The Improbable Theory of Ana and Zak (19 page)

Luigi Vampa jams his gun in my back as we descend
the stairs. I hardly notice. He's right. Why didn't I say something to Ana before I left? Something sweet and romantic, to let her know that even though we really just met, I think she's amazing?

Sadly, it's looking like I might not get another chance to see her.

We pass into the main building. My captor presses up against my back, so the gun won't be visible. This is ridiculous. Is he really going to kill me? Of course not. He just wants to teach me a lesson. He'll probably just beat me up some more. Not like I can't handle that. It's
really been just one of those nights.

We cross the lobby, but it's empty. Empty. Thousands of people at this con, and no one's here. I know it's bloody early, but still . . .

Luigi continues to jam his gun in my back. I consider making a break for it, but I fear that will inspire him to do something rash. I hold my cool and pray that we'll run into someone in the parking lot.

I'm shoved into a side exit, a little hallway that leads outside. I'm beginning to lose my optimism. No one is going to be driving anywhere at this hour.

One person. I need one person to see us, and I can call for help. Anyone.

“YOU!”

A shadow falls on us. Someone is thundering down the stairs. Someone huge. We both turn.

It's the Viking. He clomps down the steps, leveling his gnarly finger at me, his eyes red and narrow. Behind me, I can hear Luigi take a surprised step backward.

“You!” As the Viking fe-fi-fo-fums his way toward me, all I can do is smile. True, I'm about to have my arms broken, but sadly, that's the happier option. My screams of pain will alert a crowd, and Luigi will be helpless to exact revenge. Or, if I'm very lucky, I can use Conan as a human shield.

I face him, eye to nipple. Luigi tries to pull me away,
but the barbarian roughly shoves him aside, oblivious to the gun. I'm trapped between a man who wants to kill me and a man who just wants to hurt me.

“You!” he repeats. I'm nearly knocked over by the stench of alcohol wafting off him.

I dash to the left, maneuvering him between me and the drug dealer. And blocking the exit door, unfortunately. I slink toward the stairs, but the Viking's hand restrains me.

“Looks like we have some unfinished business,” I say with a forced smile. “Let's go out into the parking lot and settle this.”

He stares at me, unfocused. “I got somethin' to say to you.”

“Um, can it wait?”

He clamps his other hand on my shoulder and pulls me toward him. I can just see Luigi edging toward the exit.

“You . . .” We're so close we're almost kissing. “I . . . I'm sorry.”

“Excuse me?”

He wraps his hairy meathooks around me. “I'm sorry. I'm sorry I hit you. I'm sorry . . .”

And then he starts blubbering. As he forcibly embraces me, I'm treated to an incoherent rant about how he and Boba Fett girl had been on the outs and
tonight was supposed to be different and he might have lost her forever and how he was sure his mother had always wanted a girl and that he just knew he was going to get laid off from his job as a teacher's aide and the band was going nowhere and he was sorry he took it all out on me.

He's really drunk. As I struggle to free myself, I notice Luigi watching the spectacle with a smile.

“She's too good for me!” bellows the Hulk, tears and snot staining my shirt. “God, man, I'm sorry. Tell your girlfriend I'm sorry.”

I finally free myself. “No! Let's fight! I . . .”

He's not listening. He's lumbering back to the stairs. “I'm sorry, man. I gotta go talk to her. Lisa! Lisa!”

“Can I at least buy you a cup of . . .”

He's gone. And when I feel the familiar pressure of the gun barrel in my spine, well, I can't say I'm totally surprised.

“Freakin' kids.”

Luigi leads me through a back exit and manhandles me out the door and into the parking lot. The sun is just starting to show on the horizon. One by one, the overhead lights are blinking off.

It's a sizeable lot for downtown. There are about fifty cars parked back here. I know from past cons that at least some of them will have people sleeping in them,
but I have no way of knowing which.

Time to play the sympathy card. It's all I got left.

“You know . . . my father used to come here with me. He's . . . he's dead now.”

“So's my father,” grunts my captor.

There. We have something in common. “I sure miss my dad.”

“I didn't miss mine.”

I think of his gun and don't ask for clarification.

Luigi leads me to a nondescript compact and, much to my horror, pops the trunk.

“Climb in.”

Oh, this isn't good. This is bad. Han-in-carbonite bad. Indy-in-the-snake-pit bad. Spock-in-the-reactor-core bad.

And this isn't a movie.

I hesitate. Something tells me if I wind up in that trunk, I'm never coming out.

Well, Dad, looks like maybe I will get to spend another Washingcon with you
.

And then the rear windshield of Luigi's car explodes.

I'm slow on the uptake, but not my captor. He's already dropped to one knee, his pistol ready, braced with both hands.

And there's Ana. She's already loaded another arrow. She stands there in the early morning light, her bow
drawn back, looking utterly badass and sexy . . . and doomed.

“That was a warning,” she barks. “I didn't have to miss.”

Luigi responds by driving his elbow into my testicles, causing me to double over. He presses the gun against my neck.

“Little girl, you just made a serious mistake.” His jovial threats are gone. He's very unhappy. He's going to start firing. And I'm going to have to watch Ana die.

Cold comfort, but I'll probably only have a few seconds to reflect on that.

“Ana! Run! Get out of here!”

She stands there like some sort of wood sprite, the wind whipping her frizzy hair. “Let him go.”

There's a click as he cocks his gun. I feel the barrel tremble against my neck. It's because I'm silently crying.

And then there's another, electronic click, from off to our right.

Luigi whirls. And there's . . . Clayton? He's still wearing that trench coat. Behind him, Strawberry clings to his arm like a monkey.

He's holding out his phone. He's just snapped a picture. He hands the device to Luigi, who takes it with one hand, still poking me with his very cocked weapon.

It's a beautiful photograph. Luigi's face is clearly captured, as well as mine. And the gun. Clayton even managed to catch the car's license plate.

“I just sent that to a friend across town,” says Clayton, more calmly than I'd have thought possible. “If he doesn't hear from me in twenty minutes, he'll send it to the police.”

Luigi tosses the phone to Clayton, then yanks me to my feet. “Delete it,” he commands.

“I can't. It's gone. Out of my control.”

“Is that true?” Luigi whispers. I nod. There's a moment of silence, broken when the drug dealer drives a boot into my kidney. Strawberry screams as I go sprawling at Ana's feet.

Ana doesn't blink. “Drop your gun.”

He stands there for a confused moment, then smiles and tucks his pistol into his belt. “Now you put down yours.”

Before I can scream, “IT'S A TRAP!” Ana lowers the arrow. Then I really do scream as Luigi draws his gun and fires it at me three times. I only stop screaming when I realize no bullets are coming out and I look like an idiot.

Our captor smiles, but it's the same angry smile the Viking gave me at the battle. “I was never going to shoot you, kid.”

“Eeep.”

“I was just gonna break your legs and leave you in the woods.”

“Eeeee . . .”

Two rows down, a car door opens. Luigi quickly sticks his gun back in his belt. “If that picture shows up anywhere . . . if any of you decide you want to tell your friends about what happened here . . . I will find each and every one of you.” He levels a finger at me. “Zakory Duquette.” His finger shifts. “Ana and Clayton Watson.” He points to Strawberry and pauses.

“Jennifer Callahan,” she chirps. “My friends call me Strawberry.”

Luigi glances down at me with questioning eyes. I shrug. He reaches for his car door.

“You four are very,
very
lucky.”

“Sir?” asks Ana.

“What?”

“Can we have our phones back?”

For a moment I think she's pushed things too far, but he just laughs. “You've got chutzpah, missy. If you ever consider a career in pharmaceuticals, look me up.”

“Thanks, but I start at UWT in the fall.”

“Hey, that's where I went. Go Huskies!” He hands Ana our phones and climbs into his car. Rocks spray into my face as he tears out.

“Wow,” says Strawberry. “You always meet the most interesting people here.”

Ana helps me up from my supine position. I can only stare at her beautiful face. She risked everything for me. Faced down a heavily armed drug runner.

That's one for the old college application.

“Ana, I—”

“Shut up, Duquette.”

We kiss, long and hard.

Clayton clears his throat four or five times before
Zak and I disengage. I don't care. Duquette's alive. He's in one piece, more or less. I saved him.

Huh. I did, didn't I? I completely defused a hostage situation and bested a crazy guy with a gun. Would not have expected that, twelve hours ago
.

Zak is staring at me with his dopey grin and I'm content to stand there and return it.

“AHEM!”

Fine. We both turn to my brother.

“Mr. Watson,” says Zak. “We find you at last.”

“
I
found him,” corrects Strawberry. “He went up and released Ana.”

“All fine and good,” says Zak, “But why the hell were you here in the first place? We've been looking for you all night!”

Clayton shrugs, which infuriates me. “You said this was a fun place to go, so I snuck out. I was going to come back before curfew, but then I met Strawberry and she wanted to go to the dance, so—”

I could slap him. “Clayton! Do you have any idea how much trouble we are in?”

“No, that's the cool thing! I called Mrs. Brinkham and told her Grandpa was in the hospital, and that Duke took us to see him. She totally fell for it! Now we'll just get cleaned up and go back.”

I grab him by his stupid coat. “It didn't work! Mrs. Brinkham called Dad, and everything fell apart. Mom's coming to the tournament and we are screwed!”

His face doesn't go pale. His features don't mold into a mask of fear and regret. He does not start begging for forgiveness.

“Well, it's all my fault. I'll take the blame.”

Until now, I thought “seeing red” was just a figure of speech. But I swear, for a moment, everything goes slightly crimson.

“Clayton, don't you remember what they did to our sister?”

And then he crosses the line. “Don't you think it's time you stopped hiding behind Nichole?”

I'm ready to punch him, to kick his scrawny little butt. But then I notice Zak, pointedly looking at his phone, and Strawberry, staring at her bell-toed shoes.

“We will discuss this later,” I hiss. “Right now, we have to get back to the hotel. Zak, did you call for a ride?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah. He should be here any minute.”

“I have to get going,” says Strawberry, irritatingly chipper. “Thanks for the most bananariffic evening, everyone! And don't forget to call me, honey.”

I'm about to grab her by the cherry blossoms and explain that Zak will no longer be calling her, when I realize that's not who she was talking to. She's looking at my brother.

“I will, Strawberry. See you soon.” She and Clayton kiss. Briefly, almost chastely, but they do. Strawberry giggles and waves, then jiggles off toward the center.

Zak cocks an eyebrow but doesn't say anything.

I start walking toward the front of the building. I'm so incredibly furious with my brother, I forget about Zak and our adventures. All I can concentrate on is how much trouble we're all in.

“Hey, Ana? I saw you at the SCA thing. That was pretty awesome . . .”

I turn and throw Clayton against a nearby trailer. “Will you stop acting like coming here was a good thing?” I scream. “Do you have any idea what we went through tonight?”

“Ana,” begins Zak. “Calm down.”

I ignore him. “Clayton, thanks to you, Zak nearly died tonight! Do you think this is funny?”

My brother struggles free and looks me in the eye. I never realized it, but he's actually as tall as me.

“Ana, all I did was watch some movies and sing karaoke. You two are the ones who decided to get in bad with the local cartels! And someone told me you pulled a fire alarm at a card game. What's up with that?”

I wince. The more I think about it, the more embarrassed I am. “Well, I didn't know it was going to set off the sprinklers, okay? I was just trying to create a diversion.”

“Well, you ruined a lot of people's cards,” snaps Clayton. “A lot of people are . . . are . . .”

We are not alone. A half-dozen zombies have silently encircled us from behind the trailer, hemming the three of us in. Their makeup is very well done, with realistic compound fractures and everything.

“I thought I recognized you,” says a man with half his
face missing. I squint. Under the blood and bone fragments, I see the pallid features of Cyrax.

Zak steps forward, the lies and excuses ready to spring from his lips.
No, you're mistaken, you misheard, isn't that your ear on the ground there?

Unfortunately, Clayton, despite his posturing, is still very much a child.

“She didn't mean to! It was just an accident.”

A low, guttural groan rises from the legions of the undead, a sound I really don't think should be able to come from human vocal cords. Cyrax grabs Zak by the shirt.

“You . . . owe . . . us . . . five . . . hundred . . . bucks . . .” I'm not sure if he's pausing for effect, or if it's just hard to form words without functioning lungs.

Zak, forever acting without thinking, drives an uppercut into the zombie's jaw. His head tilts back, then forward. Thanks to the makeup, it's impossible to tell if he's really injured, but I get the impression the punch didn't affect him at all. Cyrax reaches out with his free hand and grabs Duquette's other wrist. Zak begins to wince, trying to break free.

I move to intervene. A girl zombie blocks my path. She's cute, despite her visible intestines. Before I can say anything, she whips out a can of pepper spray and points it at my face.

Zak either is not aware of the spray or is beyond caring. He's still trying to wrench away from Cyrax. Clayton tries to move in front of me, but someone grabs him by the collar.

“We'll pay you back,” stammers Zak. “Just not right now.”

And then they are upon us. Arms raised, eyes rolled back, the zombies shamble forward, moaning and lurching. We have nowhere to run. This is the end.

“Whoa there, partners!” says a strange voice. “Everyone just calm down.”

We all turn. A middle-aged man stands there, carelessly sipping from a paper cup of coffee. He's dressed conservatively, decked out in a college sweater and jeans. He smiles at Duquette. “You're not answering your phone, Zak.”

Zak returns the smile. “Hi, Roger.”