HOME STRUCK Lightning strikes Barry Andrews as he hikes among petroglyphs outside Albuquerque. He survives, but the surge of energy awakens abilities he's carried since birth. Earth's fate is now tied to Barry's, and Barry's fate is linked to the past. A thousand years ago, the ancestors of today's Pueblo Indians built an advanced society in Chaco Canyon, tapped into powers they weren't meant to control, and almost ended life on Earth. The Anasazi abandoned Chaco Canyon to protect man from himself. But the pueblo ruins still hold power, and man still desires what he shouldn't have. Now Barry must join forces with a Native American elder, become a warrior, and save the earth. STRUCK will be available July '09 from Regal Crest Enterprises and other online sources. Sample the first chapter below. STRUCK by Keith Pyeatt Part 1 -- Petroglyph Warrior Chapter 1 Rinconada Canyon, Western Edge of Albuquerque, NM Sunday, August 12, 2007 The air held energy. It played across Barry Andrews's arms as he turned west off Unser Boulevard and braked to a stop. A metal gate blocked access to New Mexico's Petroglyph National Monument. "Tough luck," Martin said from the passenger seat. "Sign says it's open until five." He checked his watch. "Missed it by ten minutes." Inside the gate, beyond a dirt parking area and a bulletin board covered with maps and information, the trailhead beckoned. Barry drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. "The parking lot's closed, but the trail is open." He turned off the Subaru and smiled at Martin. "Nice try though." Martin shouldered open the passenger door and groaned getting out. "Why do I let you talk me into these things? These rock sketches aren't worth a hike, you know." "You don't know that. You've lived here all your life and never seen them." Barry glanced at the ridge of black volcanic rock beyond the trailhead, placed a hand on top of the gate, and vaulted over it. "Come on. I really want to do this. You with me?" Martin shut the car door. "I'm with you, if only to burn off some of your excess energy." He frowned at the gate. "But don't expect any gymnastics from me. I'll be lucky to get over this thing. And by the way, you're buying me dinner after this--Mexican food. None of that good-for-you crap you survive on." As Martin hoisted a thick leg over the barricade, the western sky released a low growl. "That's not good." He paused straddling the gate. In his yellow t-shirt and brown shorts, he reminded Barry of a 230 pound finch perched uncomfortably on a fence. "Thunderstorm moving in. Bad omen." "People keep telling me Albuquerque gets rain almost every evening this time of year. 'Monsoon season.' How can a thunderstorm be an omen?" "This year's different. Bone dry since March, not so much as a storm cloud. Until now. It's an omen, I tell you." Dark clouds peeked above the western horizon, but even if they broke trend and moved into Albuquerque, it'd be a while before they arrived. "It's an excuse," Barry said. "Let's go." Martin hauled his other leg over the gate, took another look at the horizon, shrugged, and followed Barry to the trail. "We won't go far," Barry promised. "No sense pushing it." "Imagine you talking sense." A roadrunner darted onto the path ahead and stopped at seeing the hikers. Barry stopped too. Man and bird studied each other a moment before the roadrunner charged on, veering to the north across sandy terrain dotted with low-growing silvery sage brush. Barry led on. The trail kept about fifty feet south of the base of the flat-topped escarpment that wound its way along the western edge of Albuquerque. After five minutes at a moderate clip, he left the trail and approached a jumble of stones that hosted the petroglyphs. He examined a crude face on a flat surface of one of the stones, wondering if it was an ancient treasure or a more modern imitation made by kids or disrespectful adults. Martin watched from the trail. "Don't you even want to look?" Barry called out. "This is historic. More than historic, it's sacred to the Pueblo Indians." Martin muttered something about new residents and tourist attractions, but he trudged his way forward. Sweat beaded on his forehead and ran down his face. "We do this regularly," Barry said, "and you'll lose some of that excess baggage you're always moaning about. Of course, that'll take away your excuse for not finding a husband." "I've decided I want a husband who likes excess baggage, thank you very much. How far have we come?" "Maybe a quarter mile." Martin reached Barry and studied the petroglyph. "A quarter mile for this?" "You have no sense of mystique, do you? You really do hate this." Martin twisted his face into a smile. "It's not so bad. I'm being a pain because it's embarrassing to be so out of shape. Twenty-five with the stamina of an eighty-year-old. Not good." Martin's sudden bursts of unveiled honesty often caught Barry by surprise. This one also made him feel guilty for commenting on Martin's weight. Barry squeezed his friend's shoulder. "Does this mean you won't race me back to the Subaru?" Martin sighed and sat on a boulder. "This means I'm taking a break while you seek sacred enlightenment from these rocks." Barry studied the escarpment and tried to pinpoint why he felt such a need to climb higher. "You feel anything unusual?" He placed a hand over his chest. "In here." "Well, let's see. There seems to be a rush of something entering and leaving my lungs as I gasp for oxygen. Air, I think." Martin cocked his head as if listening intently. "And there's a persistent pounding coming from deep inside. Th-thump, th-thump. That what you mean by 'unusual'?" "Funny," Barry said. "No, it's..." He tried to think of a way to describe the feeling. "Seriously?" Martin asked after a few seconds of silence. His eyebrows pinched together. "Is something wrong? Are you in pain?" "No. No pain. It's kind of a tugging feeling." "Maybe you should sit down." Martin scooted over to make room. Barry waved off the concern. "To tell you the truth, I'm not sure it's even physical. It's like-- You know how sometimes you can tell someone's looking at you, that feeling on the back of your neck? It's kind of like that. In a way." He thought some more and shook his head. "But not really." "Thanks for clearing that up." Martin seemed to be studying him, his eyebrows still pinched. "Really," Barry said, "I'm fine. I'm going to explore a little. Then we'll head back." He turned and followed the pull before Martin could argue. Twenty feet up the escarpment Barry found a petroglyph of a spiral that resembled a target. Someone else must have thought so too. Bullet marks blemished the surface. Higher up the hill of stones, two carvings caught his attention. He scrambled up for a closer look. One depicted a lizard. The other was harder to make out, something triangular with two lines sticking out below, maybe a shield that hid all of a warrior except his legs and feet. A jagged line adorned the shield. Barry squatted and traced what he assumed was a lightning bolt with his finger, feeling where the stone had been pecked away so many years ago. The day's heat, stored in the stone, flowed into his finger. He placed his palm over the warrior's shield, closed his eyes, and enjoyed the sensation. Thunder cracked, startling his eyes open. The day had gone dark. Barry stood, disoriented. How could clouds move in so quickly? He smelled moisture in the cool west wind. Rain was imminent. The trailhead and his Subaru were out of sight around a curve, but Barry could run a quarter mile easily, even in the loose soil. Martin couldn't. A cold drop of rain struck the back of Barry's neck. He watched a spattering of drops evaporate quickly from the lizard and shielded warrior. Light flashed behind him. Thunder exploded a second later. Wind dashed sand against his bare legs, neck, and face. "I'm taking shelter here," Martin yelled over the wind. He disappeared behind a rock, presumably into a crevasse that would block the rain. "It's big enough for two," he called out a moment later. Barry surveyed the area, hoping he'd be able to recognize enough of the stone arrangement to find the petroglyphs again. Shadows jumped around him. More lightning. He braced for thunder, even closer this time. Shadows jumped again, casting long fingers across the stones, dancing nimbly over ancient etchings. Barry waited for the crash of thunder. A shadow engulfed him, blotting out the smaller, dancing ones. The air sent a signal Barry recognized without understanding why--movement. Something coming at him. Something big, traveling fast, pushing its way through the air. The image of a plummeting boulder filled Barry's mind. He needed cover. Now. A gap between boulders looked too tight to accept his body, but it'd have to do. No time to even look up and see what approached, he reached out to steady his descent, placing his left hand on the warrior. The air crackled. Energy shot through Barry's body. # From where Thomas sat in his courtyard, trees blocked the western sky, but he knew dark clouds had moved in. The freshening wind carried rain. Thomas stood and peered over the courtyard's thick adobe walls. The joggers and walkers had disappeared from the trails along the Bosque, but a steady stream of bicyclers remained. The threat of afternoon thunderstorms had little punch this year. Although isolated and unpredictable, usually they occurred often enough and struck with such force that anyone outdoors gave them respect. This year the storms hadn't come. Without constant reminders, people quickly grew accustomed to ignoring nature's power. Idiots. The skin across Thomas's forearms prickled as the temperature dropped. He sniffed the air, letting his mind stretch out. This thunderstorm would find him. "Good luck," he muttered at the bicyclers before finishing his beer--a reward for a hard workout--and heading indoors. The door to his study, set in twenty-four-inch adobe walls, was ornately carved and beautifully weathered. The wrought iron hardware had been forged two hundred years ago, but it was new to Thomas, something he bought in Santa Fe and had installed. It was his most recent modification to the house his grandfather left him. Back when families made their own clay bricks and dried them in the desert sun, adobe homes were considered a poor man's house. Now they were prohibitively expensive for most people. Not for Grandfather Sebastian. He'd spared no expense in constructing the 2500 square foot home on ten acres of land alongside the Rio Grande. Inside the air was cool, even without an evaporative cooler. The thick walls kept the heat out during the day, and the shade from 100-year-old cottonwoods made air conditioning unnecessary. "Make sure the windows are shut," Thomas said, anticipating a wind-driven rain. A window slid shut in the dining room, then another. Manuel entered the study. "We need the moisture." He passed behind Thomas. Thomas felt Manuel's eyes lingering on his back, knew the big man was admiring his build. He considered stretching to flex the knotty muscles around his shoulder blades, but he wasn't in the mood. Manuel glided out of the room, his fluid stride defying his powerful bulldog build. A breeze swept in through the screen door, even cooler now than when Thomas had come inside. Releasing the band that held his hair in a ponytail that reached halfway down his back, he stood before the door and closed his eyes. Air danced over his still damp skin, skimming across his chest and abdomen, swirling around his sides, over his shoulders, and around his neck. Inhaling through his nose, Thomas filled his lungs, held the air, then blew it out. The air held energy. He'd first felt it out in the courtyard. He'd passed it off as the building storm, but it was more than that. The energy disturbed him, but he reached out to it. He had to know what it was. Lightning streaked through the sky. Thomas saw its path through closed eyelids. As the thunder rumbled, air pulsed against him. Then the push became a pull as air miles away rushed to fill the vacuum the lightning bolt left in its wake. Leaves rustled in the old cottonwoods. Wind swept in through the door, lifting Thomas's thick, dark hair behind him, giving it life. He raised his arms, changing the currents of air swirling around him, and felt a chill as the temperature continued to plummet. Another flash of lightning. Thunder rolled in from the west. Thomas saw it in his mind's eye, like a giant dust cloud sweeping across the desert. Its power surrounded him briefly and moved on. A third pulse struck his chest, stronger than the last, different somehow. Thomas opened his eyes, puzzled that there had been no accompanying sound of thunder, no prelude of lightning. Pain pierced his lungs, as if the air he breathed had alchemized into something powdery and rough, toxic and thirsty. The agony spread. He couldn't stop it. Every cell in his body pulled at the poison, needing it, expecting it to provide oxygen as before. His muscles contracted violently. Thomas hit the floor, landing on his side, already doubled over. His muscles tightened further, curling him into a fetal position, painfully tight. He felt like all moisture had been sucked from his body and mind, dehydrating him where he lay. Something thumped beside him--Manuel dropping to his knees. Thomas feared being touched. He might crumble into dust. The next gust of wind would sweep him across the floor, where he'd settle into the cracks between the floorboards, forever a part of his grandfather's house. But Manuel's touch was warm and comforting. "Thomas," Manuel whispered. "What's going on?" Thomas's muscles released him from the ball of flesh he'd become. He expanded as his cells regenerated with moisture. A shiver shook him. His feet and hands went numb from cold. He couldn't stop trembling. He tried to push himself up, but his arms wouldn't support his weight. "Help me," he managed. Manuel's hands reached around him and pulled. This time Thomas made it to his feet. "Get me to my bed." Thomas's teeth chattered so violently that he had to repeat his command. As they passed the screen door, he glanced outside. Over the cottonwoods, dark gray clouds billowed and folded, chasing each other toward him like time-lapse photography. Dark lines twisted like threads in a pot of boiling water. They formed an image, a crude outline of a face that Thomas would never forget. A flash screeched across the sky, close. Its brilliance shot needles of pain through Thomas's eyes. Thunder shook the house. Thomas cried out with the exploding agony in his ears. return to top... Copyright © 2008 Keith Pyeatt