The Improbable Theory of Ana and Zak Page 9

  Ana ignores my attempts at intrigue. “Clayton’s left the tournament,” she whispers. “He’s gone to something called the SCA. What’s that?”

  “The Society for Creative Anachronism,” I mouth back. “They do reenactments of the Middle Ages. What’s with the cloak? And why are we whispering?”

  She shakes her hood. “I’m not sure why you are. I’m whispering because they wouldn’t let me leave the tournament early and I kind of caused a big scene.”

  I get an uncomfortable feeling in my gut. “Uh, Ana? Did it have something to do with those sirens I heard earlier?”

  “Let’s just say I’d really like to get out of here as soon as possible. Which way is the courtyard?”

  “Straight down the end of this hall.”

  She gathers her bow and moves forward. “God, I’m so sorry I came here.”

  I mean to keep my mouth shut. Honestly I do. It’s not like I expect überserious Ana Watson to suddenly start having fun at Washingcon. Or having fun with me.

  But there’s no point in saying anything. She’s scared, uncomfortable, and wants to leave. My feelings aren’t important.

  But somehow, a little yelp escapes my mouth. A sad little yip, like a puppy whose tail you just stepped on. Totally involuntary.

  She hears me, and turns.

  I can’t make out her face under that hood. But a trick of the light allows me to see her eyes. They glow green in the shadows, kind of like a gorgeous Jawa.

  And for a moment, those eyes smile at me.

  She turns away, and I follow. Of course.

  “So wait,” I abruptly ask. “Why are we going to the courtyard?”

  “Someone said the SCA meets there. So what exactly do they do again?”

  “Costuming. Pageantry. They’re a fun group.” Usually. Almost always. Except for once or twice a year. I wish I had a schedule to refer to. It suddenly occurs to me that Clayton may be in trouble.

  Ana is talking. “So if this is a courtyard, he won’t be able to give us the slip, right?”

  “Well, it’s more like a vacant lot, but if luck’s on our side, we should be able to corner him.” Please, please, please let luck be on our side.

  Ana seems greatly relieved. “Thank goodness.” She smiles at me.

  I’m too worried to smile back. Surely it’s not tonight. I rack my brains. The program said Saturday night, right? Not Friday?

  I breathe a little easier when we reach the center’s rear lobby. A young mother passes us, holding hands with an adorable little princess decked out in crepe paper and cardboard. Behind them, two young gladiators run by, dueling with plastic swords.

  Thank God. The SCA is doing children’s costuming tonight. I have nothing to worry about.

  We navigate around the tables where two middle-aged hippies are cleaning up the last of the glue and glitter, and pass through the double doors into the cold evening air.

  And onto a battlefield.

  Behind the convention center sits a massive vacant lot. It’s the size of a city block. Construction of an office building was supposed to have started two years ago, but some lawsuit has prevented that, and it remains an empty, muddy field.

  A field filled with two hundred warriors, about to enter into brutal hand-to-hand combat.

  It’s not quite dark, but it’s overcast. Distant lightning illuminates the combatants in random, eerie bursts.

  They stand in rigid ranks, two armies, separated by a football field of bare earth. Every combatant that existed from the fall of Rome to the Age of Enlightenment seems to be standing at attention, ready to kill. Bare-chested Aztecs. Swiss guardsmen in full papal regalia. Conquistadors. Ninjas. Vikings. Crusaders. They hold their weapons aloft and ready. In the darkness, it’s easy to miss that every sword, club, and ax is made of padded PVC pipe.

  The air is heavy with moisture and sweat. There’s an expectant tension the air, as if each side is just waiting for the other to make the first move. Everyone seems to breathe in unison.

  Ana’s hand grasps my shoulder. “Zak? What’s happening?”

  “The annual battle. Badon Hill this year.”

  “They’re just play fighting, right?” Her hand tightens.

  I point to a tiny group of spectators, huddled against the building. “See Hannibal Lecter and Professor Moriarty over there? They’re emergency room doctors in real life. They’re here for a reason.”

  “Do you see my brother anywhere?”

  The armies continue to stand there, as if waiting for a signal.

  I notice a pirate with a spyglass. “Can I use that for a second, matey?” I stand on an AC unit and with the borrowed eyepiece, I scan the crowd, hopelessly trying to locate my quiz bowl buddy.

  “Over there, Zak. Under that streetlight.”

  I focus. Yes! He’s lost his glasses, but it’s certainly him.

  “Bingo. Wow, what are the odds that there are two shirts that color?”

  “I’m going to get him.” She marches off toward no-man’s-land.

  “Whoa!” I hop down and jump in front of her. I don’t want her out there when the teeth start flying. “Let me get him.”

  “Okay.” She agrees so quickly, it’s slightly insulting. “Go grab him before . . .”

  A lone, eerie note from a bagpipe splits the night. Two black-clad torchbearers emerge from the darkness, followed by an enormous, shaven-headed man in a loincloth. His body is covered with tattoos. His only other adornment is an eye patch, which I don’t think is part of his costume.

  In a low, guttural, and yet clear voice, he begins to recite the battle ode. The words never fail to stir me, and I barely even speak Orkish.

  “Too late. I’m going to have to do this the hard way.” I quickly scan the area. I grab an abandoned, two-handed sword that is leaning against the building.

  The orc’s words reach a crescendo. People begin to stir.

  “Zak? Is this such a good idea?” Ana looks genuinely worried.

  “I’ll be fine.” Gulp.

  She suddenly smiles. “Of course you will. I bet you do this every year, right?”

  I grin. “Yeah.” No. Not once. Too scared. I still remember signing James’s cast from the one time he participated.

  A female dwarf passes a horn to the orc general. This is it. “You get out of here, Ana. But how about a kiss for luck, first?”

  She drops her hood and for a moment I think my ploy actually worked. But she just smiles. “Not on your life. You be careful. Come back in one piece, Zak.”

  I hike to join the nearer army. “Call me Duke! Everyone else does!”

  I can barely hear her above the loud blast on the horn. “Not everyone.”

  Some of the SCA members have ignored the 900 to 1600 AD timeline. I wedge myself between a Greek hoplite and a World War I doughboy. We march forward.

  At first, there is no sound but the unsettling cadence of shod feet marching in time (and the inappropriate strains of “Wipe Out” from a car on the next block). No one seems eager to be the first over the top. I entertain the unworthy idea of sneaking around the building and capturing Clayton from the rear.

  A scream pierces the night. “FREEDOM!” A dark figure rushes toward us from the opposing forces, the duct tape of his weapon gleaming.

  Within seconds, everyone rushes into the fray. Battle cries split the air.

  “FOR SCOTLAND!”

  “ALLAHU AKBAR!”

  “SPOON!”

  “THERE CAN BE ONLY ONE!”

  “VIVE LA FRANCE!”

  I heft my weapon and shout the only thing I can think of.

  “MERIWETHER LEWIS HIGH SCHOOL QUIZ BOWL TEAM!”

  I put my head down and rush forward. I’m elbowed and jostled by the crowd, but I clear the neutral zone without anyone challenging me. A Germanic berserker attempts to take my head off with a very real-looking war hammer, but I duck just in time. I leap over the groaning form of a Teutonic knight and hurl myself behind the enemy lines.

  Hand-to
-hand combat has begun in earnest. The gruesome sound of plastic against flesh fills the night. I nearly trip over a sprawling longbowman and wince as somebody’s flying retainer hits me in the eye. Luckily, no one has singled me out yet.

  In the distance I see the streetlight where Clayton had been standing. If I could just make it there . . .

  “Banzai!” A samurai leaps in front of me, his katana arched over his head. He’s bleeding from both nostrils, but doesn’t seem to notice.

  Fortunately, I know him. “Hey, Paul, now’s not a good time.”

  He responds by bringing his sword down on my head. It bashes into my skull with cracking force.

  “Argh!” I stumble backward. He swings again. Pure instinct allows me to parry with my own weapon. I’m falling back in full retreat.

  Something blocks my path. Some idiot has illegally parked his car in this lot, a decision he will certainly regret in the morning. I scramble, butt-first, onto the hood. Paul misses, his sword striking with such force that the side-view mirror is knocked loose. I take the opportunity to land a blow of my own. This only seems to make him angrier. He leaps, flat-footed, onto the hood. I shuffle onto the roof to the accompaniment of cracking windshield glass.

  Paul lunges forward, determined to gut me. I do what comes naturally and dodge. Momentum carries him forward and he teeters perilously, three feet off the ground. I swing my sword into his ribs and he goes flying.

  Though I really should just run, I have to see if he’s okay. He lies in the mud, not moving. I climb down beside him.

  “Paul?”

  He comes to life, unsheathing a short sword from his belt. This one is metal. I’m about to beg for mercy when he rips open his tunic, places the blade against his bare belly, and begins what sounds like a prayer in Japanese.

  Good luck with that. I rush to the rear of the dwindling battle.

  No one is near the lamppost. I search desperately for Clayton, but my head is still swimming. Is that him over there? Yes! He has a set of nunchaku and is flailing away at an overweight Cossack.

  “Playtime’s over, Clay.” I stagger toward him, tapping my sword in my palm. It then falls to the ground as two mammoth, hairy arms engulf me in a bear hug from behind.

  “I yield! I yield!” I manage to squeak.

  It makes no difference. I kick and struggle like a three-year-old, and still my captor drags me into the secluded trash area behind the convention center. He roughly deposits me against the nonedible grease receptacle.

  I jump up, facing my attacker directly in the chest. I crane my neck to see his face. He leers down at me from under his Viking horns.

  Oh, dear.

  “I have to hurt you, pal. Nothing personal.”

  I’m giddy with panic. “Actually, I think that would be quite personal.”

  He flexes his shoulders. “You grabbed my girlfriend. I can’t let that go.”

  Where’s a Roman legion when you need one? “It was all a misunderstanding. I thought she was a little boy.”

  Probably not the best thing to say. He takes me by my shirt, but most of it tears away in his hand. He compensates by grabbing me by my hair. He cocks his ham-size fist. I wrench at the fingers clamped down on my skull, but they’re not going anywhere.

  “Try to think of something else,” he says with real compassion. “I hear it helps.”

  An odd sense of peace fills my body. I close my eyes.

  Tell me about the rabbits, George.

  And suddenly, I’m being hugged. Hugged? He’s wrapped his burly arms completely around me. Is he going to let bygones be bygones, solidifying our truce with an awkward bro hug?

  Nope. He’s crushing me. My ribs begin to rearrange themselves as his arms clamp tighter and tighter. My eyes pop back open—and somewhat out of their sockets—as Conan methodically narrows his grip, relentless as a boa constrictor crushing a goat.

  He’s grinning at me, but the image goes gray as my diaphragm can no longer flex and my oxygen supply is cut off.

  Now would be the perfect time to say something funny and cutting, something to make my tormentor realize the error of his ways and release me.

  Urrrrggggghhhh.

  The gray fades to black. I’m going to die.

  I knew the risks. All part of being on the quiz bowl team. Not everyone makes it back alive.

  Suddenly, a pained scream fills the air. And I don’t think it’s me. I’m surprised to discover that I’m no longer being murdered, but am leaning against the building. The Viking clutches his head and howls.

  A Valkyrie stands there at the entrance to the alley. Seven feet tall and bare-chested, she towers above us, her flaming sword held aloft.

  I shake my head and the whole vision melts away to reveal Ana, brandishing a PVC mace, which she has neatly broken over Conan’s skull.

  He clutches his bruised forehead and proceeds to make a noise that no human throat should be able to make. The sound the Tunguska blast must have made. Stunned and terrified of what he’ll do to Ana, I lurch forward.

  She’s quicker. With a deft motion, she grabs something from behind her and lunges.

  For a second, I think she’s stabbed him in the face. It’s only when his battle cry reverts to a howl of pain that I realize what’s happened.

  She’s taken one of her arrows, one of the blunt arrows she bought in the dealer’s room, and shoved it up the Viking’s nose. As far as it will go.

  It’s a highly ludicrous sight as he bounces from foot to foot, yelping in pain, flailing his arms about like Curly Howard, with two feet of plastic shaft protruding from his nostril.

  “Uh, Duquette?” Ana tugs at what’s left of my shirt.

  Right. We must flee. Fortunately, my years of friendship with the many smokers around here are about to pay off.

  “This way!” We round a corner, and as usual, someone’s wedged a kitchen door open so they can duck out and enjoy a quick cigarette. We hurtle through and I kick the rock away. The monster is already bearing down on us, snorting like a bull through his bloody nose, but he won’t make it in time. And the door locks from the inside.

  Just as the door swings shut, I catch a glimpse of a lone figure. He’s standing on a low perimeter wall and is cast into sharp detail by one of the security lights.

  That stupid orange-and-red shirt.

  As the door slams in my face, Clayton looks in my direction. And salutes me.

  ANA

  8:13 PM

  Zak sits on a bench in some sort of access hall for the kitchens. He’s been staring at the opposite wall without saying anything for about ten minutes.

  I’m starting to get worried. When I first led him here, I thought he might have been pissed off. Maybe I violated the rules of battle or something by helping him. But he’s still not talking, and not responding when I say his name. I didn’t think that big guy hurt him very much, but still. Mom showed me this magazine article once where this kid got hit in the head with a baseball and seemed fine, and then keeled over dead two hours later from a hemorrhage.

  What if Zak’s really hurt? Should I call 911 or see if the con has some kind of nurse on staff? Wait, didn’t Zak say there was a medic at the battle?

  Paralyzed with indecision, I buy a Coke from an empty employee break room.

  “Zak? Try to drink this.”

  He doesn’t look at me, but he takes the cold can and presses it against the small of his back.

  More silence. He must be hurt. I didn’t think he was capable of shutting up for so long.

  “Ana?” He breaks the silence, but doesn’t look at me.

  “Yes, Zak?”

  “Are you Catholic? You were wearing a crucifix earlier.”

  My joy that he’s speaking again is overcome by my concern that he’s now babbling. “Um, yes, I am. Why?”

  He’s quiet for a moment. “I’m Methodist. But don’t worry. We can raise the kids in whatever faith you like.” He then turns and gives me a full-on puppy-dog smile. He’s okay.


  “Glad to see you’re not brain damaged, Duquette. I mean, more than usual.”

  He’s still bearing down on me with that smile. “So when do I get to meet the parents?”

  “Knock it off, you’re not that punch drunk.” And stop smiling like that.

  “Ana, I just saw you pull off the greatest con badassery I’ve seen in years. It was like—”

  “I just took a swing at him when he wasn’t expecting it. It was nothing.”

  “Nothing? Ana, you saved my life! Or at least some of my ribs. You took out an ogre at close range. That’s incredible. Take a moment and reflect on how awesomely awesome you were.”

  Yeah, well. Okay, he’s right, that was kind of cool. Maybe even a little . . . badass. And now Zak thinks I’m some kind of legend. I can live with that.

  “Zak? Are you feeling well enough to keep looking for Clayton? Everything okay?”

  He pulls the soda can out from his shirt, pops it open, and slurps the fizz off the top. “Yeah, I’ll be fine. But listen, Ana, I’ve been thinking. You and I, we didn’t do anything wrong tonight. That’s kind of a new sensation for me. But think about it. Clayton was the one who ran off and lied. It’s all him.”

  I think I see where he’s going with this. “Yeah?”

  “So, well . . . maybe we ought to let him take his lumps. I mean, I don’t want him to get busted, but I don’t really want to take the fall for him, either. And I don’t see why you should. You’ve never been in trouble, and if Brinkham catches me here, then I’m going to fail her class.”

  I’m shocked. “You’re failing health?”

  “Yes. I had a deodorant tutor and everything. But my point is, why are we going to catch hell for what Clayton’s doing? Who knows, maybe when your parents find out he isn’t perfect, they’ll go a little easier on you.”

  His argument is valid, but like his comic books, the story only makes sense if you know the backstory.

  “Zak, my parents, they . . .” I freeze, remembering that awful night, the last time I saw Nichole. My only sister. “You wouldn’t understand.”

  “Try me. Sometimes it helps to talk.”

  There’s something about the way he says this that makes me look at him. Maybe it’s because this is the first time I’ve heard him say anything that wasn’t a joke or a complaint.