The Fourth Step: Survival of the Noblest: A Novel

By Edward R. Hungerford

Johnny Drummer is a brilliant trial attorney and Vietnam vet living in Houston. On the outside, Johnny appears successful. But on the inside, Johnny is wrestling with discontent. After deciding it is time to follow his heart, Johnny develops a new plan for his life and leaves for Peru.

Soon after his arrival, Johnny befriends Enrique Taurus, a bull of a man with a mysterious past who invites him on lively adventures in the Amazon jungle. When a British archaeologist summons the friends to Guyana without explanation, they willingly travel to learn what he wants: help finding a lost Atlantean colony and the reason for the 1925 disappearance of famous explorer, Colonel Percy Fawcett. But not long after Professor Troy, Johnny, and their guide, Bull, embark on new jungle adventures, they are attacked by native headhunters. After being rescued by aliens, Johnny learns he has been chosen to defend the human race from extinction. Despite the odds against him, Johnny enters the game with only one goal: to win.

In this sci-fi adventure, an eccentric attorney partners with an old archeologist to defend human history as Earth awaits a chance for change.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Nov 6, 2015
• ISBN: 9781491779965

Edward R. Hungerford

Edward R. Hungerford practiced law for over twenty-five years. Now retired, he is an amateur archaeologist who has studied the mysteries of the Amazon jungle that include the disappearance of the famous explorer, Colonel Percy Fawcett, and the history of the Inca pyramids and the mysterious Bolivian ruins of Puma Punku.

Book preview

Part 1

HOBO’S STORY TRAIN

Chapter 1

DRUMBEAT FOR CHANGE

If a man does not keep pace with his companions,

perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer.

Let him step to the music he hears,

however measure or far away.

—Henry Thoreau

Johnny Drummer walked hurriedly toward the courthouse. His thoughts were on the business of the day. The noisy crowd moved around him like a restless herd of cattle. At the intersection of San Jacinto and Main, the light changed to red, and the crowd impatiently waited for green.

Across the street, Johnny Drummer noticed a man sitting on the curb tying his shoelaces while whistling a happy tune. The man’s curious attire told Drummer that he was not the ordinary bum from the Star of Hope Mission down the street. With that neckerchief tied in a bow around a garden hoe, he looked to be a throwback to the classic hobo of the early railroad days.

The traffic light changed to green, and the anxious crowd rushed toward their nine-to-five urban time. In their hurried pace, they ignored the hobo’s friendly face. Yet Drummer found his smile refreshing. Thus, he stepped aside to let the crowd rush by.

The contrast between the clownish rat race and the calm demeanor of the hobo amused Drummer. The crowd stampeded like a herd of Texas longhorns, but the hobo sat calmly enjoying the pleasant spring morning.

Drummer hadn’t noticed the weather until he saw the smile on the hobo’s face. Drummer envied him. The hobo might not have a dime in his pocket, but he spent time like a millionaire. And as Drummer walked by, the hobo removed his dark glasses and winked. His sparkling blue eyes seemed to say, It’s time. It’s time.

After reaching the courthouse, Drummer pushed into the packed elevator with the others. And, like the others, he watched the monitor count the floors. Yet his thoughts were of a different kind. He wondered how that hobo could be so happy at this time. Most of the world would judge him a failure, yet he seemed perfectly content with his life.

Most of the world would judge Johnny Drummer a success, but he wasn’t really content with his life. And he didn’t have the free time to enjoy the beautiful springtime. His life had become a mindless routine in motion. Somehow, as time went by, he’d been herded into the wasteland’s corral with all the other stockyard cows.

Johnny Drummer happened to be a brilliant trial attorney with all the material trophies of a successful person. Yet he envied the hobo’s free time. As his thoughts wandered through the shadows of his mind, he heard a distant drumbeat calling him to step to a tune of a different kind. He’d heard that tune before, but its volume had dimmed with the passing of time.

After concluding his business at the courthouse, he relaxed in the after-hour silence of his office. His thoughts were of the freedom possessed by a hobo. In the past, it had been difficult for Drummer to march to society’s drumbeat. In life’s parade, he always heard a faraway tune measured by a different pace.

Yet in his case, he stepped to the same tune as those of his generation. The wasteland’s drumbeat marched him to high school, the Marine Corps, and law school, all resulting in a workaholic yuppie who valued material success over the freedom possessed by a hobo. Yet at this time, for some reason, that faraway drumbeat returned. And this time, it seemed to say, It’s time for a change of pace.

Sitting at his desk, Drummer pulled out a legal pad and asked a simple question: Was living in a big city like Houston what he really wanted to do for the rest of his life? He’d asked that question before, but the answer never seemed clear. But this time he heard a tune measured in an easy pace. And this time it seemed to say, It’s time. It’s time.

Without hesitation, he started writing his future plans. First, he’d sell his belongings and deposit the money into a retirement account. The account would have an agreement to transfer some funds each month to a bank in Peru. He figured that way he’d live comfortably as a carefree beach bum for a number of days.

All his life, Drummer had let society define success for him. But this time he decided to define happiness according to his terms and those of the hobo. This time, he decided, it was time to step to the music of his heartbeat. This time it was time to experience being alive instead of existing only in the inauthentic wasteland of society’s illusion of life.

Next, Drummer wrote down his funeral plans. When the money ran out, so would the music. Yet the pale horse of death never bothered him. Just the process of dying concerned him. He figured that when his time came, he’d ride the westbound on down the line to whatever lay behind. He liked the idea of choosing his time for saying good-bye instead of leaving it to accident, disease, or old age. He’d always been a gambler, but death was something he preferred not to leave to chance.

Long ago, while vacationing in Peru, he’d learned how to make a lethal dose of an old pain remedy called laudanum. It caused a painless sleep that resulted in euthanasia—the good death. He called his farewell cocktail of opium and alcohol quietus. It meant quiet departure. Thus, to answer life’s proverbial question To be or not to be? he preferred the answer to be what he decided it to be.

The idea of a Viking funeral appealed to him. It was the warrior’s journey to Valhalla—the Viking heaven. Therefore, he planned to buy a sailboat after he got to Peru, to explore the area. Then, when the time came for his final departure, he’d sail west into the sunset, listen to music, and peacefully sip a quietus cocktail.

Still, to complete his Viking funeral plan, he needed an incendiary timing device to set the boat on fire. Of course, he couldn’t take something like that through customs, but he figured he could find it on the black market of Peru. Anyway, he’d tie that loose end another day.

Finally, Drummer leaned back in his chair. He felt a sense of freedom in the air, as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. This time the drum beat in time with his heart. And this time the music measured an easy step that seemed to say, It’s time. It’s time.

Chapter 2

THE GREEN BODHI TREE

I wished to live deliberately … and

see if I could learn what [life] had to teach,

and not when I came to die, discover that I had not lived.

—Henry Thoreau

Drummer’s sudden departure surprised his law partners. However, they were aware of his post-traumatic stress from the Vietnam War, and they knew of his sadness over the death of his wife. Yet this irrational behavior appeared quite unusual, even for Drummer.

After completing all arrangements, Drummer simply told his associates good-bye and left for Peru. They all thought he’d lost his mind. But, of course, they wouldn’t understand the mind of the hobo either. To them, the happy expression on Drummer’s face indicated an abnormal state of mind. Like St. Francis of Assisi said, a truly happy man will appear strange to the world, Drummer thought.

It might seem strange that he decided to spend his time in Peru. Yet to Drummer, it made sense. He’d vacationed there and enjoyed the beauty of the beaches. And he felt at peace there.

After acquiring the visa papers that he needed, he rented a small hut on the beach near a little fishing village outside of Lima. He named his new home Walden Pond. That name confused the natives in the village since there was no pond in the area and the hut faced the ocean.

Nevertheless, after getting settled, Drummer got down to some serious beach bumming. He bought a sailboat and named it the Viking. Of course, no one in the village realized that the sailboat served as a burial plot, nor did they understand the meaning of Tennyson’s poem over the captain’s cabin.

Sunset and evening star,

And one clear call for me!

And may there be no moaning of the bar,

When I put out to sea.

Drummer spent a lot of time sailing around the area. While sailing, he sat under a green canvas umbrella that he jokingly referred to as his Bodhi tree. Since Buddha had found enlightenment while sitting under a Bodhi tree, Drummer hoped to do the same.

By living deliberately and following his bliss, he hoped to discover the essential facts of life. Before he died, he wondered why he had lived. And like a lot of his generation, he asked those midlife questions, such as What’s it all about? and Is this all there is?

The villagers considered him a strange Anglo. Yet they liked him and invited him to their village celebrations. In turn, Drummer liked the people. However, he stayed pretty much to himself. He’d been advised that the best way to get along with the villagers was to drink wine with the men but leave the village women alone.

Drummer enjoyed his solitude, yet he’d never been one to live like a monk. Being a handsome guy, he had a natural charm for the ladies. His tall, muscular build and relaxed manner conveyed an air of confidence, not cocky, but a seductive grace of presence. Thus, he spent a lot of his evenings at the Crazy Parrot Bar, enjoying the company of ladies of the evening.

Although a loner, he enjoyed a home with a woman’s touch. Still, he realized that a stranger needed to be careful about being too friendly with the village girls. Therefore, he negotiated an arrangement with one of the families. He agreed to support their youngest daughter if she would be his housekeeper.

Although a homely little girl, Drummer liked her friendly smile. She had a pudgy, round face and warm puppy eyes. Furthermore, it was obvious she liked Drummer. Every chance she got, she’d run over to Walden Pond to listen to him play his guitar and sing American songs like Home on the Range and Don’t Fence Me In.

She never complained, but Drummer noticed the bruises that appeared on her face from time to time. Her father drank too much and obviously treated her badly. A daughter who couldn’t attract a husband became a burden to the family. And if a daughter didn’t earn her keep, she had no value. But if she brought money to the family, she gained respect. Therefore, according to village custom, Drummer paid the father for the daughter’s work. The bruises stopped.

Her name was Maria, but Drummer nicknamed her Little Sugar because of her sweet disposition. He treated her with kindness, and she did everything she could to make him comfortable. To her, he appeared as a gallant knight who had rescued her from the dragon in her life. And she accepted him as a white knight who liked to spend dark nights in the company of ladies of the night.

Drummer liked to gamble, and he liked the ladies. The Crazy Parrot Bar offered both. And as it happened, that was where he met Enrique Taurus, also known affectionately as Bull. Although a bull of a man, Enrique moved with the grace of a matador. The chiseled features of his suntanned face bolstered his dark Latin eyes.

Bull loved to ramble and gamble. Thus, he and Drummer hit it off like two birds of a feather. They’d go on treks into the Amazon for weeks at a time. And no one knew the jungle like Bull.

Being an easygoing sort of guy, Bull lived by the code of the Amazon. As long as a person didn’t lay an unfriendly hand on him, he’d not place an unfriendly knife in them. Among Bull’s many talents was his skill with a knife. He could throw and fight with a knife better than anyone Drummer had seen. With a knife in his hand, Bull matched the jaguar.

One day, Drummer got a firsthand look at Bull’s ability with a knife. A big, ugly scar-faced stranger roared into the bar. His snake eyes glared evil, and it was obvious he’d been drinking long before he got to the bar.

After slapping one of the working girls off a bar stool, the scar-faced stranger made a bad mistake. When Bull went to help her up, the stranger laid an unfriendly hand on him. Instinctively, Bull knocked it away. The stranger laughed and threw a punch. Bull ducked and moved away.

The stranger made another mistake. He shouted, Come here, you half-breed son of a bitch!

Those words caused an audible moan in the bar. After that, everyone got quiet. No one dared call Bull that name. Then the stranger raised the stakes and made another mistake. He pulled out a knife and threatened Bull’s life.

Such a threat was not taken lightly in this area. Once made, the code of the land required a man to take a stand. It wasn’t a question of honor but survival. The police couldn’t be depended on for protection. In this land, survival required a man to fight or flee, and might decided who was right.

The bartender grabbed a pistol from behind the bar and shouted, Get the hell out of my bar, you scar-faced bastard!

Bull and the stranger walked out into the dusty street. Then Scarface turned and said, You’re that bastard son of Juan Taurus, aren’t you? I’ve heard you’ve been looking for me.

At those words, Bull’s eyes flashed with the rage of a wild bull. Then suddenly, Scarface slashed at Bull’s neck. Bull stepped back and cut the stranger’s arm with a snakelike strike. Again, Scarface lunged at Bull with an overhead chopping attack. Bull dodged with the skill of a matador and struck the arm.

As they circled around, blood dripped on the ground from the stranger’s arm. Gradually, the seemingly minor cuts started to take effect. The poison on the tip of Bull’s knife attacked his nervous system. Keeping a piece of cotton soaked in snake venom in a knife’s sheath was a trick he’d learned from a native chief. Thus, while the stranger extended his arm to strike Bull’s body, Bull concentrated on the arm. Any good knife fighter knows that the closer target, the better the target.

While they circle around, Bull shifted his knife from hand to hand, and the stranger watched like a drunken man. Then Scarface made another mistake. He shouted, Now, you bastard, I’ll give you what I gave your father!

Bull’s eyes flashed red with hate. Then he waved his knife above his head. And for a split second, the stranger’s eyes looked up. Simultaneously, Bull pulled a knife from his boot and whirled it like he was pitching a softball. It landed in the stranger’s heart. He moaned, spit blood, and fell in the dirt with a groan.

Bull stood there breathing heavily. A snorting sound flared his nostrils. Adrenaline convulsed his muscles into a quivering mass of rage. His eyes glared. He kicked the bastard in the head. Then, suddenly, he turned, walked away, and disappeared down the causeway.

That night, when the police finally came, the scar-faced body still lay in the dirt, and no one remembered his name. As fate would have it, however, the stranger turned out to be a notorious assassin suspected of killing a number of political officials in the past.

The police asked a few questions but didn’t seem all that interested in finding out who had killed the scar-faced assassin. They left without even asking Drummer any questions. Unfamiliar with the country’s code of vendetta, Drummer naively assumed the matter had gone away.

Still, he wondered about it. The whole affair seemed bizarre, like a duel in the sun with blood in the sand. Yet he never asked Bull why he became so enraged at what the stranger had said about his father. Some things were better left alone.

As a matter of fact, Drummer noticed that no one talked about it. In this area, it wasn’t a good idea to ask too many questions. Most people