Geekomancy

by Michael R. Underwood

  “A little help, please!” Ree called to Eastwood as she scrambled back, ripping things off the shelves to toss at the creature. She threw small boxes, bags of dice, identification cards, and caltrops, to no discernible effect.

  “Still busy!” Eastwood called, dashing back and forth between the two dead geeks, lightsaber flashing. I guess you don’t spend years running with a Jedi without picking up some serious moves.

  Ree grunted, pulling an arrow out of a quiver and throwing it like a tiny javelin. The arrow stuck in the tall man’s leg, the wound spilling out and adding to the blood armor. Ree grabbed another pair of arrows, but as she stood to throw, fatigue dragged on her. She steadied herself on the nearby shelf.

  The rail-thin man closed on her as she found her feet, the arrow weighing twenty pounds in her hand as she fought past the fatigue. Not now, she thought, grinding her teeth. Grabbing the arrow with both arms, she rammed it into the man’s throat. The wound spurted blood like a Sam Raimi character.

  Hell yeah! Ree’s eyes went wide. Her momentum back, she raised another arrow, leaped forward, and buried it in his eye. Ice-cold blood sprayed all over her shirt, which made her doubly squicked since: 1) well, blood, and 2) blood was supposed to be warm. She had dead man’s blood on her.

  At least I’m not a vamp from Supernatural.

  Ree pulled out Sting and raised it high to chop the fiend’s head off, kind of hoping that it was overkill but not really ready to fight someone with an arrow coming out of his eye. The sword clanged off of the cement floor with her downward stroke, and the head rolled to the side, sticking to the ground at an angle as the blood hardened.

  She exhaled slowly, scanning the room for Eastwood. He’d backed up and onto his desk, using the high ground to keep the two dead geeks at bay. The Duke stood to the side, watching and buffing his fingernails.

  Options unfolded in front of her like a cynical Choose Your Own Adventure.

  If you charge into battle to help the man who tried to get your boss’s son to commit suicide, turn to page 73.

  If you take the coward’s way and run the hell away, turn to page 497.

  If you try to sneak up on and backstab the Thrice-Retconned Duke of Pwn, turn to page 666.

  If you try to pop your shoulder back into its socket by shoulder-checking a metal shelf, turn to Chapter 21.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  You Have Chosen Medical Masochism

  Ree figured that the backstabbing option would get her killed pretty fast, and her sense of do-gooderism wouldn’t let her abandon Eastwood. She knew intellectually how to put her arm back into its socket, but she was afraid that if she screwed it up, she might lose the arm.

  Then again, if the arm is deadweight, I’m screwed if it loses me the fight. So what’s it going to be?

  Ree leaned against a shelf, grounded her feet, grabbed her left arm with her right, and took a breath. She lunged forward, ramming her shoulder into the shelf as she pushed with her good arm. Ree felt more than heard the pop, which was followed by a fresh wash of pain.

  She slumped to the floor, eyes hot with tears of pain. Holygoddamnedmonkeyballsow.

  After sobbing for a few moments, she rolled over and sat up, looking at an increasingly harried Eastwood on his desk, using the lightsaber more like a broom desperately warding off vermin than an experienced fighter wielding an elegant weapon from a more civilized age.

  Not over yet. “Big Damn Hero time, Ree.”

  Striding down the aisle, she gathered her courage and pushed back the pain. She picked up the sword and retrieved the Captain America shield from its resting place atop the tall man’s body.

  “Player Two has entered the game, motherfuckers!” Ree shouted, drawing the woman’s attention away from Eastwood. The same bloody claws, but her hair was also red-streaked, with arrowhead-shaped chunks of hardened blood dotting her dishwater-colored mane. Ree slashed horizontally, pushing the woman back and away from Eastwood. Carrying her cut through, she pivoted in place and cut at the round man. Her sword sliced through layers of back fat, drawing blood, more quick-harden armor forming over the cut.

  As the round man rolled her way, Ree gave ground. “I got the other one with an arrow in the eye,” she said, skipping back to face the dead woman, who wound up her hair like a whip, then cracked it at Ree.

  Ree jumped out of the way, favoring voids over deflections to keep from giving the woman more blood armor. “Maybe they take head shots?” She caught a few cuts on her jacket and along her sword arm, but the leather took most of the bite.

  I’m sorry, cows. You wanted me to think of you as more than burgers, and now I know you make awesome armor. Probably not what you were looking for. Note to self: Remember to thank Drake for his awesome coat.

  Eastwood jumped to his left, dodging a meaty swipe from the round deadie. “Could be. But he parries like a master.”

  “Fight better, then!” Ree hid behind her shield as the dead woman swung her hair around again. The sound of the hair on the shield was like hail mixed with the floppy squeegees of a car wash. And it smelled like patchouli old enough to order a beer.

  Ree cut at the hair as it squeegeed off the shield. She caught a chunk and sent it off to the side, which elicited a hiss from the dead woman. The shorn ends of the hair bled, forming a matted chunk of blood plate.

  Great, now her hair has a mace in it.

  Ree stepped forward, trying to cut at the woman’s neck, but the dead woman spun back, taking the shot in her thick hair. Another gob of hair went flying, replaced by another mass of bloody plate.

  This is going to stop working really fast.

  Ree mimed a third cut, and the woman dodged back, whipping her hair around. Ree turned her wrist, pulling the cut, then swung it up again once the blood hair had whipped past. Ree took cuts along her right side and a dull blow from one of the blood plates, but she connected, tearing off the dead woman’s jaw with the blade. Ree quickly cut up from the right and took the woman’s head off, sending blood spraying all over Eastwood’s wall of screens.

  Ree shuddered. That effect is a lot scarier in person than on-screen.

  She shook off the image and turned left to see Eastwood throw a combo, feinting to each limb before shooting straight forward and spearing his opponent through the mouth. The round man rolled back and went limp, his thick limbs hanging out from his rotund core.

  Eastwood walked along his desk, holding the lightsaber out at the Duke. “Here’s how this is going to go.” Eastwood furrowed his brow, concentrating. “You’re going to conjure up Branwen, and then you’re going to get the fuck out of here and never show your yellow-toothed face in Pearson again.”

  It was the first time Ree had heard him curse in English. Not Klingon, Chinese, or made-up-SF languages, but plain ole English, and with more vitriol than she usually strung in a whole sentence of cursing.

  Ree watched as the Chief of the Dork Lords of Hell reacted to Eastwood’s ultimatum.

  “And why would I bother acknowledging these terms, boy? I have hundreds more where those three came from, and I know enough about you to destroy you from the demon pits just as easily as from here.”

  The Duke stepped forward, growing as he went. After two steps, he was more than eight feet tall, eye to eye with Eastwood, who retreated on his desk, knocking over keyboards and stacks of discs. The Duke kept growing, until he was more than ten feet tall, staring down his long nose at the now tiny-seeming geek. “The only pertinent question is how I will choose to end your miserable excuse for a life.”

  As the Duke spoke, Ree did her best to be unobtrusive, first sliding to the Duke’s side, then inching out of his peripheral vision.

  No monologuing, my ass, Ree thought. If his mooks went down to head shots . . . She eyed a spot on Eastwood’s desk, at the far edge, where a stand of Mountain Dew cans made a tiny aluminum forest.

  Well, Mom, if this gets me killed, I’ll see you soon.

  Slipping the shield off of her arm, Ree jumped up t
o the desk, knocking the soda cans aside. She pushed off with her good foot from the desk and jumped at the Duke, reaching for his shoulder and thrusting the sword at his back.

  But the Duke wasn’t lying about the retcons.

  As she jumped at his back, the Duke reached behind, ignoring mundane things like normative physiognomy. His arm bent backward and swatted her off like a horsefly. The hit landed like a baseball bat, and Ree became an infield grounder, hitting the hard floor and rolling.

  Ow. Not my best idea.

  Fatigue and pain fought for attention as she tumbled. Ree slid to a stop and let the pain in for a second, paralyzing her.

  She opened her eyes, seeing double. She blinked until her eyes focused, then looked around. She saw Eastwood hard-pressed by the Duke, twenty yards away. The Duke had put her back in the stacks, amid an entire arsenal.

  I just have to find something that will have the punch to hurt him. Eastwood would keep the most powerful weapons to himself, she figured, but he couldn’t hold everything at once, not without a bag of holding, and she wasn’t sure he had one of those. I need something not powerful enough for him to already have on hand for this battle, something specialized.

  Ree heard the whooshing sounds of Eastwood’s lightsaber, but instead of the crackle of blade on blade, she heard dull thuds. What’s that guy made of?

  Ree crossed lightsabers off her list of possible weapons and went back to her list. Cross? Holy water? Cold iron?

  Now, that’s a thought. If the Duke was a geek demon, he might just follow D&D vulnerabilities. The Duke struck her as more lawful than chaotic, which meant that she needed adamantine. Which didn’t exist in the world, but it sure as hell existed in the geekverse, if adamantium could serve as a close substitute. That depended on how much of a rules lawyer the universe was. Then again, the adamantium she was thinking about was attached to a character so beloved that he might trump the whole argument.

  Mama needs a new set of Wolverine claws.

  Ree hustled down the aisles, moving faster now that she was looking for one thing in particular. Again, there seemed to be no order to the props and artifacts.

  “Would it kill you to alphabetize this place?” Ree shouted. If she asked Eastwood for a hint, she bet the Duke could figure it out. But her last sneak attack hadn’t gone terribly well, so it couldn’t hurt to speed things up.

  Eastwood shouted back, his voice nearly drowned out by the whooshes and thuds. “If we survive, maybe I’ll pay you to do it for me.”

  Ree reached the end of a row. “Gladly, but it’s going to cost you a hell of a lot more than minimum wage. Where can a girl find some Wolverine claws in this mess?”

  “Third aisle from the left, halfway to the door . . . second shelf, I think.” His voice got softer, and Ree figured he was trading barbs with the Duke.

  Ree got to the next intersection, counted the shelves as she shifted over, and continued toward the door.

  Second shelf . . .

  Ree passed Fleer X-Men trading cards, Versus card game booster boxes, a three-pack of the horrible Mary Jane maquette where she was washing Spider-Man’s suit, a pair of giant Hulk fists (which Ree desperately wanted to try out but didn’t think would have any special anti-demon effect and would likely make her go berserk), before she found a single box with a pair of yellow plastic gauntlets that advertised TEAR INTO CRIME WITH WOLVERINE’S EXTENDABLE CLAWS!

  Bingo. Ree grabbed and ripped open the box with all the gusto of a kid on Christmas morning finally opening that last big present. She was good at this; she hadn’t been a patient kid come Christmastime, even before Mom left. Aren’t you glad now, Mom? If this brings you back, I will claim the right to rip open presents with careless impunity forever.

  She sheathed Sting and slipped on one glove, then pushed the button to extend the claws.

  How are you supposed to work them if you’re wearing them at the same time? she wondered, then imagined that this design problem might have been why Eastwood had them on the shelf instead of in his trench coat. Holding the other gauntlet in her hand, she jogged back toward the sound of lightsaber and demon-made-of-something-that-goes-thud.

  Eastwood had come down or been forced from the desk and was fighting while backpedaling down an aisle. The Duke was at least twelve feet tall, his unkempt claws now six-inch razor blades that flashed through the air. Eastwood moved with uncanny grace, weaving between some cuts and warding others off with the lightsaber. Even when he landed blows, they hit and bounced off of the Duke’s expensive suit.

  Ree came up on the Duke’s left and led with her claws, reciting a plea to the gods of Geekdom.

  Please work please work please work please work.

  The Duke spun in place, swinging one hand’s claws to block her own. Ree continued her plea as their claws met with a crash of sparks. She jumped to the side and tossed the other gauntlet to Eastwood, who had taken the opportunity to back off and drink some kind of blue potion. The gauntlet took him by surprise, and he dropped his lightsaber in catching it.

  Mana? What is he using mana for? Ree shook her head, dismissing the question. Fight now, questions later.

  Eastwood slipped the Wolverine fist on his hand and extended the claws. “How did you know I was a lefty claw fighter?”

  “I didn’t, but today you are whether you like it or not.”

  Ree lunged at the Duke again, but he was ready. He swung out a leg and knocked her aside, her claws whiffing through empty air. The blow sent Ree careening toward Eastwood, who threw his clawed hand wide and crouched to receive her.

  “Huph,” he said as she crashed into him. Eastwood fell back, and the two of them tumbled to the floor in a mess.

  The Duke laughed. “Pathetic.”

  Ree found her feet, huffing. Her hands were shaking. She could run on adrenaline only so long, and when that was through, she’d be worth as much as a pile of empty wrappers. “You got any more mana potions, or whatever that was?”

  Eastwood dusted himself off and raised his gauntlet forward in a guard. “In the shelves.”

  Ree tried to slow her breathing, find her center.

  The Duke spread his arms wide, his huge form casting a shadow over both Ree and Eastwood. “A whole museum of trinkets at your disposal, and you can’t even scratch me.”

  He’s playing with us, the bastard. Ree wondered if he did this with each soul he claimed, the Greatest Game with Gamers. A petulant gloater who toggled on God Mode and then griefed everyone who wandered into his territory.

  Eastwood pursed his lips, lost in thought.

  “Any new ideas?” she asked.

  Eastwood waited a beat and then sighed. “Run. I’ll hold him off. There’s no need for you to pay for my stupidity.”

  “Oh, she’ll pay,” said the Duke. “I may have to wait a little while for her, but I still have something she wants, and she’ll come crawling to me someday. Just like you did. You knew better, and yet here we are.”

  As the Duke grandstanded, Eastwood reached into his pocket, and Ree heard something rip.

  The next thing she heard was Eastwood speaking to her. But his lips weren’t moving. The words echoed in her mind like a racketball. “I put a boomerang back to his dimension in the summoning. We just need to get him into the cauldron again and flush-goes-the-toilet. Find something to knock him over—I’ll provide the distraction.”

  Ree shot Eastwood a sly look, thinking, You sneaky bastard, but he didn’t respond. Whatever trick he’d used, it seemed to be a one-shot.

  With no answer from Eastwood, Ree started the charade. She lowered her gauntlet, putting on her best guilty face. “Good luck,” she said, then turned and ran for the door. She heard the sound of fighting and searched her mind as Eastwood shouted taunts at the Duke.

  “Fight me for real, you cowardly, Ferengi-loving, toaster-munching piece of tribble bait!”

  Knockback. Something with enough oomph. Or something that pulls, if I can get it on the other side of him . . .

&
nbsp; Ree tried to hold a list of every gadget and prop she’d seen in Eastwood’s stacks in her mind, and cross them off one by one. She had a niggling feeling still. She knew she’d already seen the answer and just had to remember it.

  After she heard a few more nerdly curse-streams from Eastwood, a light went on in her mind. Ree took the stairs up to the back door three at a time and opened the door, cackling to herself all the while. Then she waited for it to close again and jumped off the stairs to land at the same time as the door slammed with its characteristic grinding thud. She hoped that Eastwood’s running commentary would be enough to sell her ruse.

  Ree crept over to the fifth row of shelves. She turned the corner and looked up and down the stacks, trying to find the box she’d noticed on her first visit and had misread as marking Eastwood for a big perv. Not that he isn’t a big perv, but not for this reason. I hope. The box wouldn’t be open if he is, right? Plus, he has chicken legs, he’d never be able to pull them off.

  Ree saw the box and plucked it off the shelf, relieved. And then the reality of what she’d have to do in order to pull it off hit home. Damn you, DC. She reached down, unzipped her boots, then unbuckled her belt. Positioning herself behind the stacks for modesty—out of habit more than any actual fear of discovery—she dropped her jeans and picked up the stockings from the box marked BIRDS OF PREY—BLACK CANARY’S FISHNETS.

  For Ree, Black Canary was a perfect example of how DC Comics could be simultaneously brilliant and idiotic. The character had been a part of some of DC’s best story lines but was continually saddled with a stripper outfit, each version of which always centered around her trademark fishnet tights.

  Priorities, Ree reminded herself, pulling the tights up as far as they would go, all the way to the edge of uncomfortableness and a little bit beyond.

  Ree felt the power thrumming in her throat. She also felt like the camera of the universe was trying to find angles to show her from below.

  Hoping that she was now prepared, Ree started the long, terrifying walk back down the room, making it at least the fifth time she’d crossed the Dorkcave in, what, ten minutes?