The Improbable Theory of Ana and Zak (10 page)

I'm a nervous pacer, and Ana's continued absence
doesn't help. I've made the circuit to the snack bar and back so many times that the guys playing speed chess are starting to look annoyed.

How embarrassing to have to send Ana into the tournament. I should have been the defending champion, but last year Nealish had looked so sad and hopeless, I had to give him a chance to look cool in front of that girl he liked. And now they're dating and I have a lifetime ban for throwing the game. So much for selfless sacrifice.

I wonder what's taking Ana so long. She's probably
found Clayton and is struggling to drag him out by his nose. I hope they don't end up knocking over a table.

“Psst!” Someone is loudly hissing on the other side of the food court. I glance over. It's a short person, dressed entirely in a black hooded cloak. I can't make out any features, not even their face.

But the longbow and little black pumps are kind of a giveaway.

Ana hisses again and jerks her shoulder at me. I join her.

“It is indeed a balmy evening for a Friday,” I say with a thick Italian accent.

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.