dinner and tell me there? I was thinking we should go to the Conch House. Buddy of mine works there, said they just got a fresh shipment of lobster direct from Anagada Island in the B.V.I.s. Best lobster on the planet.

B.V.I.’s? I asked.

British Virgin Islands, don’t act all innocent and dumb with me. I’ve got your number pal. I’ll bet you’ve been on missions in the B.V.I.s before, maybe even worked with some real ‘Double O’ agents from Her Majesty’s Secret Service.

I ignored the comment. Shithead likes to pry into and dwell on the prospects that I might be some sort of spy. I had actually kept my cover very well until our recent treasure hunting adventure. In order to get the desired result, I was forced to call upon some skills and resources that all but confirmed that I had indeed been involved in a few clandestine operations in my recent past. I should mention that these did result in positive outcomes, if you lean towards free and democratic societies.

Still, it’s not something that I like to advertise. In that sort of business one tends to develop a long list of enemies. Common sense and a strong desire to live to middle age prevents one from bragging or calling attention to it so I tried to change the subject.

The B.V.I.s huh? Those are some well traveled lobsters. What’s wrong with local?

Shithead just rolled eyes and said, If you need to ask then you wouldn’t appreciate them anyway. I guess you want to go to McDonalds, huh?

No, I said. If the Conch House is what you want, then it’s fine with me. They’ve usually got good live music, frosty beer and a nice breeze. Besides, Jessie loves lobster. If these British crustaceans are as good as you say then she might not get as mad at me as I think she’s going to.

CHAPTER 3

6:20 PM, 17 December 2012

Conch House Restaurant, St. Augustine, Florida

Along with brother Shithead, I arrived at the Conch House just as the mid- December sun started dropping through the soft orange and pink western sky. The faintest hint of a breeze threatened to take the edge off of the unseasonably hot ninety- three degree temperature.

Shithead lightly elbowed my right arm and as if verbalizing a random thought, said, I’m thinking of writing a book.

I slowed Shithead’s shiny new F-150 to allow a trio of barefooted, bikini clad daiquiri drinkers to carefully tiptoe past us on the rough broken shell parking lot. A book about what? The treasure ship?

Shithead jerked forward in his seat, pointed, and nearly yelled, Holy shit, check out the body on that one! He calmed slightly and then added, I dated a girl that looked just like her back in high school.

I knew that he hadn’t dated anyone who looked remotely like the girl in question but I said, Yeah, wasn’t she the one who went behind your back and sexually abused all of your friends in alphabetical order?

He smirked and said, Good one. then he added, Yeah, she was the chick who always seemed to be cutting out some dude’s heart and spitting on it before she dropped it into a Margarita blender set on frappe.

Pleased with himself, he smiled and sat back in his seat. What were we talking about?

Your book, I said. I asked if it was going to be about finding the treasure ship.

No, that’s old news. I’m gonna write a ‘How To’ book. Thinking of calling it Great Sex for Dummies. What’cha think?

I didn’t say it, but I thought the part about dummies might fall into his area of expertise.

You got any tips? Anything you think I ought to include?

No, I don’t claim to be an expert on the subject, I replied.

Ah, that’s bullshit! I’ve seen some of your old girlfriends. You can’t get women like that without knowing a thing or two. And Jessie! Holy shit, she gets hotter every single goddamned day. She needs a warning label affixed to her bra strap just so a guy will know what he’s about to get mixed up with. To pull women like that, the Golden Boy has gotta have a few tips or words of wisdom that he could share with the general populous.

I pulled the truck into a space that had opened up next to the bikini girls in time to hear one of them make a comment about forgetting her flip flops and walking across the unpaved lot.

Well, I said, you should definitely include a section about sex in the closet.

In the closet? His expression seemed both genuinely interested and confused.

On the floor, near her shoe rack; it heightens her experience exponentially.

How do you figure?

I shut off the engine and cracked the door open. Think about it. Ask any woman, she’ll admit that her senses are always peaked when in close proximity to shoes. Spiked heels, sensible flats, even basic sandals or flip flops. As long they are relatively new, it doesn’t matter. Trust me.

He nodded and opened his door also. Words from the master. I think I’ll test that theory sometime. Hey, maybe I should even break into a shoe store with my research assistant and give it a try.

You have a research assistant?

No, but I been thinking about getting one.

We got out of the truck and immediately noticed a large crowd of happy hour drinkers and late arriving early birds crowded around the hostess stand, apparently waiting for tables. As we approached the crowd, Shithead loosed an obnoxiously loud whistle that momentarily caught the attention of the crowd and hostess. The crowd looked up and then went back to waiting. The hostess, on the other hand, immediately recognized Shithead. She squealed, smiled warmly, and then enthusiastically motioned us through. We picked our way through the now semi-hostile crowd to the hostess stand.

The young hostess gave Shithead a huge hug and a peck on his scruffy unshaved cheek. As she hugged him, he turned to me with a giant grin and whispered, Her name is Tori, she’s an Early Childhood Education major over at Flagler, underage but not by much.

For those unfamiliar with my brother, I should mention here that he is quite a unique individual. As I mentioned before, his real name is Nathan Bedford Mayne but only law enforcement professionals and our mother call him Nathan. Everyone else calls him Shithead or sometimes S.H.

Shithead is one of those few people who have immense potential and the talent to be successful at just about anything he tries. On the other hand, he is also one of those people who could care less about the normal customs or constraints of civilized society. Instead he does whatever seems to please him at the time. To say he marches to the beat of a different drummer is even off the mark. He doesn’t march, that would be far too regimented for him. Instead he barges through life without a care. Well, without a care unless food or beer is involved, then he cares.

Anyway, much to the chagrin of the more alert members of the crowd, Tori immediately directed us to a palm thatch covered table out on the docks. We passed several large motor yachts and a handful of good sized sailboats. As we approached our table, we were forced to walk single file to allow passage for a group of noisy leather clad Harley drivers going in the other direction. Miles of tattoos, beards, and belt loop chains. The full stereotype applied: leather vests with Harley and Vietnam Veteran patches, heavy leather riding boots that clomped loudly on the wooden dock. An intimidating group to the casual observer. It occurred to me that in real life these tough guys were likely to be insurance salesmen and stay-at-home dads during the week.

Walking behind Shithead, I almost missed it. I was not intended to see it, but as millions of bumper stickers profess: shit happens. A small tanned hand flashed out from the back of the crowd of bikers. A letter size brown envelope was slipped under a napkin on the table that Shithead and I were zeroing in on. It took place in less than a second. It was really a fairly good piece of fieldcraft on her part, just bad luck for her that I saw it happen. I smiled and silently congratulated myself on my small victory even while knowing that she would be devastated to know that she was seen. Things like this are huge points of pride for professionals.

I momentarily considered letting it slide, but for her own good I was honor bound to point it out. It’s very melodramatic to say, but it just might be the difference between her life and death one day.

The stern looking group of wannabe road warriors wedged past Shithead, no doubt headed for another popular watering hole, probably the Trade Winds Lounge or maybe the Oasis. I made eye contact with each biker as they passed. A few nodded, most didn’t acknowledge me, but none went out of their way to avoid eye contact. Except for the last biker in line, that is. Attractive, blonde, petite, late thirties, heavy tattoos on defined and tanned biceps. She looked away sharply as soon as I made eye contact, smiled at her, and whispered, Nice job.

Shithead turned and gave me a questioning look. Nice what? Are you admiring my fine ass again?

I just shook my head and took a seat facing back towards the hostess stand.

Jessie is gonna be upset with you when she hears that you’re checking out my butt.

I must point out here that Shithead is a few inches shy of six feet tall. What he lacks in height he more than makes up in girth. Guesstimating, I’d say he tips the scale at a robust two hundred eighty-five pounds. He is incredibly strong and surprisingly agile…but he is certainly not attractive nor does he have a fine ass.

I continued to ignore his typical Shitheadish comments, but I did watch the blonde Harley babe as she followed the scrum of bikers towards the parking lot. I’m sure our momentary interaction rocked her world, but she’ll be better for it.

Shithead picked up his menu while I slipped my cloth napkin onto my lap and slid the biker’s envelope under my t-shirt and into the waistband of my shorts.

So many beers, so little time, he said. You wanna split an appetizer? Naw, I guess not, you’re too concerned with your girlish figure and your elevated triglyceride levels. I’ll just have to handle the appetizers alone.

Shithead could carry on this conversation with himself for the better part of the evening if left unchecked. I let him converse while I watched the Hell’s Angels mount their iron horses and thunder out of the parking lot. Nine bikes turned left; one turned right. A white Shelby Cobra Mustang with thick blue racing stripes stopped, allowing the nine bikers to turn onto the road.

Is Jessie gonna show up or are we gonna have to wait all afternoon for her?

I looked over to Shithead. You got some place to be or something more important to do?

The waitress showed up so I didn’t get an answer, which was fine. I already knew he didn’t have anything better to do and he was dying to hear what I had to say. It’s interesting how the sudden infusion of millions of dollars into your own personal bank account either completely changes you or does not change you at all. Shithead falls into the latter category. I think I do also, but it might be too early to tell.

It was a little early for dinner, but never to early for Shithead to feed. Before the waitress could ask, Shithead said, Good afternoon miss, we’ll have the sampler platter for an appetizer and three Red Stripes.

She wrote that down as she hurried away without asking what I wanted. I’d really like a Gatorade, but I’m sure it’s not on the menu so I’ll have to try to persuade Shithead to let me have one of his Red Stripes.

Three Red Stripes? I asked.

You gotta problem with that? he replied. Listen, I might drink a beer or six every once in a while, but is that really so bad? I don’t freebase cocaine off of a hooker’s ass and I don’t drop acid in church.

Equally amused and grossed out, I cut him off. Unless you already heard the sermon.

He nodded as if my observation was correct and then asked, You didn’t wanna order?

He didn’t let me answer. I tuned him out as best I could as he launched into a long diatribe, probably concerning why he was disinclined to share a beer with me. Instead of listening, I watched the white Mustang circle the parking lot twice before wedging into a space between an old Volkswagen bus and a dumpster disguised as a tiki hut. A few moments later a stunning young woman stepped out of the Mustang. Heads immediately turned in her direction. She adjusted her blouse, flipped back her shoulder length sun-streaked hair, checked her lipstick in a compact mirror, and then started walking.

I got that familiar charge of adrenaline as I watched her approach. I’ve only known her for a few months, but they’ve been some pretty fantastic months. Together we’ve fought off a pack of deranged killers, survived a devastating hurricane, and become multi-millionaires by discovering and salvaging the lost Spanish treasure ship known as El Mensajero de Dios. I won’t mention any of the more personal adventures that she and I have taken together. Anyway, she is now in the process of opening a museum dedicated to the ship while at the same time holding down her regular job teaching history at Flagler College here in St. Augustine.

I lost sight of Professor Jessie Meriwether as she disappeared into the throng of tourists crowding the hostess stand at the other end of the dock. While waiting for her to re-emerge, our beer wielding waitress showed up and placed three beers on the table. She departed with a wink and a southern drawled promise to be rat back with the sampler platter.

Shithead twisted the cap off of the first beer and, surprisingly, he handed it to me without a word. It was my first beer of the day, but Shithead was undoubtedly working deep into double figures by now. I’d spent most of the morning lifting weights and running, followed by a good hour of surfing. I’d sacrificed the entire afternoon enduring a tedious lunch and a three hour meeting with an overly energetic and enthusiastic group of investment counselors from Mr. DeGenova’s bank in Jacksonville.

With diabetes fended off for another twenty-four hours and yet another business meeting in the books, I’d then meandered over to Shithead’s slum to re-kill some Nazi Zombies and update him on the urgent rendezvous that I had been summoned to just last night.

Unfortunately the urgency of the relentless assault of the zombies demanded so much concentration that time slipped away without our discussing my dinner meeting with Miss Alessandra Reyes, a co-worker of mine from DeGenova Enterprises down in Stuart, Florida.

Now I’d have to give the story to Shithead and Jessie together. I was hoping to bounce it off of Shithead first to get things clearer in my mind. Jessie is sure to be more than just a little upset when she hears about this.

CHAPTER 4

6:26 PM, 17 December 2012

Conch House Restaurant, 18 December 2012

B est S.E.C. mascot?

He uttered the question from behind his upturned beer bottle. Shithead had recently taken up the habit of quizzing and then debating me on some of the more crucial issues of life. Usually this revolves around my opinions concerning