by J. Blanes
Copyright © 2014 J. Blanes
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 149737586X
ISBN 13: 9781497375864
Library of Congress Control Number: 2014905369
CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform
North Charleston, South Carolina
Any good chess game develops roughly through three main stages:
The Opening, where the pieces are introduced into the game and enemy lines are harassed before they develop into a strong position.
The Middlegame, where strategies are decided and tactics unfold to place the pieces on their optimal posts for their final attack.
The Endgame, where strategies are brought to conclusion with a merciless attack against enemy defenses, sometimes sacrificing important pieces. Sound strategies end in victorious checkmate, flawed ones in crushing defeat.
…and not even they, able to travel from side to side of the universe, knew until recently about the existence of that powerful and mysterious civilization…
…I now find ironic that they who detest wars the most were ultimately responsible for the worst wars ever witnessed in our universe, the Portal Wars…
—Excerpts from Keira’s lost notebook
CONTENTS
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY ONE
ONE
Keira leaned forward in her chair and buried her face in her hands. She was at the hospital beside her friend’s bed, where he was lying after being in a car accident. It was her fault, and she was having trouble coping with the guilt.
If only she had listened to him.
It had all started at the university where she studied journalism. She was a junior and very ambitious. Some students seemed satisfied to cover minor events for their writing projects, and others not even that. Keira was different; she wanted something big right from the start. Everybody told her that even accomplished journalists might never get their big story. How could she dream of finding one without having even begun her career? Keira didn’t listen to them. The competition was fierce, and jobs were increasingly scarce, but she felt that she had the talent and skills to find and write the story that would make her a recognizable face in the news business, maybe even catapult her to stardom.
The solution to the problem of finding the right story had fallen into her hands two weeks ago, almost by accident. Keira had been studying late in the university’s main library without realizing the time. When she became aware of it, it was almost midnight, and she felt uneasy. She should have never stayed that late alone. She knew the area surrounding the library would be deserted and had heard stories about drug addicts robbing students, in some cases with violence.
The library stayed open all night, and there were still several people inside. Keira wondered if she should wait for somebody to finish and go with her, but she discarded that possibility; it could be hours before that happened. She almost asked the librarian to call the campus police to escort her, but she felt ashamed of herself for being so paranoid; she was blowing things out of proportion.
Keira took the elevator to the lobby and left by the building’s front entrance. It was a moonless night, cold and dark, and she adjusted her scarf around her neck. The thought of the icy water running in the square fountain in front of her made her shiver. She looked around and saw that, as she’d expected, the place was completely empty. She started walking but stopped at the edge of the square, just on top of the stone stairs leading down to the sidewalk, and looked ahead. The road was poorly illuminated, and the background of leafless trees added a sense of eeriness to the place. There were no people, no cars, just the perfect setting for a low-budget horror movie. “Better and better,” she whispered.
She descended the stairs and started walking toward the parking garage. It was about a half-mile walk, a short distance during the day when lots of people and movement diverted her attention from the walk. However, at this time of night, with nothing to see except contorted branches and the occasional piece of debris on the sidewalk, it felt like the parking garage was at the other side of town. She involuntarily increased her pace.
Keira was about halfway to her destination when she heard voices. She couldn’t see beyond the road’s curve about twenty feet ahead of her, so she stopped and focused on listening. She heard the voices again, and her survival instincts were yelling at her to start running back, and fast, when two people emerged around the curve. Two young students, a boy and a girl, appeared giggling and smiling—definitively not the scary mugger she was expecting. It was just a romantic couple trying to escape the world and engaged in their loving activities. The couple chuckled as they walked past her without even realizing that she was there like a frozen statue; it was obvious that they only had eyes for each other.
Now she really felt like a fool. “Idiot,” she said to herself. “Enjoy the night, look at the stars, appreciate the silence—everything is as perfect as it could be.” She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and reminded herself that in order to be a great journalist she would need to discard her pathetic fears once and for all. With her confidence and determination restored, she resumed her walk, forcing herself to slow her pace.
Minutes later, she was arriving at the edge of the small park between the library and the parking garage, which was already visible a few more yards ahead. As she approached it, she looked at the empty parking booth and remembered that a few days ago the parking administration had replaced the booth employees with automated payment machines. She approached the one she had seen that morning before leaving the garage.
She looked inside her bag for the ticket. I’ve got to clean this thing out someday, she thought after finding the ticket hidden under a pile of things; she didn’t even remember why she carried most of them. She tried inserting the ticket in the corresponding slot, but the machine didn’t accept it. Perhaps she had inserted the ticket in the wrong slot, but then she saw the note attached to the machine, hanging in front of her eyes: “Out of Order. Use the machine located at t—” A piece of the note had been torn up, and the message was incomplete, but it was clear that this machine was broken and she should find the other one.
She looked around. The lower level was almost empty, with only a few scattered cars parked here and there. She examined the walls for any indicator or signal that would point to the other machine location, but she didn’t see one. She walked sideways past the parking booth so she could more clearly see the other side of the garage. Then, a scream from behind startled her. She turned around just in time to see a car screeching away with its taillights turned off.
Wondering what all this was about, Keira walked to the middle of the road. The car had disappeared already, and only the sound of its engine could be heard on the distance. No lights, what were they thinking? she wondered, but she dismissed the whole episode, as it was probably kids from some drunken party, screaming and laughing for whatever reason they were celebrating.
Until she saw the body.
It was the body of a young woman, probably another student. She was lying on the road in an unnatural, contorted position, and blood was ev
erywhere. Keira knew the body hadn’t been there when she’d arrived earlier that evening and realized the car must have hit her and gotten away.
She gasped in horror and started running toward the body, but in her haste, she tripped over the curb, falling forward. Stupid, she reprimanded herself, what are you doing? She felt a sharp pain in her left wrist, but she dismissed it in frustration and got up. She forced herself to calm down and think. With her right hand, she found her phone in the bag and dialed 911. After the call, she approached the young woman and looked at her. She wasn’t moving, and Keira wondered whether she was alive. Still in shock, she sat on the curb and waited.
After just a few minutes, an ambulance arrived escorted by a police car. Two paramedics got out and approached the young woman. To Keira’s relief, she overheard the paramedics say that she was breathing and had a pulse. Seconds later, more cars followed, and the police quickly secured the scene. From Keira’s 911 call, they already knew it was the scene of a hit-and-run. Soon, the whole area was flooded by red and blue flashing lights and a swarm of law-enforcement people scanning the area.
“Are you the one who called 911?”
The voice came from above her. Keira was still sitting on the curb, holding her painful wrist in her right hand, lost in her thoughts. “What?” she said absentmindedly.
“Nine-one-one, are you the one who called?” the police officer asked again.
Keira raised her head, noticing for the first time the officer standing in front of her. “Uh, yes, yes, I did,” she said.
“OK, please, wait here,” the officer told her. He was about to turn around when he noticed the pain on her face. “Are you hurt?”
“I…I fell,” Keira said, a little embarrassed. “It’s nothing, just a bruise. My wrist hurts a little.”
The officer was nice enough to call for a paramedic. After a quick examination, the paramedic told her that nothing seemed to be broken. It was probably just a strained wrist, but he recommended she get it checked by a doctor. He gave her some painkillers and bandaged the wrist. He also gave her a blanket before leaving.
Meanwhile, the other paramedics secured the woman on a stretcher and carried her into the ambulance. Keira was staring at them when the same nice officer from before approached her. “A detective is on his way here and would like to ask you a few questions,” the officer informed her.
“No problem,” Keira replied distractedly. She was dying to get home, take a shower, and get some rest, but she understood the importance of telling the cops everything she knew, so she patiently waited for the detective to come.
The detective arrived twenty minutes later and introduced himself as Detective Powell. Keira guessed he was in his late fifties and married, because of the ring, and that he smoked cigars, because of the smell. He was thoughtful enough to inquire about her wrist and made sure she was comfortable before asking any questions.
“Please, tell me what you saw,” the detective began.
Keira described the events as she remembered them, with all the facts exactly as they happened, as any good journalist witness would do. She spoke slowly, trying to remember every detail, but in the end, the only helpful details she could give the detective were the car’s type and color.
“Just one last thing,” the detective said. “I’ll need a contact number.”
Keira gave him her phone number.
The detective glanced at her wrist. “Do you need help getting home?”
“Oh, no, it’s nothing,” Keira replied. “I can manage.”
“OK, then, thank you,” the detective said before leaving.
Keira left soon after. Another police officer accompanied her to her car, and she drove home with the images of the young woman’s body etched in her mind.
The last thing she remembered from that night was getting home and falling asleep the instant she touched her bed.
The effects of the painkillers faded away, and the pain woke her up early the next morning. It was Saturday, and Keira had decided to stay home and rest, but the pain forced her to visit a hospital. There, they confirmed the paramedic’s diagnosis; it was a strained wrist. They compressed the wrist with a bandage and gave her anti-inflammatory painkillers, with orders to rest the wrist for the next forty-eight hours.
For the rest of the day, Keira did what she did best: writing. Because of her wrist and all the bandages that covered most of her left hand, she could only type with her right, but she got used to it and was soon typing at a moderate speed. Last night’s events had provided the perfect story, but the more she kept thinking about them, the more questions piled up in her mind. Who was that young woman? Why hadn’t the driver stopped? Who was in the car? She was sure there had been more than one person inside. These were gaping holes in her story, and her frustration slowly built. She had started writing as a simple practice to hone her reporting skills, but when she decided to take her first break, she realized that she had been sitting for almost four straight hours. During the break, she called her mother and Keira found herself talking for hours about the incident while her mother listened patiently. In the end, she decided to follow her mother’s advice of getting out of the house and distract her mind with something else. She took a refreshing shower and went shopping until her feet hurt. When she returned home, she was so exhausted that she didn’t remember when she felt asleep.
Sunday began bright and sunny but extremely cold outside. The ring tone Keira had selected for Dylan’s calls woke her up. She rubbed her eyes and looked at the time. It was noon already. She answered the phone.
“What the hell happened?” Dylan sounded worried and angry. “Why didn’t you call me this morning?”
Because of the events, the painkillers, and everything else, Keira had forgotten her plans with him. They were supposed to go hiking earlier today. “I’m sorry, OK? I needed some rest and I forgot about it,” she excused herself. Then, without pause, she briefly explained him the events since Friday night. “Do you want to meet and talk about it?” he asked, regretting his previous outburst.
She thought about the offer; it’d be great to get some fresh air and talk to somebody. “OK,” she finally decided. “Mike’s at two?” Mike’s was their favorite meeting place for its great coffee and tranquil atmosphere.
“OK, see you there,” he agreed.
Dylan was a good friend. She had met him about six years ago. Her parents had moved to a neighborhood closer to downtown, and Dylan’s mother was the first neighbor to welcome them. Despite the fact that their mothers came from totally different cultures, one from Seoul, in South Korea, and the other from Charlottesville, Virginia, they found out that they shared some common hobbies—cooking spicy foods and devising new, spicy recipes being their favorites—and quickly became good friends. Keira’s mother was alone most of the time, because of her father’s work, and Dylan’s mother was alone after his father abandoned them, so they spent a lot of time together, filling each other’s loneliness. Then, tragedy struck a few months after moving in, when Dylan’s mother died in a car accident. Keira’s mother suffered her loss a lot, and Keira took a small break from her studies to be able to stay with her. This was when she’d first met Dylan.
At first, nothing about him called her attention; he was just a completely forgettable, nice guy with nothing remarkable about him. However, a few days after his mother’s death, Dylan came to visit Keira’s mother. In that visit, he told her how his mother had always talked about her and how much she valued her friendship. She’d no longer felt alone, and the friendship had brought a new level of joy to her life. For that, he would always be grateful and promised to visit her whenever possible. When Keira arrived home that night, her mother described her conversation with him in detail. Keira was moved; the impression he’d made on her mother sincerely touched her.
From that day on, she met Dylan several times when he came to visit as promised, always
with a small gift or gesture—like when he tried to cook an absolutely unpalatable spicy kimchi soup by himself, a painful meal for Keira but the best gift in the world for her mother. Dylan and Keira stayed in touch when she went back to her studies at the university, and a friendship developed over time. Now, she felt that she could trust Dylan more than anybody else, talk to him about anything, and always feel understood—well, almost always.
Dylan immediately saw her when she entered Mike’s. The place was crowded, but Keira was easy to spot. She was half American and half Korean, her father a low-level American diplomat once stationed in South Korea where he’d met her Korean mother. She was petite, just above five feet four, with a friendly and very attractive face—Keira knew from experience that she had that exotic Asiatic beauty that some Westerners found intriguingly attractive.
Dylan waved at her, and she approached the table. He had already eaten and just ordered his favorite espresso drink, and Keira ordered an omelet brunch, her first real meal since Friday.
“What were you thinking, going alone at night through that park? Do you have a death wish or what?” Dylan was mad at her for her lack of judgment. Keira had just explained the events of Friday night, and he really thought she was out of her mind.
“What do you mean by ‘that park’?” She ignored his rant, as she always did, and changed the conversation by focusing on what her curious mind thought was important.
“Are you serious?” He was angry at first, then astonished, and finally amused by how she always managed to disarm him by drastically changing subjects. “You’re hopeless.”
Keira smiled at him. “Now, what about that park?” she insisted.
“How it is possible that a prestigious journalist doesn’t know what everybody else knows?” he said sarcastically. It was his revenge on her for changing the subject. “That park is a nest for drug dealers and other no-less-dangerous, lowly characters.”
“It can’t be as bad as you say.” She was trying to minimize the sense of danger and, with it, her carelessness.
