Which I did. I practically flew across the stage in long animal leaps, ending with mighty strikes in the air where my imaginary opponents were supposed to be.
My fists corkscrewed out and back almost too fast for the eye to follow. My openhanded strikes slashed back and forth in lightning-speed combinations. I kicked and spun and kicked again, then leapt into the air with my body nearly horizontal to drive a devastating flying kick into an imaginary opponent’s head. I fell to the earth with a downward finishing strike—a punch spiraling straight to the floor as my body dropped down behind it to give it extra force. I let out a deafening roar— “keeyai!”—expelling every ounce of tension in my body, letting the tension explode into the punch as my knuckles scraped the surface of the polished wood.
Then I was upright again, spinning again, lashing out with a hook kick that brought my foot snapping around behind me and the rest of my body snapping around after it. Under the sound of my movements, I could hear the silence of the audience, I could feel their attention on me, feel them caught up in the violent grace of the form. Now I dove forward and went into a rolling somersault. Then I snapped to my feet with a combination of knife-hand strikes and a spinning back kick that brought me around 180 degrees. Someone in the audience—a guy, I’m not sure who—let out a whoop of appreciation, and the rest of the audience applauded. But even then—even as I began to realize that I was doing the best form I’d ever done—even as I began to understand that every eye in the auditorium was locked onto me in fascination—even then, I didn’t let it break through my unthinking concentration. I was deep inside myself, deep inside the form. I had no thoughts—just movement, just concentration. Striking, spinning, kicking as fast as I could but keeping every strike forceful, every position absolutely precise.
Now I was ready to perform the final move of the kata—and the most dangerous. I had come to rest on the far left side of the stage, as far from where Beth was sitting as I could get. I was in a crane position, absolutely still with one leg lifted, the knee up to my waist, the foot pointing down, the edge of one open hand hovering above the thigh, the other hand up to block my face. In one more second, I was going to explode out of the crane and drive across the stage behind a flurry of kicks and blows. At the last second, I would leap into the air above the place where the concrete cinder blocks stood, the two standing upright and the third lying across the top. As I came down, I would unleash a driving downward strike—right into the top of that third concrete block. If I did it just right, with all my focus and all my force—if I concentrated my mind on driving not into the concrete but straight through it—I would break the cinder block in two with my bare fist. That was the plan anyway. My fists were well conditioned and I’d broken blocks before— it’s not really as hard as it looks.
Still, as I stood there on one leg, poised to begin that final movement, a terrible thought broke through my concentration. I had an image of myself driving downward toward the concrete block—driving downward and then, just at the final second, losing my focus. Too late to pull back, I would continue the driving downward strike into the block—but without the full force of my mind and will behind it, it was not the concrete that would shatter, but every bone in my hand. That was it, I realized suddenly. That was how I was going to make a fool of myself in front of Beth. I was going to drive down into the block and break my hand in a million pieces so that my powerful, roaring keeyai would be transformed on the spot into a high-pitched howl of agony. I would go hopping across the stage, gripping my jellylike hand, screaming and screaming while everyone stared in horror and secret amusement. Maybe my pants would even fall off for good measure.
A wavering line of cold nausea went up through the center of me, like a tendril of smoke drifting toward the ceiling. The second the thought of failure occurred to me, I knew I should’ve changed course and abandoned the grand finale. Without confidence, you can’t put your fist through concrete—it just isn’t possible. And with a thought like mine in your head, how could you have any confidence at all?
I told myself to force the thought away. I did force the thought away, but I knew it was still there, just below the surface. And there was no way I was changing course, no way I was going to quit now. Not with everyone watching. Not with Beth watching.
I hung there poised one more second. I let the breath flood out of my body, hoping it would carry the thought of failure away with it. Then I launched the final sequence.
It all seemed to happen fast and slow at once. I could sense and see that I was moving with unstoppable speed, but my mind was so focused on every moment that it felt like slow motion somehow, like a slow-motion movie unfolding frame by graceful frame. Every kick and blow and step carried me farther and farther across the stage, closer and closer to the cinder blocks. Then I pushed off the floor and was airborne, sailing across the final few yards with my right fist drawing back and back, pressed tight to my side, ready to explode downward as I dropped back to Earth, dropped back to the cinder block.
I was screaming before I thought to scream, the roaring keeyai tearing out of the center of me, bursting from me like a tiger bursting out of a cage. I saw the gray of the concrete block rushing up toward me. My mind went down to meet it, went through it. And at the same moment my knee touched the floor, my fist drove out from my side, corkscrewing to where my focus was, on the other side of the cinder block, on the other side of all that concrete.
I don’t remember the meeting of flesh and stone. It was as if I had become so much a part of the moment that I could no longer see it. The next thing I knew, shards of concrete were flying up around my face, and the cinder block, smashed into two pieces, was dropping heavily to the floor on either side of my extended arm.
Only slowly did the rest of the world make its way back into my consciousness. By then, I was already drawing myself up, drawing myself out of that last punch and into the movements of my final salutation. I gathered myself again into the front position, my feet together, my arms up in front of me, my right fist covered by my left hand just beneath my chin. Power through self-discipline. I was done.
That was when I heard them, saw them: the students and teachers in the auditorium. They were on their feet, all of them. They were clapping as hard as they could. Some of the guys were hammering the air with their fists. Some of the girls had covered their mouths with their hands. And then all of them were clapping and screaming and cheering as I stood in front of them, bringing my breath under control.
I let my eyes shift to the right, just a little, just enough to get a glimpse of her. Beth had covered her open mouth with both hands. For another second or two, her eyes remained wide with fear and horror, as if she were still waiting to see what would happen when I struck the block. But now she let the hands fall. She took a deep breath of relief. She laughed. The fear and horror went out of her eyes and something else came into them, something I can’t describe but could feel flowing through me like a warm river.
Then Beth was applauding too, shaking her head with amazement and laughing and applauding, taking her eyes from me to look at Marissa and Tracy and shaking her head at them in amazement just as they were shaking their heads at her right back.
Slowly, I let my hands drop from front position to hang at my sides. I nodded my head sheepishly to acknowledge the cheers.
Nice going, Harley-Charlie, I thought to myself.
The audience went on clapping and cheering, and Beth went on clapping and cheering for a good long time, it seemed like.
It was just a day, you know. Just another ordinary September day. But I remembered now—it flashed through my mind: that moment—that moment standing on the stage while Beth and everybody clapped and cheered—which was, I have to admit, one of the coolest moments of my life so far.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The Black Square
Now that moment seemed a lifetime ago—an impossible lifetime that had somehow vanished into nothingness— there in a flash and just as suddenly gone.
Beth was gone and my friends and my school and Principal Woodman and my moment of glory—all of it, the whole world I knew, the only world I knew, was gone, and the only cinder blocks around were in the walls of this prison hallway. There was nothing else—nothing I could make sense of— except the pain racking my body and the stampede of footsteps as the guards closed in on me—and that black square, that one black square of hope, coming closer up ahead.
I ran for the black square. I told myself again it was a window that had been painted over. It had to be a window. What else could it be?
It didn’t matter. I had to believe there was a way out. I had no other choice. The footsteps behind me were getting louder and louder, closer and closer, and I could hear shouts and curses now and a deep growl of a voice giving the order to “Go, go, go, get him, go, go, go!”
I ran as hard as I could, drove toward the black square, stretching my legs, pumping my arms, putting aside the pain that burned like fire in every part of my body. That black square: It was just like the cinder block at school, I told myself. It was no different from the cinder block. I just had to drive my mind through it, drive my mind straight through to the other side of it. Then my body would follow. At least I hoped it would.
The square kept looming larger as I kept getting closer, but still—still—I couldn’t see—couldn’t be sure— if it was a window or just some black paint slopped onto the surface of the concrete.
I was almost there, just a few strides away. I glanced back over my shoulder. For another half second the hall was empty—empty except for the big lump of chunky thug still lying unconscious on the floor where I had dropped him.
Then the guards came careering around the corner. I caught a glimpse of the first two—two men—dark, Middle Eastern-looking—both dressed the same, dressed the same as I was in black pants and a white shirt. They were carrying those machine guns, those automatic rifles you see on TV all the time: Kalashnikovs, they’re called—AK-47s. They were carrying them in their hands with the straps around their shoulders. As they spotted me, those first two guards dropped to their knees. They brought the rifles to bear. Two more men had already come around the corner behind them. They leveled their rifles also, pointing them at me above the heads of the first two. Four guns were trained on my back.
There was no more time to watch. I faced forward. The black square was now only a half step away. I threw myself at it headlong, full force.
The guards opened fire. Terror flashed through me. The stuttering coughs of the AKs seemed to drown out everything, every hope of survival, every thought of anything but death. Chips of concrete flew everywhere. My heart seized up at the stinging whine of ricochets. And then part of the black square shattered—a glass pane: it was a window after all!
The very next instant my body hit it. My arms were crossed over my face, my head was turned away. I hit the black square with my shoulder, struck the window’s sash with jarring violence. The sash snapped and gave way.
There was a long, tumbling moment of fear and singing bullets and the coughing Kalashnikovs and the breaking wood and glass.
Then I hit the ground—hard. The impact made my bones ache. Glass and wood rained down on top of me. Bullets whispered by overhead.
After the dark hall, the sunlight was blinding. The air was cool and fresh and filled my gasping lungs. I felt an unreasoning surge of hope and crazy joy. I was out—out of the prison—out in the open air!
But there was no time to think about that. Already I was rolling away from the window, fighting to lift myself to one knee. Already I heard more of those thunderous footsteps inside the building behind me, the prison I’d just broken out of. I heard more shouts: “Don’t let him get away! Let’s go—go!”
Dazed and stupid with panic, I knelt on the hard earth and looked around. I was in a broad compound of some sort. I saw gray barrack-style buildings. A fence with barbed wire on top. Guard towers rising against the forest behind them. Inside the towers: men with guns.
Somewhere, an alarm bell started ringing. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw red lights begin to whirl and flash. I heard those guards shouting: “Get him!” Those thundering footsteps. The roar of an engine . . .
An engine. Where? My eyes wide with fear, I turned toward that roar. I saw a big old pickup truck bouncing over the rough ground near me. I caught a glimpse of the man behind the wheel. He seemed oblivious to the emergency unfolding around him. The alarm and shouts and whirling lights hadn’t reached him yet, hadn’t registered on his brain. He was still relaxed, steering the truck with one hand, leaning the other arm on the frame of the open window. The truck was heading toward a gate in the fence, the exit of the compound. The guards there were swinging the gate open to let him out. They were just now pausing, just now trying to figure out what all the noise and fuss were about.
All this I took in in a single second. In the next second, I had to act—had to act without even thinking.
I ran at the truck. Just as it passed me, I leapt at the window.
I caught hold of the window frame. The driver—a square-jawed white guy in his forties, maybe—turned to me in stunned surprise, his jaw dropping, his mouth a wide O.
There was no running board, nothing to rest my feet on. There was nothing I could do now but grip the frame of the open window and try to pull myself inside. With all the wild force of my terror, I yanked myself halfway through the window. I heard the driver curse. He swung the wheel. I felt the truck swerve hard, lifting up on one side. I clawed my way over him, into the cab.
The truck swerved again. The driver cursed again as I tumbled in on him. He tried to punch at me, but I was right on top of him. We were too bunched up together for him to get any force into the blow. His fist beat weakly at my shoulder. I wouldn’t have felt it at all except for the fact that I was already bruised and burned and beaten, already in so much pain.
But that didn’t stop me. I was in the truck now, sliding over the driver, falling into the passenger seat.
I caught a quick glimpse of the scene racing by outside the window. I saw the guards with their Kalashnikovs come storming out of the prison barracks in which I’d been held. They were all shouting at one another. One of them was pointing here and there, giving orders to take up positions. Another one was lifting his rifle, training it on the truck. But he couldn’t get a shot at me, not without killing the driver.
But the driver . . . he had a gun of his own. It was a sidearm, a pistol, in a holster on his belt. He was driving with his left hand now, reaching for the gun with his right, unsnapping the flap of the holster to get at it.
He hadn’t taken his foot off the gas. He kept the truck going full speed. He wrenched the wheel, trying to keep me off balance while he drew the gun.
It worked. Balled up on the seat next to him, I was thrown hard against the dashboard, then thrown back against the seat. I reached out my hand to brace myself against the dash, to steady myself. The driver had his holster open now. His hand closed around the handle of his gun. He started to draw it out.
I pulled my knees tight into my chest, then shot both legs out in front of me. I landed a powerful double kick to the side of the driver’s head.
I heard him grunt above the engine’s roar as the double blow struck him. The truck swerved again, lifting up so high on one side this time that I thought for sure it would turn over. The driver’s gun hand flew up in the air.
The pistol flew out of his grip, bouncing off the back of the cab, sailing back past me to drop onto the cab floor.
Quickly, I squirmed my body around, going after the gun. I reached down. I felt it. I grabbed it.
I was thrown against the dashboard again as the truck lurched suddenly to a stop. I struggled to sit up while the driver sat still behind the wheel, shaking his head, dazed.
I grabbed his shirt collar. I put the gun against his temple.
“Get out!” I shouted.
The truck had now pulled up next to one of the barracks at the far edge
of the compound—far, I mean, from the prison barracks where I’d started out. Out the window, I could see the armed guards rushing across the compound toward us. The driver looked at me sideways, angry, confused.
“Get out now!” I shouted, pushing the gun up hard against his head.
That reached him. Frightened, he fumbled for the handle of the door. The guards outside saw the door opening and pulled up short. They lifted their AKs.
As soon as the door cracked open, I gave the driver a hard shove. He was big, but he was still dazed from the kick to the head. He went tumbling out the door like a side of beef and dropped hard onto the ground. Even as he was falling, I was sliding into his place behind the wheel.
With the driver out of the way, the guards outside had a clear shot at me. I saw them lifting their rifles again, pointing them at the open door of the truck.
But now I had the steering wheel in my hands. I had the gas pedal under my foot. There was no time to close the door. I just hit the gas.
The truck jolted forward. The door swung wide, hit its limit, and bounced back, slamming shut. At the same moment, the guards outside opened fire. I heard the deadly sputter of their guns above the engine’s roar. I heard the bullets ripping into the steel of the truck. I couldn’t see where they hit. I didn’t plan to wait around and find out.
I floored the pedal. I wrenched the wheel. The scenery outside—the fence, the towers, the barracks, the guards—it all went into a swirling blur as the truck turned and turned. I caught sight of the compound gates, the guards standing beside them. I pulled the wheel back over. Dust flew up on every side of me as the truck righted itself and shot forward.
The Last Thing I Remember Page 4