Evil Rises

by Wesley Robert Lowe

  EVIL RISES

  a Noah Reid Action Thriller

  Wesley Robert Lowe

  Wesley Lowe Media

  Third Edition

  Copyright © Wesley Robert Lowe 2017

  All Rights Reserved

  This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  All the characters are completely original, and any resemblance to real people, events or organizations is purely coincidental.

  Contents

  Introduction

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Betrayed - Sample

  Also by Wesley Robert Lowe

  About the Author

  Connect

  Acknowledgments

  Introduction

  The origins of Chinese martial arts go back over two thousand years. Ever-evolving, kung fu has had many influences. In addition to the physical disciplines of archery, muscle strengthening, sword fighting, boxing, dance and wrestling, there were intellectual and spiritual contributions. Military strategy, Buddhism, philosophy, astrology and health sciences all contributed to this developing way of life. Using their bodies as lethal weapons, generations of monk generals and soldiers waged battle for China with dazzling aerial acrobatics and hand weapon virtuosity. Martial arts were not systematized until later, after many different styles emerged.

  The mystical, spiritual and physical way of Shaolin kung fu appeared around AD 500. One of its founders was a monk who spent nine years meditating in a cave. When he came out, he initiated Chan—or Zen—Buddhism, which emphasizes meditation as the means to enlightenment. However, long periods of meditation led to monks being weak and unhealthy. To counter this, they explored forms, techniques, nature and spirituality.

  One select group focused on the Tiger, Crane, Snake, Leopard and Dragon—the Five Animal Styles of Shaolin kung fu were born. Many believed that when they adopted the appellation of an animal, it was not simply symbolic but that the power and psyche of the creature melded into them. For centuries, only the most devout adherents knew the secrets of Shaolin, passing it on from generation to generation, maintaining strict physical and spiritual discipline.

  Today, many neglect the spiritual side of the Shaolin. Even worse, some fall away, using only the physical martial arts for their own evil purposes.

  But there is a remnant of the true Shaolin. Deeply spiritual warriors grounded in a tradition of honor wage epic battles—sometimes for the sake of a single person and sometimes for the sake of a generation.

  Ancient and modern clash and collide in the Noah Reid Action Thriller Series. Feats bordering on the supernatural. Barbarous cruelty... and yet with a twisted shred of honor.

  To the committed, the spirit of animals flows ever strong. In the late twentieth century, one renegade Shaolin monk turned Triad leader chose the Tiger as his avatar. The tiger is ferocious, agile and one of the most powerful animals in Chinese astrology. Subtlety is not the tiger’s forte. It attacks with brute force and with relentless energy; it overwhelms its opponents. Totally Type A in personality, the tiger is driven, goal-oriented, focused and diligent. It will do anything to be the king of the lair, the top of the food chain.

  Woe to those who stand in his way.

  Chapter 1

  Sixty Years Ago

  Wudan was a precocious and strong-willed twelve-year-old boy who lived in a tiny village nestled in the craggy mountainous terrain of the Fujian Province. Because it was so hard to get to, civilization and Communism didn’t pay too much attention to it.

  The boy was very strong for his age. As so many of the villagers were farmers, he helped them in the rice paddies, harvesting luscious green tea and the tall stalks of sugar cane. He, like everyone else, was content with survival and the simple life. After all, farming in an area that was “eight parts mountain, one part water and one part farmland” was not a recipe for economic success. Other than Wudan’s family, most of the villagers lived in one of the several tulou, or giant earth huts, each of which housed about one hundred fifty members from a family clan.

  The Wu family used to live in a tulou until an elder’s son bullied Wudan. The much older boy thrashed him, giving him a black eye and bleeding nose for no reason other than he thought it was fun. While Wudan wanted revenge on his tormentor, his parents were in no position to argue with an elder, so the family left the giant hut to move into their own private humble shack.

  Wudan felt humiliated and the village no longer seemed so pleasant. Fishing in the small rice paddies brought him no joy and listening to Old Man Joe sing Chinese opera with his whiny, nasally twang felt like fingernails on a chalk board.

  And then someone appeared who would change Wudan’s life forever—a backsliding Shaolin martial artist. No one in the hamlet knew his real name and most wished he would go away. With a daily consumption of at least two of the most wicked and foul-smelling bottles of moonshine this side of the Pacific, it was easy to see why Wudan’s disapproving mother gave this self-assured man the moniker of “the drunk.”

  It was a nickname that everyone in the village latched on to.

  Everyone, that is, except for Wudan. To him, the drunk was a man of exceptional power. He marveled at this martial arts master who could break boards with his head and leap almost five feet from a standing position. And when he heard the drunk never had to buy food because he killed bears and wild boars with his bare hands, he knew he had to know more.

  Wudan soaked up any conversation he had with the drunk during the few moments the older man was sober. He was fascinated to find that the drunk was not simply a Shaolin martial arts master, but a man of exceptional learning, especially of Buddhist scriptures.

  Wudan approached the drunk to get him to teach him how to fight, but the martial artist never stayed sober for very long. The drunk drank too much, partied too much and womanized too much.

  One day, when Wudan was again pleading with the drunk to show him some fighting moves, the two spotted the village tough hitting on a cute seventeen-year-old peasant girl. It was the same bully who beat him. Wudan’s blood boiled.

  “No!” she screamed.

  The tough slapped her to the ground. “No one says ‘no’ to me.”

  “That is not allowed,” shouted the drunk.

  Wudan pulse raced, and watched spellbound as the drunk dashed to the hooligan and fired a rapid combination of fists and legs to the rowdy’s head and torso.

  “Do it again,” cried Wudan, picturing every blow made as if it was coming from himself.

  The cocky drunk beckoned the bruiser to come at him. “Come on, come on, come on, you fat, stupid and ugly warthog.”

  Incensed, the would-be warrior pulled two knives from his pockets.

  Wudan chomped on his nails as the ruffian waved the blades in the air, one in each hand like a windmill gone berserk. The bully flew at the drunk, screaming, “You useless old man. You have insulted me for the last time.”

  The drunk stood his ground. When the punk arrived, the apostate monk quickly jumped into the air. Wudan gasped in disbelief—the drunk had leapt higher than a house. As the drunk descended, he kicked out at the thug’s head, chest and the swirling knives, knocking them out of the punk’s hands.

  The drunk landed behind the young man, who whipped around and challenged the monk to battle.

  “Kill him!” shouted Wudan.

  The drunk merely rolled his eyes as the fool charged at him.

  At the l
ast possible moment, the drunk stepped aside and delivered an elbow to the head of his assailant. The attacker buckled, and then the rest of the tough’s gang showed up.

  Wudan shot a worried look out, and called, “Watch out, master!”

  The drunk leered at Wudan—I’m not worried.

  Wudan cheered every blow the drunk casually administered. It was comical and pathetic to watch the drunken martial artist in action against his younger opponents.

  The drunk belched, then swished his arms to the pose of a Tiger and leapt at his first attacker. Two hammer fists later, the thug lay sprawled out on the ground.

  Wudan awkwardly imitated the drunk’s animal poses as the next victim rushed at the apostate monk. The drunk spread his arms out like a Crane with a huge wingspan. When the dupe arrived, a quick clapping of the drunk’s arms together on the temples knocked his prey out.

  Seeing their comrades so easily dispatched sent the rest of the gang running in retreat.

  As Wudan lowered his arms from his poor imitation of a crane, he cried, “Teach me, Sifu (Master). Teach me everything.”

  “Not now. Maybe not ever. I’m busy.” The monk pinched the bum of the young girl now deserted by the gang. Wudan was not the only one captivated by the drunk’s performance.

  The girl tittered and gave the monk a kiss. He looked at her very seriously. “Hung Gar, the Tiger and Crane system, has other ways to be useful. Do you want a personal private demonstration?”

  The girl nodded enthusiastically and locked her arm in the drunk’s.

  The monk turned and winked at Wudan. “If you want to learn, I cannot teach you. You must go to the ends of the Earth. You must go to Heaven.”

  As the couple ambled off, Wudan burst into tears. “I don’t want to die. How can I go to Heaven or anywhere?”

  The monk sneered at the blubbering boy. He released the girl, dashed and grabbed Wudan. He tossed him ten feet in the air, then ran and ensnared the boy.

  The monk slapped Wudan, stilling the quaking lad to attention. “These are not tricks. This is part of the Way. Anyone can beat someone else up, but to truly be a master of the Shaolin, you must dedicate yourself to training, to the life of Heaven. Heaven is not a place where you go when you die. It is a secret monastery in the Yellow Mountains.”

  Wudan’s fear transformed instantly to excitement at the prospect of adventure. “How do I find it?” Wudan asked eagerly.

  “You must go first to Shaolin Paradise in Shanghai.”

  “And they will teach me there?” Wudan asked.

  “No,” said the monk. “That is the start of your journey.”

  Wudan inhaled slowly, then whispered, “I have never been anywhere but our village.”

  The monk nodded. “To get to Heaven will be your first lesson.”

  “Then I will go to Shanghai,” said Wudan with a conviction and determination that belied his age.

  “When you get there, ask for Sigong Zhang.”

  Electricity buzzed through Wudan’s body. This is my destiny and nothing will stop me from my goal.

  “You cannot change my mind. I am leaving tomorrow,” Wudan told his mother and father that night over supper. The argument had gone on for an hour but Wudan would not be swayed.

  “That is foolishness,” his father said stiffly, with belittling disapproval.

  “I am twelve years old. I am a man now. I can do whatever I want,” Wudan replied as he sat straighter, showing his parents he was all grown up now.

  “If you leave, you will never come back. You may get captured and sold into slavery. You may starve to death,” his mother sniffed, tears making her hazel eyes glisten in the candle light. Wudan hated making his mother worry. He loved her, but he knew this was the path he must lead.

  “Better to die trying than never to try at all,” said the boy, wise beyond his years.

  “We will never have grandchildren if you do this,” the boy’s father said sadly.

  Wudan started at that. He hadn’t considered that. It didn’t change his mind, but it did make him pause.

  And then the answer came.

  “You will have no need of grandchildren. I will have more influence than a thousand sons and grandsons. Our name will live forever.”

  That night, Wudan heard his mother cry herself to sleep. Hearing her was like having a hundred knives stabbing him in the heart, but he had to steel himself. That’s what a warrior would do.

  Wudan snuck out before sunrise. He didn’t want to face his father’s wrath or his mother’s tears again. He couldn’t write, so he didn’t leave a farewell message. If he had been able to see the future, he might have asked a neighbor to write something for him because Wudan never saw his parents again

  Chapter 2

  Too poor for any other mode of transportation, Wudan walked barefoot for six hundred arduous miles to Shanghai. Bleeding blisters, cuts from sharp rocks, thorns and more... it was a rare time when he was not in pain. With no money, he learned to be resourceful: to eat plants and bark or the leftover scraps from a restaurant; to sleep in an open field or in the home of a stranger.

  Only his single-minded goal of reaching Heaven kept him going and six grueling weeks later, Wudan arrived at the Shaolin Paradise.

  Wudan forgot his aches, his fatigue, his hunger as he saw monks everywhere doing the same kinds of tricks the drunk so impressed Wudan with. Breaking boards with their heads, running and leaping over a dozen prostrate monks... but there was something else, too. In another part of Paradise, Wudan saw people meditating and studying Scripture. At supper, he walked to the communal hall and joined in the meal. Nobody asked him for money, but nobody wanted to associate with him, either.

  This went on for a few days and then, on the fourth day, Wudan began to notice little things. Some of the students were not performing their exercises particularly well. This was understandable, but what was not was that their masters were not correcting them. In the library, while most students were diligent, there were a few who slept or doodled on the table. Again, no one offered a word of chastisement.

  Wudan remembered the drunk telling him that Shaolin Paradise was not Heaven but the starting point. He understood now. Heaven must be a place of strict discipline, of true learning.

  He asked for directions to Heaven, and most gave him a strange or blank look. “You are in heaven now,” was a common refrain.

  But Wudan knew this could not be true. Heaven must be perfect, and the inattention and cavalier attitude of so many in Shaolin Paradise showed that this place was full of imperfections. Wudan was frustrated by this. How can they not know the truth?

  Wudan approached the oldest monk in his chambers and asked how to get to Heaven, hopeful he would finally get an answer. The monk stood up and walked to the open window. He pointed in the direction of nonexistent mountains and said, “There.”

  “How do I get there? Where are the directions?” the boy asked, his heart failing. He didn’t want to admit he couldn’t see what the monk was pointing at.

  The monk replied knowingly, “That is your second lesson. To see what cannot be seen. To find what cannot be found. To discover what is not there.”

  Wudan tilted his head and considered everything he had been through and wasn’t able to determine what lesson he may have been through already. No one had told him anything.

  “How can I begin a second lesson when I haven’t completed the first?” puzzled Wudan, his mind throbbing from confusion.

  “Your first lesson is complete. You came here on your own. You learned charity. You learned about people. About whom to trust and when to trust them.”

  Wudan thought about the monk’s comment... and he began to understand. Yes, he had suffered. Yes, it was harrowing but by reaching beyond his limits, knowledge and experience, he had survived. And he was stronger for it.

  “The quest was part of the training?”

  The boy understands! The aged monk nodded approval. “Yes... You will be a great Shaolin master, maybe even
a grandmaster someday if you follow The Way.”

  Wudan couldn’t keep the smile from his face at hearing the praise. “I will always follow it until I die.”

  Those were words that the monk had heard from other candidates. Most of the time they failed but, every now and then, there was someone that truly followed the Way. That’s what gave him hope. The older man took the boy back to the courtyard and introduced him to a stern-looking monk.

  “This is the sentry. He will guide you to Heaven.”

  The boy bowed deeply in respect to the sentry, then to the monk in respect.

  “We will go now,” announced the sentry simply.

  The elder monk watched wistfully on as man and boy walked away.

  He had been watching Wudan from the moment he arrived at Shaolin Paradise. He saw Wudan’s thin body, the fatigue written on his face, the dried blood on his feet. He knew where these came from because that’s how he looked when he arrived fifty years ago. The monk inhaled. He was excited. Excited, but cautious as well.

  Only time would tell whether he assessed Wudan correctly, and he would likely not be alive to find out if he was right or not.

  It took Wudan and the sentry another six months to get to Heaven. It was only a hundred miles away, but the sentry’s responsibility was not only to guide the boy in body but to prepare him spiritually.

  This was a supreme challenge. Meditation was not easy for a vibrant, energetic boy but, with the sentry’s prodding and training, Wudan began to taste the possibilities of a free mind.

  Another imposing problem was the learning of Scriptures—Wudan was illiterate. The boy despaired that he could never learn enough Chinese characters to read. “I can’t do it,” he cried.