Firestorm

by David Klass

  It won’t work. I won’t give them the pleasure.

  I sit down on floor. Hurl telepathic defiance at the four walls. I’m not afraid of you! I won’t put on a show for you! If you want a piece of me, come and get me, craven cowards that you are! You’ll regret it if you try!

  Almost immediately I hear a sound. Uh-oh. Hope I didn’t piss anyone off. Look up. Fifteen feet above the floor, a door opens. Or maybe it’s a window. Can’t tell. Dawn light spills down.

  A big black bird flies in and glides to the floor.

  No, not a bird. A person.

  Check that. Not a person. A masked and robed figure, dressed all in black.

  Demon? Ninja?

  He lands with barely a sound and stands there, bare feet spread to the width of his shoulders. Black mask with eye slits. Dark eyes watching me.

  Trick or treat. Something tells me this is not going to be a treat. Not much warmth in that death mask or in those spooky eyes.

  “Who are you?” I ask. My voice quivers.

  Silence.

  “Are you human? Do you understand me? I’m warning you. I’m in a bad mood. Don’t appreciate being locked up. You’re smaller than I am. The last guy who messed with me was carried away with a bunch of broken ribs. So get this through your creepy mask. Do. Not. Screw. Around. With. Me.”

  Ninja does not respond verbally or telepathically, but dark eyes glitter menacingly.

  Then arms spread to full wingspan. Odd way of moving. Not fast, or at least not rushed, but marvelously graceful. A half step forward, then quickly to the side. Reminds me of a boxer’s shuffle. Never off balance. No open targets.

  I feel a burst of fear. Go weak in my knees. Which is strange. I’ve been in lots of fights and I’ve never felt this scared before. “Don’t come any closer.”

  Warning ignored. Forward and to the side. Like a dance, circling nearer to me.

  My fear level amping up. Panic. Debilitating. Is he doing this to me, or am I doing it to myself? My fists clench. “I’m warning you. I’ll kill you—”

  Threat broken off as black shape leaps effortlessly toward me off right leg. I am expecting this attack, but I am still much too slow to block the punch.

  Because it’s not a punch. It’s a flying kick. Executed from apex of jump, so that the angle of strike is perfectly horizontal.

  Jump was from the right foot, so kick is with the left to confound me. Black outfit swirls behind him like cloud of smoke as he soars through the air. Knee snaps straight out with a whipping sound. FSSHHHT. Maybe it’s the fabric of the ninja suit. Maybe the kick is so fast it literally whips the air. Hard to tell.

  No time to think. His left foot explodes into center of my chest. POW! Like a cannonball.

  I’ve been kicked before in my life. And punched. Once even hit with a chair in a gym brawl. I have great balance. Low center of gravity. Don’t usually get driven backwards. Almost never go down.

  This kick knocks me clear across the room. I tumble end over end. Remember how it felt to be in the car when my dad rolled it.

  Spinning.

  Total lack of control.

  Slam hard into far wall of barn. Stunned. Almost black out.

  Ninja doesn’t follow up attack. He lets me lie there and recover. Cheeky bastard. Telling me he doesn’t need to press his advantage.

  He can finish me whenever he chooses. He’s enjoying my pain, so he wants to prolong this.

  Big mistake, buddy.

  20

  I climb groggily to my feet.

  Okay, crow face. I’ve seen the kick. Not bad. Now enough defense. Let’s try some old-fashioned offense.

  I move toward him, arms up. When I get within range I feint with my right and swing with my left. Good punch. Don’t telegraph it. All the power of my body behind it. Aimed right for the jaw of that ninja mask.

  BOOM. Punch connects. Flush on jaw. Ninja crumples as if made from origami paper.

  That’s what I expect. But that’s not what happens.

  He ducks. Graceful bending and rolling motion. His chin floats away from my punch. I end up off balance and overextended. He steps in quickly and grabs my wrist. Pulls and shifts his center of gravity and suddenly I am flying through air again, this time upside down.

  The kick was a karate strike, but this is a judo throw. Full fighting repertoire. Very impressive. I think this as I fly upside down, arms and legs flailing.

  Crash hard into wall. Slide down. Lie there in a heap. He lets me recover. I get slowly back to my feet.

  Here he comes again. The dance. Forward and to the side.

  Think, Jack. If you let him kick you again, it’s over. Your punch didn’t work either. Your advantages here are size and strength. Small space, like a boxing ring. No place for him to run. So tie him up and pin him against a wall.

  And don’t wait, or he’ll strike first. Do it now.

  I go in for wrestling takedown. Shoot for one leg. All I need to pry him over onto his back. I’ve done it a hundred times on wrestling mats. No real defense.

  Ninja sees me coming and runs away, toward nearest wall. I chase. You can run but you can’t hide.

  He jumps at wall and does somersaulting backflip. Before I can pivot he’s landed behind me, his arms moving around my waist in a control position.

  He expertly trips me up. I’ve wrestled state champs who don’t move this well. He rides me into the ground. I try to buck him off. Like trying to shake off my own skin. His right hand slides up from its grip to a spot behind my neck. This weakens his hold on me for just a second.

  I figure now I’ll get him off for sure.

  ZAAAAAAPPPP! Electrocution.

  That’s what it feels like. A hundred thousand volts of pain flowing into me through a live wire. Not a wire, it’s his thumb pressing into some kind of nerve spot on my upper spine. My body jerks spastically.

  He releases me and when I slump down he catches me, kneels behind me, and shifts his grip to my throat.

  Choke hold. Heel of his right hand cutting off my windpipe while he holds me securely with his left.

  This is a finisher. This one will kill me.

  Absolutely nothing I can do. The urge to live makes me thrash wildly. Endows me with near-superhuman strength. I actually lift him off the ground from behind, like a water buffalo with a lion on his back. Smash him against a wall. For a second his grip loosens.

  But then the lion digs in his claws. His hand tightens mercilessly. I sink down to my knees. Then fall onto my stomach.

  Being choked to death is no fun. You fight for that last breath. Then you feel the lights switching off. A little voice from deep in the control room of the soul: Jack, you’re dying, dying, dying forever.

  But there’s nothing I can do about it. Helplessness. Regret. Farewell.

  Dad.

  Mom.

  P.J.

  Darkness.

  21

  Nightmare that repeats itself. Variations on a theme of pain. Beatings in daylight and darkness. Is this new suffering, or did it already happen? Are my cries real or just echoes from the last beating?

  One constant. My adversary. Different robes. Multiple masks. But the same little guy. Built like a fire hydrant, with the grace of a gazelle. He of the sideways shuffle. Of the spinning karate kicks. Of the excruciating jujitsu holds.

  I fight back using every method I can think of. Punches. Kicks. Football tackles. I even try to bite him.

  Take off my leather jacket and sweep it like a net to trip him up.

  Throw my shoes at him.

  Nothing works. He’s too good.

  Each beating leaves me dazed or out cold. Little guy has a dozen chances to kill me. But he doesn’t. He just disappears, and comes back later to dish out more punishment.

  It’s not that I give up. I simply run out of ways to fight back. He has an answer for every technique I know.

  So I finally take the one option left.

  I start to imitate him. Try to learn from him.

&n
bsp; Always been a fast learner. See something demonstrated once, never forget it. A long parade of amazed coaches. “Hell, Danielson, I just taught you that crossover dribble and now you’re doing it better than me.” “Damn, Danielson, you went with that pitch just the way I showed you yesterday!”

  So I watch the ninja.

  Stand with my feet to the width of my shoulders. That sliding shuffle step. Never off balance. Not presenting a target. Makes it hard to predict which way I’m going.

  Oh, so that’s how you snap out that kick? The knee comes up first and then the foot shoots out straight.

  Ah, I see, so when you punch, your power is generated in your legs and hips.

  So there’s the pressure point you used to immobilize me. I can reach around and find it on my own spine. Damn, it hurts. And if it hurts me it’s gonna hurt you, pal.

  Progress. Still being beaten, but now I get in a kick here and a punch there. Beatings becoming more like sparring sessions. Longer. More drawn out. Competitive.

  I’ve noticed something odd. This sadistic guy who’s beating me up isn’t doing any permanent damage. He doesn’t hesitate to choke me out or knock me unconscious, but he’s never broken a bone or even knocked out a tooth.

  Must be intentional.

  Maybe something I can use.

  I take my lumps, and eat and drink the tiny amounts of food and water that appear while I’m unconscious, and I study him. Suffering but learning. I’m getting better. One day soon the student will kill the teacher. I hate him. I owe him a world of pain.

  I can now shut out the fear that this guy broadcasts telepathically. I’ve found the screen that blocks it.

  One last awful beating. I get in some good shots and he seems to resent it. When he gets me down, he kicks me black-and-blue. Slaps on a choke hold. Before I black out I get in a solid elbow to the ninja mask. I swear I hear a groan of pain. Take that, you bastard.

  Wake up in morning light. I was out for a while. I know his pattern now. He’ll wait for me to get up. As soon as I start to recover he’ll return.

  So I don’t get up right away. I lie there, silent and motionless for a while, planning.

  Because I’m ready for him. D-day has dawned.

  There’s one moment when he’s predictable. When he makes his initial jump. He may be dressed like a bird, but he can’t fly. So from when he vaults through the window to when he lands there’s a brief opportunity.

  I wait till I’m good and ready, then get to my feet. Act groggy, but my mind’s clear and cold as a mountain stream. I weave back and forth. Setting a trap for him. Send out a telepathic summons of pure rage, as if I’m not thinking straight. Come on, you bastard. I’ll rip you apart.

  But I’m calm on the inside. Calculating.

  The window opens. He glides down, a gray-brown vulture.

  I run directly beneath him.

  He can’t kick me. Because if he does, it’ll have to be a face shot, and with the weight of his jump behind it he’d risk killing me. The one thing he won’t do.

  So he falls right onto me and tries to twist away.

  I grab him. Recognize this grip? You’re the one who taught it to me, you bastard.

  Like holding an electric eel. He’s going for pressure points and twisting and flailing, but I’ve got him wrapped up. Can’t hold him this way for long. Don’t need to.

  Two steps toward wall. Another lesson he’s taught me. Use the surface of the wall. Harder than any fist.

  I let my center of gravity drop suddenly. He wasn’t expecting that. I drag him down with me as I fall over backward. Then kick him out and over me with both my legs, flipping him toward the wall.

  Want to fly, ninja? Be my guest.

  BAM! Ninja hits wall of barn like a vulture flying into a skyscraper. He slides to floor, stunned. Then he’s trying to get up. Impressive recovery time.

  But not impressive enough. I jump off left foot and fly through the air. Nail ninja with right-footed kick to chin area of mask. POW!

  He goes over on his back. Stirs but can’t shake that one off in time to even try to get up before—

  I’m on him. Both my knees crashing down on his sternum. Another thing he’s taught me. Use gravity. OOOSHHHH. The air driven from his lungs.

  Now I’m ready to finish him off. I’ve never been mad enough to kill before. Now I am. You want pain? I’ll give you pain. Jack is a nice guy, but you asked for it.

  Blood rage roaring in my ears. He tries to kick me off. I slam his head back to the floor. How many times has he knocked me out? Now he’s the one seeing stars.

  I decide to pry off that mask. I want to see the fear in his face before I finish him off.

  My right fist clenches to deliver death blow. I pry off mask with left hand. It doesn’t come off easily, but I wrench it and leather straps give way. I yank it free and start to deliver a brutal final strike with my right hand.

  And then I stop.

  Because his eyes are open. Looking up at me. Gray eyes. Cognizant eyes. Human eyes. He knows what’s coming. And trick or treat—he’s got one final trick.

  He is a she!

  Female features. Even, in their way, attractive. If you happen to like sadistic women built like mailboxes.

  I’m almost mad enough to bust in that face with a vicious punch. Almost. My fist opens. Can’t do it.

  My fingers clamp across her throat. You can kill a person this way in half a second. Rip out her windpipe.

  “Who are you?” I hear myself asking. “Talk or die.”

  Her lips part. Soft voice. “I am called Eko.”

  “Why have you been hurting me?” I demand.

  “This is what I was sent to do,” she gasps. “Time is short. It was the only way.”

  “To do what?” I ease up. Let her suck in a breath.

  “To make sure you could defend yourself,” she explains in a whisper. “Before teaching you the other things you need to learn. Now you are ready.”

  “Oh, so you’re really on my side? I don’t think so.”

  Those gray eyes look up at me. No fear. “If you want to kill me, go ahead. You have the right. You can do anything. You are our beacon of hope. If not, come. We have much work to do, and time is short.”

  Oh, do I want to kill her. Or at least hurt her. But, looking into those gray eyes, I find to my horror that I’m actually starting to believe her.

  That’s crazy. After what she’s done to me, how can I possibly trust her?

  Then I see the decorative image on the jeweled pendant around her neck. A beautiful woman with long, flowing hair.

  I’ve seen this woman’s face before. My parents had an antique brooch. In their bedroom, back in Hadley-by-Hudson. Same flowing hair. Same distinctive, beautiful face. They said it was just an antique they picked up at an old bric-a-brac shop.

  “Who is she?” I ask Eko.

  The gray eyes hesitate for a second. “Your mother,” she whispers. “Your real mother.”

  I get up and back off, my head spinning far worse than when I was being kicked or punched. “Is she alive?” I gasp. “What’s her name? Where is she? How do you know her?”

  Eko takes a few seconds to recover from the beating and then slowly stands. “Later,” she whispers. “Now we must go. It’s dangerous here. Will you come?”

  We look at each other, silently and awkwardly.

  I nod. “I’ll come. But next time you want to teach me something, Eko, see if you can find an easier way.”

  22

  Four-wheel-drive vehicle. Powerful as a tank. My body black-and-blue from recent beatings. With each bump in road, stabbing pains. Ouch, my legs. Ouch, my ribs. Ouch, ouch, my neck.

  Makes little sense that I’m allowing myself to be chauffeured to an unknown destination by the young lady who spent the past few days beating the stuffing out of me. But nothing has made much sense in my life since a tall stranger’s eyes flashed at me in the Hadley Diner.

  Follow your instincts, Jack. If you can’t trust
someone who calls you their beacon of hope, who can you trust? And that pendant with my mother’s image! That sealed the deal.

  Eko takes it off her neck and lets me hold it. I fire a dozen questions at her. She dodges them. “Not now. We’re in danger. People are chasing us. I need to concentrate on getting us safely away.”

  “Who’s chasing us? Why? Just tell me my mother’s name!”

  “Mira,” she whispers. “It’s the name of a famous star that varies in brightness. Sometimes it shines brilliantly. Other times it’s barely there at all.”

  I sit staring at the lovely face on the pendant and contemplate the mysterious new name in my life. Mira.

  Eko’s traded in her colorful ninja robes for simple white shorts and a turquoise top. Give her a camera, she’d look like a tourist.

  She drives the way she fights. Hands graceful and sure on the wheel. Same hands she punched and choked me with. Gray eyes rarely straying from road. Not Asian eyes, not Caucasian. Some exotic blend. Almond skin.

  Two-lane highway smack down middle of barrier island. Sometimes I can see ocean on our east and glass-smooth sound to the west. Then island widens again.

  I pass her back the pendant. “How can anyone be chasing us, Eko? No one knows I’m here, so how can we be in danger?”

  “Because we are.” Woman of few words. Reminds me of Gisco at his most sphinx-like. Finding practical reasons not to answer my questions. Then again, when you’re riding in a Jeep with a girl who’s been beating the hell out of you for days, maybe it’s not such a bad idea to take things slowly.

  We pass through Duck and Corolla. Expensive beach houses in gated communities. Satellite antennas perched like giant spiders on rooftops. Swimming pools glinting. Jacuzzis swirling. Bikers in Spandex. In high season, I bet this place is packed with rich sun worshippers.

  North of the shops of Corolla the houses thin out. Scenery becomes more rugged. A lighthouse towers over the dunes.

  “Why do they need a lighthouse?” I ask Eko to break a long silence. Perhaps she’ll be more willing to talk about things that are not grand futuristic secrets.

  “Wrecks,” she responds.

  “What kind of wrecks?”