The Last Anasazi

By Ken Ellis

In the late 1200's the cliff dwellings of southwestern Colorado, now preserved as Mesa Verde National Park, were home to the flourishing Anasazi Indians. Mysteriously, the entire tribe disappeared except for one man. Now 700 years later, David Longbow questions why the Great Spirit has kept him alive in the white man's world. What is his destiny? Why were his tribe and his wife and son taken from him? When a demon known as Legion resurrects the Anasazi tribe as half human and half zombie and threatens to take back the land and David's life as well, David teams with an out-of-work L.A. private eye, a beautiful Navajo epidemiologist, a surly park ranger, and local police to fight against the forces of the underworld that threaten the park, the town of Mesa City, and the rest of the area. In a battle of good versus evil, only one can survive. This is an action thriller about murder and mayhem unleashed in the late 1960's played out against the beautiful backdrop of the Anasazi cliff dwellings.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ken Ellis
• Release date: Apr 12, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458018373

Ken Ellis

Ken Ellis was born and grew up in the small North Central Texas town of Mexia. He holds a business degree from Abilene Christian University and received his MBA from Southern Methodist University. His business career was spent as a contract negotiator with several of America's largest corporations and involved worldwide travel. He and his wife, their young son of four years, and their newborn daughter, moved to Saudi Arabia in the early 1980's and lived in the Eastern city of Dhahran for seven years where he was contract manager for the Saudi Consolidated Electric Company. He is retired from the Saudi Arabian Oil Company. Ken is a fifth generation Texan. His great- great-grandfather, George T. Wood, was the second governor of Texas from 1847 to 1849 and was a regimental colonel in the Mexican War. Ken enjoys writing, photography, sail planing, and working with his church. He and his wife live in Lebanon, Ohio so they can more easily dote on their three grandchildren.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Southwestern Colorado…Circa 1300

It was a cold star-lit night with a moon so large that he was sure he could touch it if only the mesa were a few feet higher. The time had come. He could wait no longer. His lonely heart ached as he picked up a burning stick from the dying camp fire and walked the thirty or so yards to where she lay. Sixty harvests had come and gone since her birth. They had shared the last forty. Shortly after darkness had smothered the last ray of light from the turquoise sky, he had gently lifted her from their bed and carried her to the pyre of spruce logs and sticks. Their bed had warmed them in the coldest winters when the world outside lay buried in a blanket of snow. It had gently cradled her when she had given birth to their only son, Yuma. Now, however, that bed was empty and cold. Slowly he raised the burning stick and touched it to the dry kindling that he had gathered that morning. It smoked and crackled and then burst into a small flame. Soon the pyre was consumed with bright yellow flames that danced and leapt high into the sky. His eyes followed the swirling smoke as it drifted upward.

As he gazed into the heavens, a shower of meteors plummeted to earth as though some god was scattering burning coals from a smoldering campfire. It was surely a sign he thought, but what did it mean? He didn’t know what the future held, and it really didn't matter. His world had just ended.

A lone figure stood undetected in the shadows of the cliff dwellings as the last of the glowing embers died one by one. He had been concealed there since the pyre had first burst into flame. He had wanted to stand by the man and offer him comfort as the fire lit up the sky, but he couldn’t. No, there had been too much pride and too much rage in his past to allow him to stand now on such sacred ground. And so he stood concealed, hiding his presence and hiding the shame that he had carried with him for most of his life. After the man had gone, he left the safety of the shadows and walked slowly to the charred remnants of the pyre. His mind was flooded with the memories of a time gone by, when he too, had loved this same woman. Now, she was gone, and he felt a sadness that he did not know he was capable of feeling. If only he had made other choices, things might be different now. But, he had made choices which had had severe consequences. It was too late to change that now. And so he turned and walked away, and the darkness of the night embraced him.

Chapter 1

Veterans Administration Hospital, Denver, Colorado

July 3, 2078

Madeline Johnson stared into the mirror of the brightly lit Ladies Room on the first floor of the V.A. Hospital. She shuddered at the sight of the unkempt person looking back at her. Even though she was dubbed a ‘looker’ by the young men when in her twenty’s, now at sixty-three, no one from her younger days would have recognized her. Overweight, slightly stooped, her once dark flowing mane now totally white and matted in knots from being unwashed for several days, Madeline was a caricature of her former self. As she reached into her purse for the Visine and flooded her red, puffy eyes, she cursed her ex-husband, Frank, who had once held the prominent title of editor of the Mountain Tribune.

Frank had promised her that they could retire when he reached fifty-five. They’d planned to buy a condo in Scottsdale for the winters and a cabin on Lake Dillon for the summers. But it had all been a lie, just like all the other lies he had told her during their twenty-five years of marriage. She had finally come to terms with the lies when he had cleaned out their joint savings account and run off with the blonde bimbo from the copy room. Good old gutless Frank. He hadn’t even had the courage to face her and tell her he was leaving. His twenties something trophy thing with the skinny legs and space between her ears had done that from a motel phone in Las Vegas. And so at forty-eight she had found herself having to work for a living for the first time in her adult life. She had an Associates Degree in technical writing, but no practical experience, as most of her married life had been devoted to volunteer work with the various Denver civic organizations. Yes, life with Frank had left her unprepared for life on her own.

She had learned quickly that who she thought were her friends, in fact, weren’t. All she had ended up with were acquaintances who pitied her. Her best friend had turned out to be Jim Beam; and he began consoling her daily until before long, she didn’t know night from day. She must have become an alcoholic in record time, she told herself, and she had done a magnificent job of it. Her salvation had come several months later when a former associate of Frank’s recognized her as she stumbled down the street and took her to a women’s shelter. It just wasn’t right what Frank had put her through, he had said.

The associate told the Tribune’s owner of her situation and he had offered her a job at the paper, but only if she cleaned up and stayed off the booze. She was surprised at her resolve to get sober. And it was only once in a great while that she would fall off the wagon and into the ditch. Last night had been one of those times. A homemade pity party for one, she called it. Hopefully, no one attending the July 4th party for some of the veterans would surmise that she had been stone drunk just a few hours earlier. She had listened to herself as she said ‘Good Morning’ to the doorman. It hadn’t sounded as though she had slurred the words, but Derek probably wouldn’t have heard her anyway. He was as old as Methuselah and deaf as a fencepost.

Her job at the Tribune for the most part meant that she covered the social events of the town’s ne’er do wells. There were the parties at the V.A. Hospital, the reading program at the Inner Faith Light House, coverage of the homeless shelters, the battered women’s shelters, all of the places that held society’s throwaways. She often felt like one of them. She had swum in the gutter once and almost drowned. She hadn’t liked it, but at least when she was drunk, she didn’t know and didn’t care about anything. That was the hardest part about being sober. You knew every second of every day exactly what your social status was; and she had considered hers to be the lowest level possible.

Finally, after cursing herself for regressing into the past, she pushed the large owlish frames up on her nose, picked up her briefcase and walked from the Ladies Room down the hallway to the dining room where several wheel chair patients were being served stale chocolate cake by candy stripers as old as she was.

How many different ways were there to write about cripples supposedly having a good time at a Fourth of July party? As disgusted with her life as she was, she couldn’t begin to imagine what it was like for a person’s world to be constrained by a metal chair with rollers that only moved when someone took the time and energy to move you. At least she still had her mobility and independence.

America hadn’t been in a real war since 2028 when it had dropped nukes on Beijing. She was only thirteen at the time and didn’t really remember too much about it except there had been heavy casualties on both sides. A great uncle had been killed in Moscow as U.S. forces invaded to help the Russians retake the city. The wounded had been shipped to V.A. Hospitals all over the U.S., and a large number had landed in Denver for treatment and rehab. Many of these poor souls were probably relics from that war. As many years as she had been coming to the hospital, she realized how little she knew of the men who called it home. She had always maintained a sanitary distance from them. Why should she get to know any of them? It was one of their species that had ruined her life. And so for the past fifteen years she had smiled, feigned an interest in how they were doing, taken a few pictures, eaten a bite or two of stale cake, laughed a little at the same old jokes, and pretty much run the same old story in the Personals section of the paper the next day. This particular gathering seemed no different than all the prior hospital parties she had attended.

As she gathered her things and prepared to leave, an older volunteer, whom she knew only as Clarence, motioned to her from across the room where he was mopping up spilled fruit punch. Miss Johnson, he said as he hailed her. Always calls me Miss Johnson she thought. Guess he never knew I was married once.

Miss Johnson, he said again as he ambled towards her and extended his hand in greeting. It’s so nice to see you again. The men really do enjoy you coming out and taking their pictures. But I wonder if you could do me a favor? Actually, the favor is for Reverend Tenne in Room 232.

And what might that favor be Clarence? she asked demurely.

Well, you see, the Reverend is bedridden. He has no family and never gets any visits, he said. And I thought, well, I thought that maybe you could just say hello, maybe take his picture and pretend that it will be in the paper. That is, if you wouldn’t mind.

No, I don’t mind. That’s just part of the job, she replied.

Thank you, thank you very much, said Clarence. I know he sure will appreciate it. He’s on the second floor in Room 232. You can just go on up when you’re ready. I told him earlier you might be able to come by, so he’s probably expecting you.

Thank you, Clarence, for committing my time.

Aw, don’t mention it, he said with a big smile. You’re more than welcome.

Swell thought Madeline. Now I have people helping me prolong my stay in a place that I didn’t want to be to begin with. Madeline found herself near the stairs and walked up the first flight. The stairwell door was marked with a sign that read 2nd Floor Hospice Care. Well, this little visit could take less time than I thought, she mused. The Nurse’s Station was quiet except for an aide who was engrossed in a copy of Sports Illustrated.

Excuse me, said Madeline. Can you tell me where a vet by the name of Tenne is? I’ve forgotten his room number.

Yes, ma’am, said the aide looking up from the magazine. That would be Reverend Tenne, and he’s in 232 just down the hall; take a right, second door on your right.

He doesn’t have any type of communicable disease, does he?

Oh, no ma’am, said the aide returning to his magazine.

One can’t be too careful, she assured herself. Hospice confinement could mean only one thing and it wasn’t good. She had often thought that when it came her time to meet her Maker, she hoped her passing would be quick, that she would not linger on, perhaps like the man she was about to meet. Her thoughts of death for Frank, however, envisioned a protracted period of pain and torment followed by an eternity in Hell where he would roast on a slow turning spit.

The door to Room 232 was cracked, but it didn’t appear that any lights were on. She knocked softly on the door. Reverend Tenne, she said. She paused for just a moment, and then turned to walk away thankful there had been no response.

Miss Johnson, called an all too familiar voice from the nearby elevator. Don’t go yet Miss Johnson. The Reverend probably didn’t hear you knock, and I know he surely would be disappointed if he didn’t get to visit with you,

Not as disappointed as me, she said as she turned to face him.

You just wait right here for a second until I tell him you’re here, he said as he pushed the door open and walked in.

From the hallway it was difficult to see within the darkened room. The smell of antiseptic was almost overpowering from where Madeline stood. As Clarence pulled the closed curtains open, sunlight flooded the room to reveal a frail, lifeless looking body lying in a bed. Only the head and shoulders were visible above the freshly starched sheets.

Reverend Tenne, whispered Clarence. The lady I was telling you about is here to take your picture. Clarence motioned for her to come in. Now, if you all will excuse me, I need to get back downstairs to the party.

When she reached the bed railing and looked at its occupant, her gaze was met with eyes set deeply within hollow sockets. Wrinkled lips formed a slight smile below a few straggly strands of hair that sprouted randomly on an otherwise bald head. A pencil thin arm wriggled out from under the sheet and extended a greeting through the railing.

Taking the withered hand in her own she said, Reverend Tenne, I’m Madeline Johnson from the Mountain Tribune. Clarence tells me that you would like to have your picture taken.

That would be mighty nice of you ma’am, he said with a raspy voice.

It’s my pleasure, she replied. Are there some children or grandchildren that you would like to receive some of the prints?

Oh, no ma’am. All my kids have done gone on to their eternal reward.

Well, then, why don’t you give me your best smile, and then I’ll just jot down a few facts about you for the paper. Ready, one, two, three; there, got it. Now, she said as she sat in a green cushioned chair near the bed and pulled out a small notebook, let’s have a few facts about you. May I have your full name, place of birth and date of birth?

My real name is Memphis Tennessee, but my friends nicknamed me Reverend as a boy because I always attended church. I was born in a rail car in Memphis. My mother was fifteen when she had me that summer. Soon after I was born, an old hobo found us and somehow got us to the hospital. I later learned that when my birth certificate was filled out, the nurse wrote down Memphis, Tennessee on the line where my name was supposed to go. And that’s the name I grew up with, he said as though he could remember back that far. When I got older, I shortened my last name to Tenne. It eliminated some of those questions as to how I got the name Tennessee.

And when were you born Reverend Tenne? she asked.

Well, thank you for asking ‘cause tomorrow’s my birthday. I was born on the Fourth of July in the year of our Lord 1942. And if the Good Lord lets the sun shine on me tomorrow, I’ll be one hundred and thirty-six years old, he said proudly.

One hundred and thirty-six years old? she asked hardly believing her ears.

Why, yes ma’am, I am. You act like you don’t believe me?

Well, she replied, "It’s just that,