Requiem

  Requiem

  An adventure story by Jim Moens

  Copyright © 2020 Jim Moens

  All rights reserved.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fiction. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the author.

  www.jimmoens.com

  Dedicated to all of the warriors out there who don’t give up.

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Revelation 17:8 KJV

  [8] The beast that thou sawest was, and is not; and shall ascend out of the bottomless pit, and go into perdition: and they that dwell on the earth shall wonder, whose names were not written in the book of life from the foundation of the world, when they behold the beast that was, and is not, and yet is.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Megan Schmidt rose just before the sun, as she normally did. She generally preferred to go on her runs before dawn. The air was cooler in the morning, of great benefit in mid-July; better still, the streets were nearly free of traffic.

  She stepped out onto the open front porch, closed her eyes, and took in some fresh morning air. She did a few cursory stretches, but her muscles were already loose. Besides, this was to be a more casual jog, not her normal full steam, push her limits sort of run. Moving meditation. Getting ready for tomorrow.

  She tied her long dark hair into a cursory ponytail. Let's go, she thought.

  Megan took her normal route, down her street then a left onto Pine. From there, she would make a sharp right once she reached 7th Avenue, which would take her straight to the Memorial Bridge, a construction of shining steel and concrete that straddled the Mississippi River. It was a commuter bridge, built sometime in the early 1950's, designed to take office workers to and from their downtown jobs. The engineers of the bridge thoughtfully created pedestrian walkways on each side. They were infrequently used, generally only by a few early morning or late evening runners.

  She stopped for a moment at the apex of the bridge, taking in the commanding view of the river and the two downtowns. She started going through a mental checklist of tomorrow's test.

  Katas? Know them by heart.

  Board-breaking? Got it.

  Sparring with everyone in class? No problem.

  Sparring with the instructor? Gulp.

  Her instructor, William Wilson, suggested she allow around four hours for the test. Her sparring session with him would come at the end. She wasn't sure if she'd be able to even move by that point, let alone punch or kick or even block.

  No. I can do this, Megan thought. I will crush that test. That black belt is mine.

  She smiled.

  “Are you ready then?”

  Megan turned in the direction of the voice. A man, clad in black from head-to-toe, stood a few feet away, his hands clasped in front of his chest. He was well-built and fully a foot taller than Megan's five-foot stature.

  Megan immediately felt an odd tension spreading throughout her body. “Ready for what?” she said.

  “Your test,” he said. “Your test tomorrow.” The man's face was calm, but at the same time severe, as if a reserve of steely rage bubbled just below the surface.

  Megan took a half step back. “And you are?”

  The man merely smiled. He dropped his arms to his sides and stepped towards Megan. She turned to run, but he was upon her quicker than she thought possible, his beefy arm firmly around her neck. She tried to yell, but to no avail. The only sound she could make was a weak, wheezing gasp. She clutched the man's forearm, trying to pull it away. He was too strong and she was fading way too fast.

  Megan wrapped her leg back around his and kicked forward. She elbowed him sharply in the ribs as she did so. The two fell back and she managed to tumble away. She stood and faced him, hoping for even a moment to catch her breath.

  The man stood, his face still impassive. He stepped towards her. Megan turned and drove a side kick into his abdomen. She followed up with no hesitation, jumping up with a snap kick to his jaw. He barely wavered and didn't go down. He spit some blood off the side of the bridge.

  Megan swung in with a punch, but he trapped her arm in his. He wrenched her arm back and forced her toward a guard rail. She could feel the crunch of her ribs giving way against the metal. The man pulled her back and slammed her head first into a support column.

  Megan crumpled to the ground, half-conscious. She touched her forehead with a shaking hand. Blood. The man crouched down.

  “I really don't think you're ready for your test, Megan,” he said. His voice was icy and smooth. He almost smiled as a bit of blood trickled from his mouth.

  Megan, her head spinning, could barely manage to form a sentence. “Who are you?” she said.

  The man's eyes narrowed. “Who I am doesn't matter,” he said as he reached down and grabbed Megan by the throat. “What I can do is what counts.”

  The man squeezed, harder, and Megan's vision began to fade. He stood, Megan's throat still in his hands. Suddenly, headlights approached. The man turned slightly and tossed Megan off the bridge. She didn't scream, at least not so loud that anyone could hear. She slammed into the river and sank like a stone.

  Stan hated going into work this early, but someone had to update the weekly financial reports. Normally the deadline was 10 am, but an 8 am meeting changed that. Oh well. Solitary, uninterrupted work time wouldn't be so bad, nor would a little overtime.

  He turned his head as he steered onto the bridge, hoping to catch a glimpse of the sun coming up over the six-story towers of downtown. He instead saw someone standing on the pedestrian walkway. A runner, probably; stopping for a moment's rest. The figure suddenly jerked to one side and went off of the bridge.

  Stan slammed on the brakes as hard as he could. “Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit,” he said, breathless. He got out of his truck and sprinted to where he saw the person fall. He took a deep breath and looked straight down. Ripples issued from the point of impact. He could see bubbles. He suddenly wished he hadn't left his cell phone at home with his wife.

  Doug Schmidt sleepily looked at the clock next to his bed. 8:12. Megan normally pulled him out of bed the moment she returned home from her run, but apparently not today. She would generally spend a little time with him each morning, helping him with his technique and form. She was, after all, almost a black belt. Doug started his martial arts studies well after Megan did, so he had just gotten his green belt, a few steps below her. He suspected that even if they had started at the same time, Megan would still be far ahead of him. She certainly had loads of determination and discipline, plus a strong affinity for the martial arts. Mister Wilson even spoke of her becoming an assistant instructor, an honor previously only bestowed upon his son Nate. Megan was especiall
y skilled with the sword and her twin katanas were among her prized possessions. She had taught Doug much of what she knew about the blade as well.

  Doug didn't mind missing his morning session this time, as Megan had a great deal on her mind. Her black belt test was slated for the very next day. Whatever the case, it was past time to get out of bed. His computer programming class was at nine and Doug didn't want to miss it. He was up for straight A's in his summer school classes, and his instructor counted attendance very heavily when determining grades.

  Doug stood and stretched, working out the kinks of several hours of sleep. He thought about pumping out some pushups, but no time. Quick breakfast, a shower, and then off to class.

  The microwave beeped. The cinnamon-raisin oatmeal was hot and ready. Doug opened the microwave and dug in, not even pausing to sit at the table with his father, Dale.

  Dale looked up at his son. “Sit down,” he said. “You'll digest better.”

  Dale Schmidt. Yet another in the proud line of Schmidt males with first names that began with a “D”. It had become something of a tradition, beginning even before Doug's Great-Great-Grandfather Desmond. Doug hoped he would one day only have female children. He thought the only decent name left to him was Dylan, which he refused to use, in large part because of Dylan Henderson, the creep who tortured and bullied him from third grade through sixth.

  There was a loud rap at the front door. Dale lowered his newspaper and sighed.

  “I can get it,” Doug offered.

  Dale shook his head as he stood. “You need to get ready for school,” he said. Doug took his last spoonful of oatmeal and proceeded to rinse his bowl out.

  Doug heard the front door creak open followed by a murmur of voices. Then Dale, loudly and sharply:

  “Karen!”

  Doug, curious, watched from the kitchen. A limp-looking Dale was flanked by two police officers. Their mother, Karen, just dressed for her work as a legal assistant, stopped as she reached the bottom stair. She knew. Somehow she knew. She placed a hand over her mouth and her whole body began to shake. Dale stepped forward and reached for her. She pulled away with a yell. The two police officers looked down.

  Somehow Doug knew too. He braced himself against the kitchen doorway. Not Megan. Not Megan. It can't be Megan.

  “Dad?” Doug said, his voice shaking, barely loud enough to carry.

  Dale turned towards Doug, tears running down his face. It occurred to Doug that he had never seen his father cry before.

  Louder this time. “Dad? What happened?”

  Dale turned back towards Karen. Her legs had all but given out and one of the police officers helped her down gently, to sit on the bottom stair. She buried her face in her hands. Dale knelt down in front of his wife and gently stroked her hand. Again, she pulled away.

  “What happened?” Doug said again and no one heard.

  A passerby had caught a glimpse of Megan going head first off the bridge. He flagged down another motorist, a young woman who fortunately happened along just moments later. She also fortunately had her mobile phone with her. The police were on hand almost as quickly. They were able to deploy their search and rescue boat within the half hour and a diver found Megan's body after only twenty minutes of searching.

  Megan's suicide was a complete shock to everyone. She was always happy. Always full of life and zest and ambition. There was no note left behind. No clues and no discernible reason for jumping off that bridge.

  Days passed that seemed like weeks. There was the visitation and then the funeral, attended by more people than Doug had ever seen in one place, save for school assemblies. Mister Wilson gave the family a black belt, the very same one he planned to give to Megan. “She earned this,” he said as he handed it to Doug. They chose to bury Megan with the belt next to her.

  Weeks passed that seemed like months. The family settled into a silent but more or less functional routine. Doug returned to school, with assurances that his recent absences would not impact his grades. There was only a week left in summer school, so he stuck it out, but was considering not returning in the fall. A semester off might not be a bad idea. His heart just wasn't in it at the moment.

  There was a knock at the front door one Sunday evening in late September. Doug opened the door to reveal William Wilson.

  “Doug,” he said, “how have you been?”

  “Okay, I guess,” Doug replied.

  “Who is it?” Karen said from the living room.

  “It's Mister Wilson,” Doug replied. He looked at his instructor... African-American, powerfully built; with an open, genial nature. “I'll be back in a few.”

  Doug stepped out the door and gestured towards the sidewalk. The two walked silently for a minute. Doug sighed.

  “You look like her, you know?” Wilson finally said. “It's the eyes, I think.”

  Doug nodded. He was reminded of his sister every time he looked in a mirror.

  “How's your mom and dad doing?”

  Doug searched for the right words. Nobody had really been paying much attention to anyone else.

  “They're okay, I guess,” Doug said. “They're... they're Dale and Karen, you know?”

  Wilson rubbed his chin. “So have you been thinking about coming back to class?”

  Doug knew this wasn't about getting his monthly class fee. Wilson was never that mercenary.

  “I don't know,” Doug said. “I want to, for sure, but...”

  Doug knew Megan's ghost would be in every corner of Wilson's Academy of Martial Arts. She was with him at virtually every class he attended there. She mentored Doug through each of his belt tests. She was his instructor just as much as Mister Wilson was.

  “I can't now,” Doug said.

  Wilson put a gentle hand on Doug's shoulder.

  “I understand,” he said, his deep voice gentle and quiet. “You know that you can always come by if you feel like a workout. Deal?”

  Doug nodded. “Deal,” he said. He even managed a tight smile.

  Wilson extended his hand. They shook.

  “Call me if you need anything,” Wilson said, “anything at all.”

  “I will,” Doug replied.

  “I hope you'll come back one day,” Wilson said. “You've got potential.”

  “I will,” Doug assured him. “You can count on it.”

  Doug watched as Wilson turned and walked away. He hated to lie to the man, but he knew he'd never be back.

  CHAPTER TWO

  TEN YEARS LATER

  Kiron dug his fingers into the fine sand and somehow managed to pull himself up to the crest of the dune. He could see, not so far away, the oasis... a halo of trees surrounding a walled village, the spire of the Empress' castle rising high above the stone walls. A four-winged dragon flew overhead and landed atop the castle, surveying the village below. Kiron thought for a moment how strange it was that this lush paradise had sprung up in the middle of an unforgiving desert that stretched from one end of the continent to another... then the obvious answer struck him. Only the darkest of magics could have produced something like this.

  He closed his visor, grateful for the protection from the heat. His armor, sleek and light, had certainly been his saving grace two days ago, when he was caught in a raging sandstorm that lasted for hours on end... a storm that had claimed the life of his own smaller, flightless dragon steed. The storm had almost doubled the length of his journey, but that was not his primary concern. He had a mission. He had a singular purpose... and it was in sight.

  Kiron stood before the enormous wooden door, more than three times his height. The door was the only way in or out of the village compound. He reached back and felt for his two swords. He knew they would still be secure in their scabbards, both strapped to his back, yet somehow felt compelled to check. He knocked once, then twice. He knocked again. Nothing, even as he could hear the buzz of life and commerce within.

  “Who goes there?” Kiron heard from behind the wall.

  “I am the w
arrior Kiron, of the clan Koshira. I request an audience with her eminence to discuss the terms of a truce.”

  Suddenly the door shuddered and Kiron could hear the grinding mechanical sound of gears and chains. The door began to lift, slowly at first, and Kiron could see he was faced with what he guessed to be the imperial guard. A phalanx of eight warriors, all in armor with a passing similarity to his own. The lead warrior, in rather more elaborate and adorned armor than the others, bowed almost imperceptibly towards Kiron, who returned the gesture in kind.

  “Step forward,” came a deep voice. Kiron guessed it was the lead warrior speaking. He took a few steps through the threshold. He could hear the door begin to lower behind him.

  “Come with us,” the warrior said. The group broke formation and surrounded Kiron. They began the short march to the castle.

  The village was alive with all manner of activity. There were beggars and merchants, dwarves and trolls. The village appeared to have a very active economy trading in spells, potions, the occasional mystical weapon, and even an enchanted animal or two. Kiron saw two old men haggling over the price of a riding dragon, much like the one he had lost in the sandstorm. They passed by what appeared to be some sort of open air school. A group of young children were sharpening their writing skills by tracing glowing cuneiforms in the air. Nearby a group of young men were getting instruction in the art of the sword from a grizzled, bearded old man. This was all in stark contrast to Kiron's own village, a place on the cusp of desolation that had been on the receiving end of one too many violent raids by rival clans. It was true that their warriors were still strong and food was still abundant for the moment, but the constant battles and subsequent rebuilding had taken their toll and made his village a weary and gray place much of the time.

  They reached yet another door, this one at the base of the tower.

  “Open,” the lead warrior said, and like before, the door raised slowly and they entered. The room was vast and very nearly empty. The light within was dim... there were no windows, the only illumination provided by a line of torches on the wall and the light coming in from the open door. Kiron could barely discern someone seated on a throne on the other side of the room. The door slid shut behind them, making the room darker yet.