Skull of the Zipa PREVIEW CHAPTERS, Chuck Chitwood [ebook reader library .txt] 📗

Skull of the Zipa:

Book 1 of The Haddie Green Chronicles

 by

Chuck Chitwood

© Chuck Chitwood, 2014

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by an information storage and retrieval system - except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a magazine or newspaper - without permission in writing from the publisher.

Colombia’s El Tigre trading post is used mostly by adventurers and hikers setting out to climb the South American nation’s jungle covered mountains or to go rafting down one of the Orinoco’s myriad white water tributaries. I am not an adventure-bound outdoor sort of girl. I do love being outside and running but I’ve never in my entire life considered trekking through the tropical rainforest or braving class five rapids. And, yet, here I am trying to sleep in an uncomfortable bed thousands of miles away from home.

Only, I can’t sleep because I’m worried about finding my dad and because of the oppressive humidity. I know I need some rest but the air is so thick I can practically swallow it and the mosquito netting around my creaking bed prevents even the smallest breezes off the river from reaching me. Sweat pours down the back of my neck, so I pull my long, curly black hair up into a ponytail, dab the moisture with the sheet and try watching the small black and white television on the dresser to make myself sleepy. But the only station the old TV can pick up this far in the jungle is fuzzy and shows nothing but reruns from last year’s World Cup. 

The thought occurs to me to go to the bathroom and splash water on my face, but the only bathroom is at the end of the hall and shared by the whole floor. And somehow the idea of a young woman like myself walking down a dark hall to use a bathroom shared by grungy adventure seekers brings to mind all those movies that end with some overweight cop shaking his head saying things like, “How could this happen to such a good kid?”

Not that I couldn’t handle myself. I know I can. But it’s just not worth it. With my sheets drenched from sweat and the helicopter-like buzzing of mosquitoes whirling around my head, I drift into to a fitful sleep just after midnight. It’s not long before I start to dream and then my dream becomes a nightmare.

I am being chased by faceless men with guns and heavy black beards and I don’t know who they are. I’m running through the dense jungle but my legs feel like they’re slogging through pudding. As I try to go forward, limbs and vines pummel my face scratching my cheeks and arms. I can hear my faceless pursuers getting closer. Their footfalls get louder as they close in. Broken branches snap under their heavy, military boots that cut through the foliage effortlessly. They are shouting and yelling at each other. Somewhere in the back of my mind I know it isn’t real. I toss and turn, but no matter what I do, I can’t force myself to wake up.

My heart beats so hard, I’m sure it will explode. I can hear them getting closer. They’ll be on top of me in seconds. I race into the unknown not sure where I’m headed or why they are chasing me. I stumble and fall to my knees. My hands dig into the dirt as I scramble to get back up. My mouth opens to scream but there is no sound. Then just as a small groan emerges from the back of my throat, I feel thick hands wrap around my neck ready to choke the life out of me.

I bolt straight up in my bed, clutching the sheet to my pounding chest. I try to gulp the wet air and force it deep into my lungs, but I can’t catch my breath. Sweat pours down my face and my bed might as well be the river. My favorite Ramones T-shirt is soaked so I dig through my backpack, and find a dry white tank top and cargo khakis to put on. I lift my heavy ponytail off my neck and fan myself with a Colombian soccer magazine from the nightstand. Gazing out the window, the full moon shimmers on the majestic Orinoco and casts long shadows over the rough-hewn wood floor.

I stare out the window, trying to collect myself. Looking out across the silver coated landscape I ask myself, Haddie Green what in the world are you doing here? I’m two thousand miles from New Providence. This is nuts. 

It may be nuts but I’ve got to find my father. He’s all I have left. He’s been missing three maybe four days. I don’t know anymore. My time is all confused after the long plane trip and the bush plane ride to El Tigre. The only thing I know for sure is that I am thousands of miles away from my own bed at an outpost in the middle of a jungle in Colombia sitting by the open window trying calm myself and catch a breeze off the Orinoco River.

Now that my heart is beating at its normal resting rate all I can think is,This is hopeless. I shouldn’t even be here. It will never work. I should be at my prom tonight having a normal kid’s life. Instead, I am completely alone and my father is out there…somewhere. Falling back into my pillow, tears silently roll down the sides of my face.

Thoughts of Chance Baker standing on my front porch in his tuxedo and high tops holding a corsage and then seeing the note I left fills my head. ‘Family emergency. Had to leave town. I’m so sorry. Haddie.’ What else could I have said? ‘Chance, Sorry I can’t go to the prom with you but my father was kidnapped and his boss convinced me to fly to South America with him because he told me if we involved authorities they would kill my father. So, maybe we can grab a burger next week? Later, Haddie.’

What do I care? It doesn’t even matter now. I’ve already missed the prom and Chance probably hates me. Wiping away a tear I know that I’d give up a million proms if it would help me and Dr. Waters find my dad.

Dr. Waters, my dad’s boss, has a meeting lined up tomorrow with someone who is supposed to take us up the Orinoco to the last village where my dad was before he was kidnapped. I need to be at my top tomorrow but I’m so tired and worrying about the stupid prom and whether or not my father is okay isn’t doing anything for me except making me anxious. I stare through the gauzy mosquito netting and out the window at the silver sky. My need for sleep trumps the sweat and sadness I feel. My eyelids grow heavy and I drift off once more.

It’s not long before I’m dreaming of being chased again. But something is different from my first dream. This time a hand clamps down hard over my mouth. There is a smell of gasoline mixed with sweat and some sort of food that turns my stomach and causes me to gag. I resist the urge to throw up. I’m so groggy and yet my mind yells, Come on, Haddie. Wake up! This isn’t a dream. Wake up right now!

I can feel my teeth cutting into my lips causing blood, my blood, to spill into my mouth. I force my eyes to open completely. The horrid scent coming off the hand over my mouth causes hot bile to gurgle up my throat. In the back of my mind I hear my Uncle Ami yelling, Get up, Hadassah! This is not a test. Get up now. Throw him off balance Defend yourself.

With my eyes now wide, I look up at the stranger whose hand is on my mouth and I glance around the room. He is not alone but he is the one I must deal with first. I kick off my drenched sheets trying to free myself, but there are more hands grabbing at me now; pulling my legs. I can’t breathe! I can’t breathe! I try to kick at my assailants but I can’t move because they have me pinned against the bed. I reach for anything that I can use as a weapon.

I know there’s a lamp on the nightstand, so I try to grab it but my hand gets wrapped up in the mosquito netting. Someone ties a sweaty cloth around my head to blindfold me. My eyes burn as I try to peek through the material to catch a glimpse of my attackers. I reach for the lamp one more time, trying to knock it on the floor in the hope that the sound will wake up somebody, but the lamp was just out of reach.

Panicked groans emanate from my throat. Then another set of hands grabs my hair and pushes my head back into the pillow. My hair feels like it’s being ripped out by the roots. Tears stream down my face. The smell of gas grows stronger making it harder to breathe.

Then, for some unknown reason, they stop grabbing at me but do not loosen their hold on me. I squirm harder than before but the hands push me down so hard, I think my legs might break. I hear them talking in anxious voices. They’re speaking Spanish but they’re mumbling. I’m not too bad with Spanish. I’ve taken three years of it but that’s in the classroom. Right here, right now, I understand almost nothing because they’re speaking so fast. As the men whisper to one another, I count the voices. There are at least three maybe four of them.

The door to my room creaks open and someone new enters the room. It’s a man. I can tell from the sound of his heavy boots pounding across the wooden floor. He must be the one in charge because the others immediately stop talking.

With the confusing voices hushed, a moment of clarity strikes me. If they were going to kill me, they would have done it already. My clothes haven’t been ripped from my body, so they aren’t here to rape me. What could these thugs need with an eighteen-year-old girl from America? Oh no! No. No. Maybe they’re human traffickers. Maybe the leader is telling them not to damage ‘the goods’. I am not ‘the goods’!

My mind races as they chatter amongst themselves. The one with his gross hand on my mouth thinks they’ve got me subdued and loosens his grip. Whatever I decide to do now, I have to commit to doing it because I’ve seen enough crime shows to know that what a victim does in the first few minutes of a kidnapping is crucial. I come up with an idea. It’s probably a stupid idea, but I decide to take a chance and alert someone. Maybe if I wake up the whole trading post someone will come to my rescue.

I open my mouth and taste sweaty, gasoline and grime-coated flesh. I know his hand is probably crawling with germs. But at this point, I have nothing to lose. I bite down on his hand like I am tearing off a piece of tough steak, grinding and ripping the meat of his thick hand with my teeth.

He yanks his hand from my mouth, yelping in pain. I try to cry out for help, but the only sound that comes out is a weird guttural noise but it’s loud enough that the others scramble to cover my mouth, leaving my left arm free. That’s when opportunity presents itself. My hand shoots into the darkness grasping the lamp on the nightstand. Then with all the force I can muster, I smash it against