Kung Fu High School

by Ryan Gattis

  Fighting back didn't even occur to him, he was so terrified of Jimmy. He stood stock straight on his tiptoes and had his palms up in surrender. Just like a poisonous insect was on his neck, something that would sting if he moved, something he wasn't quick enough to take care of himself. This was psychological warfare. Jimmy turned three hundred and sixty degrees in a tight circle so that every class member in the room, even the stragglers trying to circle him, could see the urine soaking the smallest kid's thighs and look in his scrunched-up face as he pleaded to live. He had devolved to a six-year-old in Jimmy's grip and his noises were truly scaring everyone else, picking on the last nerve in all of them, but they had weapons. They had superior numbers. Most of them were high on at least one of Ridley's concoctions. They thought they had a chance.

  It was no surprise that the biggest Runner brought his metal pole down hard on the face of the kid Jimmy had collared. Then he did it again. That shut him up. Crying wasn't aloud at Kung Fu. Never. Everyone indoctrinated into the school would've had no trouble with the punishment. If the kid wasn't helping to defeat Jimmy, he was only in the way. That was expected. What wasn't expected was Jimmy pushing the kid's body into the crowd and taking off on a diagonal across the room. He was running for the springboard before the kid's body settled on the floor next to the coach. The bright blue gymnastics flooring absorbed their blood like a hungry sponge, leaving only patches of purple-red behind.

  PLAN B

  The quickest kids to react to Jimmy's sudden surge in movement were two Blades. One used his long strides to attempt to intercept Jimmy before he hit the springboard, while the other one brought up the rear in case Jimmy doubled back. But he didn't. He kept on, full steam even when the long-legged Blade got to the springboard before him and effectively blocked it with his body and swung his metal pole toward the blazing figure in front of him.

  That didn't stop Jimmy though, he leaped a good four feet before the board, sprang off the wall to dodge the pole, and brought a high kick to the forehead of the long-legged Blade who tried to block it at the last second but was merely crushed by the force of Jimmy's velocity and fell backward right onto the springboard. But Jimmy didn't stop there, he cracked the Blade's head against the end of the board and kept his momentum going, jumping up over the pommel horse, into the air, and grabbing the rope. He swung into the wall, pushed off, and turned one hundred and eighty degrees to catch the other chasing Blade in the face with a heel and sent him sprawling. Landing hard, Jimmy changed direction and ran toward the uneven bars, while not a single one of the larger group realized that he was herding them.

  I sometimes wondered what Jimmy was thinking then. If he was thinking of me, of anything, as he methodically disposed of the other members of his class. How much did he worry about disappearing as he balanced on the beam and used his adversaries' momentum against them, as he paralyzed Whip after Whip and Blade after Blade just before they brought a heavy metal object down on his wrist, hard against his hip or neck? I mean, it had to be there somewhere in the back of his head. Every time he pivoted too quickly, focused his mind too strongly on where he needed to be next, was he relieved when he turned and chopped someone down immediately after that, happy he was still there? Or without the benefit of something like television cameras to scrutinize and rewind his movements was he free to act as he normally would? Really, he hadn't even known that he'd disappeared before. It was only after, looking at the footage of the fight, that he got scared thinking about it, racking his brain about it, wondering how it ever happened, how it was even physically possible.

  In the weight room, the two groups that had retreated from the fracas on the balance beam were emptying the weight holders and readying the circular discs to throw at Jimmy. The plan-, get two people to go after Jimmy while the other six threw the weights at him and tried to slow him down. They expected him any second. But he didn't show. Any second. Still no Jimmy. It took a brave Whip to stick his head out around the corner and into the gymnastics room in the direction of the balance beam to confirm the truth: three bodies paralyzed standing up and all the rest on the ground, but the same Whip that peeked was confronted with an even worse sight, Jimmy from two feet away swinging hard and then there was blackness.

  Jimmy dragged the Whip in front of him as a human shield and the unconscious body got pelted with twenty-five-pound weights as Jimmy slid under the leg press and out the other side. Springing forward from all fours, he rose high into the air and caught the chin-up bar—bolted to the wall above the bench-press benches—before shimmying across it like the nimblest of monkeys. He was headed toward the wrestling room, the unlocked door.

  The weights came flying from the hands of all adversaries. Some hit high and left dents in the whitewashed brick wall, revealing the pale gray of the cinder block beneath, while others hit low and clanged off the weight-lifting machines like broken church bells. The rest, thrown like discuses, went awry and brought the huge panes of mirror crashing down on the next wall over. Not a single one hit Jimmy as he cruised through the air, landed, pivoted, and dispensed a high dragon kick to a Whip, pivoted, crushed his body low to the floor like a lizard, and swept through the doors to the weight room. Shutting them hard behind him, Jimmy could feel the clangs of weights against the doors through his arms, and the sounds of them echoed throughout the boxy wrestling room. His fingers found the latch and snapped it closed.

  He'd just have to hurry out through the other double doors and into the hall, rush down the stairs, and make a beeline for the quad because maybe that was where I was. So it must've been disconcerting to turn away from the doors, just as the banging of the heaved weights was subsiding, to take a step forward and find that he was not alone in the cramped wrestling room. On the edge of the mat and its painted-on ring that separated the competition area from the out-of-bounds like a cutout piecrust, various weapon-wielding fighters stood at the ready. But now that Jimmy was standing there, feeling the warm smoothness of the plastic mat with the soles of his feet, it looked too much like an oversized target.

  THE DUEL

  Maria R. was sitting in the middle of the room. Mom of the Fists. The most powerful fighter at Kung Fu. One well-placed shot from her could leave you needing plastic surgery. To welcome Jimmy, she stood up and unfolded her bulk from her sitting position. Not fat, strictly compact muscle built to destroy. The assortment of handpicked fighters was scattered about the room, five in all, plus Maria, six. It was impossible to tell what families they were from. It seemed it no longer mattered. Ridley had consolidated his forces.

  All the other fighters in the room must've thought the odds were fair, considering Jimmy's rep. They had tied black masks around their faces, like generic, bargain-basement ninjas. Jimmy didn't have to be told the rules. He'd fight Maria but no one would watch his back. Every single fighter had throwing weapons and he was the mark.

  The room was hot. Like sweating hot. It was kept that way on purpose. Long ago, the wrestling coach had ordered no ventilation to the room so that it would encourage his athletes to perspire, making it easier for them to lose weight. For lighting, there were only three large, circular fluorescent lights above the mat. Each was covered with a metal exoskeleton to protect it from being broken by a projectile. They were probably castoffs from the gym lights though, built to withstand direct hits from basketballs and all manner of large objects.

  THE LIGHT

  Maria held out her palm to Jimmy, an indication to begin when he wished. With precisely the same movement that had snagged the scared kid earlier, Jimmy seized a fighter crouched four feet away from him and broke a wrist, an arm, and a shoulder for the trouble. The scream ended in the throat before it really got started but the glottal stop of a sound lingered in the padded, windowless room. The other fighters pushed their backs to the walls, rigidly shifting well out of his reach. Five Chinese throwing stars dropped to the mat from the worthless fist of the limp fighter and Jimmy grabbed two and slung them at the right and left lights, which s
hattered easily and went out, leaving only the single light in the middle and shrouding the outer rim of the mat, and all four walls, in complete darkness. Jimmy took one large step backward and disappeared from view.

  Chinese stars and throwing kinfés flew wildly across the room, embedding themselves into the padded walls and the thin stretch of painted wall below the ceiling. One hit Maria in the arm. She shrugged it off. Something whizzed past her ear. Another hit her in the leg. She turned sideways. Something hit her stomach, probably bounced off. She didn't even think about it, nor did she look down. She was wearing armor, what was to fear? Besides, none of the thrown objects was intentional. But one by one, the limp bodies of fighters tumbled into the single light from the center as evidence: an outstretched hand, a wrapped-up head facedown, two feet, until there were none left. The only audible noises were the loose thuds of bodies collapsing upon the mat, unexpected exhales, and the occasional, harsh crack of bone.

  Maria was doing her best not to look disturbed. After all, she trusted in her thick boots and armor. Jimmy was barefoot and in gym clothes. Advantage her, with all the broken bulb glass on the slippery plastic of the mat. Just as her eyes were nearly adjusted to the new low level of light, Jimmy stepped out from the darkness behind her, right in front of the exit doors. He pushed. They did not open. He pushed harder. Nothing happened.

  Maria turned and smiled. She didn't need to angle her neck to the leftover light so that it would hit the key that dangled on a chain there. Like silver. Jimmy knew she had it. Removing a kinfé from his right forearm, he straightened his body, and tore one sleeve away from his T-shirt, using it to wrap over the wound, below the elbow, nice and tight. He dropped the kinfé, the one stained with his blood, onto the mat beside him, then nodded.

  Maria rushed toward him, pushing the pace. She started with a jab that hit Jimmy's blocking forearm like a ton of bricks. He stumbled backward and quickly decided not to block with his hurt forearm. But Maria was on top of him, keeping her punches tight and not swinging wildly: a thundering hook to his body, a jab toward his jaw that caught his shoulder, an uppercut that caromed off his collarbone and just missed his chin. He slumped to all fours on the floor. She backed off looking confident, not wanting to end it too early, still a bit afraid of his capabilities. Never had she thought it would be so easy.

  "Get up!" she said, feeling the rush of power in beating up on an opponent that was supposedly superior.

  "Get up!" She yelled it this time.

  Jimmy was on his knees on the edge of the lit circle, holding himself up by his unwounded arm and crouching.

  "Get up!"

  Maria was becoming impatient. If he didn't get up, she'd hit him while he was down. She didn't care.

  Slowly, Jimmy raised himself up to his full height. Even in the dim light, Maria could see the tremendous bloodstain spread across his chest, completely blotting out the red cougar on his yellow shirt. She hadn't hit him that hard, she thought. But Maria's pleasant feeling of surprise turned into a sinking thing, a lump in her throat dropping down to the growing burning in the lining of her stomach, for in his other hand, Jimmy dangled the key on its chain. Maria touched her neck for confirmation but she knew it was gone. She was feeling strangely light-headed. When she looked down, the sight of two kinfés sticking out of her stomach was not surprising. Though she did wonder, how did they go right through Kevlar and miss the trauma plate? Not that it mattered. In fact, it didn't even feel like her body as she fell to her knees then over onto her side, crushing her outline into the mat with a crinkly thump.

  TROPHIES

  Looking at Maria's motionless body, Jimmy shook his head. He hadn't thrown the kinfés, but he'd pushed them in. It was his fault. She'd rushed him with those pointy things sticking out of her. All that armor must've dulled it at first. That, or made her feel impervious. He couldn't dwell on it though. He had to go or he'd be next. Unlocking the double doors, Jimmy kicked them open and threw a star above him to break the remaining light in the wrestling room.

  More fighters were waiting outside when the double doors opened, but they didn't dare go into a dark room. Two got pushed forward by the others. To check it out. They caught stars in their ribs and turned screaming, showering the air with bloody droplets, just as Jimmy bounded out of the room like a free tiger. Staying low along the landing, he broke through the group and leaped off the balcony and high over the lobby. He landed atop the tallest trophy case, a huge oak thing that stood at least fifteen feet tall.

  Balancing easily, he turned just in time to see one kid stupid enough to make the leap after him. Too bad the kid didn't jump far enough. Jimmy didn't even need to kick out at the poor bastard as he slid through the air and hit the hard tile with a sickening open fracture of a splat. He started moaning and Jimmy jumped down to the top of the soft-drink machine to the right of the trophy case and then shimmied over the stairway rail to the front of the gym lobby, the main entrance to the building.

  Two kids coming in through the front doors took up fighting positions but that didn't distract Jimmy from the Blade behind him, jumping a high kick toward him off the top of the soft-drink machine. Poor timing really. Because Jimmy grabbed his leg in midair, ducked, and slung the Blade over his head like a bowling ball still in its handle bag right into the two kids near the door. Picked up a spare on the 3/10-pin combination.

  No time to gloat though. Three Runners were almost on top of him. One kicked at Jimmy, missed, and ended up round-housing the plate glass of the trophy case right out. The rectangular pane wobbled, then split in a huge "V," the top half coming down like a guillotine, hitting the floor and spreading out in shards like a wave hitting the beach with mostly sea foam at high tide. Unbalanced by the force of the blow, the stuffed cougar mascot tumbled from its perch among the trophies and onto the floor. So Jimmy kicked it in the flank and it spun on the slick floor, sending chunks of glass skittering across the tile in the process. The still-sharp claws of the outstretched paw mauled one of the Runners in the leg. It stunned him just long enough that he wasn't able to block the trophy coming at him. He got clocked with a 1978 Division 4A Cross-Country Fields Cup Trophy, at right about Lucerne in the countryside of Switzerland above his ear.

  In my experience, the best way to take leg fighters is just to step up and use good old front-foot boxing on them. Get in tight, use solid body control and footwork, back off from the low kicks and push in when they kick high but watch out for the knockout blows. Of course, it helps when they're focused on Jimmy and don't see you coming so you bring down a vicious rabbit punch on two of them and they turn only to get kicked by Jimmy from behind.

  See, I came from the quad side into the gym entrance. And I brought a whole army in behind me. We couldn't go back out those doors and we didn't need to speak. I led. We had to take the five stairs down and to the right, cut left around the drink machine, in front of the other huge oak trophy case and head for the indoor swimming pool because its chemical-soaked exit doors were the only things that connected the gym building to the main building. Then all we had to do was go through the cafeteria and make a decision, either back out into the quad, to the original meeting position about an hour too early, or up the stairs and into the classrooms. Either way, those were our only hopes of finding Melinda.

  ANOTHER WAY

  As luck would have it, our path to the swimming pool side door was blocked by seven kids looting the concession stand. They'd already lifted five or six boxes of candy out from underneath the roll-down black metal security gate. Somehow, they'd managed to wedge it up and now the thinnest girl I'd ever seen was trying to push out a cylindrical container of soda, but it was stuck in the maw of that stingy gate. She must've been the only one tiny enough to squeeze through the hole and empty the concession stand from the inside. A bailing line of sorts had been formed and the kids would pass a box of candy from arm to arm like buckets of water before the last guy dumped the box into a big plastic trash can with no liner that was obviously meant
to carry all the boxes together for a quick getaway.

  Deer in headlights, that's how every single one of them looked when they saw me with my busted hands and Jimmy with his blood-spattered T-shirt, shorts, and bare, cut-up feet. Bound to happen, I guess. Rogues just trying to help themselves out, taking advantage of the chaos and not following the plan. Which would've been fine if not for the fact that they stopped midlooting, dropped boxes, and decided to roll on us. And with at least thirty guys immediately behind us, turning around wasn't an option. So I cut right, down the narrow hallway.

  We'd get to the pool the back way, down the hall and out through the locker room. We'd have to. Contingency plans were running short and there were no more exits. I was already looking behind me when I flew around the corner, setting myself to slam the huge black door behind us so it would lock automatically and we could pick our way through the locker room carefully instead of having to sprint with more kids on our tail. Of course, I hadn't planned on catching a hard shot to the shoulder that spun me, sending me hard into the wall. I crumpled. Felt like someone had opened up my shoulder blade like a car's hood, stuffed a burning coal inside, then slammed it shut so I couldn't pull it out. It just smoldered.

  It was Jimmy that shut the door instead. I heard the click as I pushed myself to my feet and saw Donnie K. standing there. Mr. Big Bad Runner flexing his shoulders, stretching his neck. Like he'd been waiting a real long time.

  "Snuck up on me last time," he said, resetting his body from the vicious shot he just put on me. "Was long past time for a little JB on that ass."

  Big Paybacks are called James Browns at Kung Fu, JBs for short. He must've meant to kick Jimmy, but one was just as good as the other to Donnie. Only problem was, he just made Jimmy mad. Usually, Mr. Humble Little Farm Boy respected his opponents. He honored them, did not humiliate them, never crushed them. But I could see it in his eyes when he put the soft edge of his hand on my arm and pushed me behind him: Donnie was going to get crushed. I felt a surge of cruel excitement that gave me goose bumps on the parts of my skin that weren't torn or bruised.