It Was Only on Stun!

by Declan Finn

  All eyes locked on Scholl.

  ***

  Sean felt a little silly walking into the empty sports center, in the dead of night, wearing a Spider-Man costume. There was bizarre, and then there was just plain stupid.

  He grabbed a flashlight off the security table before heading into the depths of the track. He gave a thought to turning on the lights, and shook his head. Wouldn’t want to make ourselves a target, would we? Bright lights on dark night screams here I am!

  He flowed down the stairs, letting his eyes adjust to the light. He was half-tempted to leave the flashlight off, but that wouldn’t do. How the hell was he supposed to see anything of importance?

  He sighed and flipped on the light, impressed by the emptiness of what was generally a large chaotic mess. He walked the grid, moving toward the fight that morning with Zorro. He was still mildly confused why the masked man hadn’t used his sword when he lost his knife, which he didn’t recover.

  And why is that? Because you were too much in a rush to get back to normal, and too prideful to call the cops, idjit! In fact, had you merely talked to the cops, you would have been on far safer ground…though it’s not like the cops can play by my rules.

  Ryan flashed the flashlight around the stairs, wondering where the blade could have hidden. It wasn’t under the stairs, or between the stairs and the elevator. The elevator was still closed when Zorro had been disarmed. He thought, flashed the light around the floor, and smiled. He strolled to the nearest table and lifted the tablecloth. The knife was still there, trapped between the cloth and boxes filled with black silk robes for the meat-and-potatoes vampire who preferred Bella Lugosi to Wes Craven. The extreme tip of the silver blade was darkened with dried blood—but it was only his blood, so there was no problem. He wondered what he hoped to accomplish, considering that Zorro had worn gloves. But, there was always the hope someone had been stupid; Ryan’s law was nearly that of Terry Goodkind’s wizards, only Sean’s was “Always bet on stupidity”.

  Question is how he got in here without a strapped-down knife. Answer: There are bolt-cutting devices in this world that don’t belong to you, friend.

  Ryan sighed, and decided to claim the knife once he had double-checked the crime scene from the previous morning.

  He walked the center aisle, examining the merchandise along the way. Swords, books, machetes, axes… He furrowed his brow and looked at one figure, his height, wearing a hockey mask and holding a double-edged Lord of the Rings dwarf battle-axe.

  “Someone has a continuity problem,” he sniffed. Even he knew the difference between Jason’s machete and the axe of a—

  “Jason” came to life, flicking the axe with speed that impressed Sean. Ryan leapt backwards just in time, but his flashlight had been cut in a cross-section where one battery touched another. he didn’t want to think about the weight and speed of the weapon that cut through the heavy plastic.

  Lifelike, isn’t he? he thought ironically. Puts the action in action figure.

  Ryan dove forward, hearing the whistle of the axe swing past his head. He slammed into the legs of the attacker, and rolled past him and came up in a crouch, letting his eyes adjust to the dark. He reached for the throwing knife in his belt, and realized he must have ejected it by accident as he rolled. The blackout curtains and the level of the track had blocked out all ambient starlight on this moonless night, and the normally bright lights behind the exit signs had been cut.

  No points for guessing who did that. You want to bet the circuit breaker has been tripped as well? Your big problem isn’t being weaponless against an axe murderer; you're weaponless against an axe murderer in total and complete darkness.

  The noises from “Jason” ceased, and Sean knew he had regained his footing and would hopefully keep moving, make a little noise, so he could find and break his neck.

  Jason didn’t even breathe.

  I can wait for Mr. Axe Murderer, or do…what? Hurl something? Good luck, you strapped down everything here, and you’re nowhere near the books.

  He called up a mental layout of the zocalo room. He was next to a fantasy jewelry vendor. He slowly extended his right hand and felt for a tablecloth. His fingertips reached fabric and he followed it to the flat surface of the table. Ever in his mind was the ongoing hope he would feel something heavy and slam an idea home into Jason’s mind with great force. He felt the brass base of some dust collector, and traced the slight metal rim to a curved object at the end. He lifted his finger from the object.

  Unfortunately, the curve had been that of a chime, and as soon as his finger left it, the little noisemaker went off.

  Ryan, still in his crouch, pivoted, and swept his hands across the surface, knocking off other objects as he turned. He latched onto something and jumped away with it. The axe blade sang through the air, and there was the distinct sound of the table being cut down in its prime. Sean hurled the heavy green glass ball in his hand. Jason grunted, then sidestepped softly, trying to stay quiet.

  Ryan took a small breath, slowing down, trying to think rather than react. He very slowly crawled back, trying to put something that resembled distance between him and his adversary. His palm fell on a squeaky board, which made itself known to the entire hall. Sean rolled and kept rolling. His path quickly turned to sawdust as Jason hacked down with each movement Sean made. Given the only noise Sean heard was the ever-moving song of the blade, he couldn’t locate him. He flipped onto his feet and kept moving back, He brought up his hands and fired the wide-spread ammonia spray from the shooters at his wrists.

  If I can’t find you, I’m at least going to irritate you.

  With a grunt, the axe sang again, and Ryan performed a simple back flip. Jason whirled and stepped forward, chopping down with the weapon. Ryan had already thrown himself to the side, landing on top of a comic book table. He rolled off into the vendor’s booth. He heard the table being destroyed only three feet to his right. He smiled and leapt up onto the undamaged table in front of him, unleashing a kick as he slid off. The kick glanced off Jason, knocking him off balance, and Ryan landed on his feet, ducked his head, and dove away, sliding underneath the table of an armory boutique. He rolled beneath the tablecloth. The axe murderer slowly and methodically approached Ryan's heavy breathing.

  Jason sliced down on Sean Ryan, three times.

  However, as the table above him took the blows, Ryan narrowed down the location of the axe man—Wasn’t that the name of a song? No, that was The Tax Man—and shot his hand out, grabbing the man’s ankle. He twisted in place, yanking on the leg and bringing Jason down to the floor, his axe buried deep within the track’s boards. Ryan scrambled up the man’s body, one hand seeking the axe handle, only to find it thrust into his face as Jason slammed it forward, shaking all of Ryan’s teeth. Ryan grabbed the weapon and held on, lest Jason decide to merely swing out and get lucky. He rolled off of Jason. Jason also rolled, only in the other direction, and took the axe with him. They both came to their feet about twenty feet away from each other.

  The two of them waited patiently for the other to attack, each of them thinking about what the other might do, and how they themselves might respond, or how they could make the first move without giving away the advantage of invisibility.

  Sean Ryan had the best chance to respond. He smiled at a thought: if this man moved as fast as he did, he might act like he did. Which meant that he had rolled at a right angle, just as he had. Which meant that he was directly in front of him.

  Ryan lifted his hands to face level, and pressed down on the ammonia triggers at the base of his palms, firing a stream of ammonia directly ahead of him.

  Jason heard the ammonia firing before he felt it, and he ran toward the sound, instead having the ammonia fall directly on his hockey mask. While the liquid didn’t hit his eyes directly, droplets sunk into the black cloth that lined the mask, allowing the fumes to sweep into his eyes. He grunted, blinking furiously to clear away the tears that had suddenly flooded his eyes.


  Ryan followed the grunt and rushed forward. He counted on Jason figuring he would do that and would swung horizontally in an attempt to sever his chest, so he listened for the sound of the singing blade, and backpedaled to avoid loss of anything vital. Once the sound stopped, he leapt forward once more, unleashing a punch with all of his might on the assumption it would be his last chance. His palm struck plastic, and the Jason mask cracked down the center.

  Ryan ran for the staircase, only to be hooked by the axe blade. He landed on his hands and came to his feet in time for the weapon to sing again. The bodyguard performed a cartwheel, the blade just flying between his legs as he did so, missing anything important. Jason swung diagonally a moment after Ryan slapped the table next to him and swung himself onto the other side. He grabbed the nearest weapon—something that felt like a sword—and swung, aiming for where he believed the axe was. The weapons collided mid-stroke, and they generated a spark bright enough to see Ryan’s blade cut in half by the exceedingly better weapon.

  But I know where you are now, friend. He dove beneath the table, through the low-hanging tablecloth and into Jason’s legs. The axe man fell forward, his chest slamming the table. He pushed off the table and onto his feet, pivoting with the weapon. The blade soared over Ryan’s head, and Ryan sprang to his feet, landing a solid uppercut into the man’s stomach by total accident. Before the axe could come down, Ryan pushed off the floor, tumbling backwards and to his feet five feet away. Jason swung into the space where Ryan had been, then threw himself backwards, rolling off the table onto his feet.

  If that was the armory, where would…got it! Following the layout from memory, Ryan bolted left, down the main aisle to the back. Jason, hearing his light footfalls, leapt over the table and followed, axe high with murderous intent. He followed the sound to a rack of shirts, and he listened intently and stared into…

  Jason narrowed his eyes, squinting at the shirts, swearing he had seen a bright green glow. He took only one step forward before noting there were long sleeved T-shirts with glow-in-the-dark lettering up and down the sleeves and the front of the shirt.

  He suddenly became very aware that the glow from the shirts provided enough of a glow to have him backlit—in other words, a perfectly visible target.

  Jason swung around, slicing the air with the axe. He was about to leap away from the shirts when Sean leapt from behind the table and wrapped something around his neck as though to garrote him.

  Jason pivoted, cutting through where Sean’s arms had been only a split-moment before. He was about to launch himself over the table and reduce Ryan to kibble when he noticed that the cloth around his neck was still there.

  It was a glow-in-the-dark T-shirt.

  Before Jason could remove the shirt, Ryan bounced out from behind the table, launching a fist for Jason’s head. Jason flinched, avoiding the blow. Ryan’s bright blue eyes could be seen in the darkness, and they smiled as he grabbed the axe handle, pulling it to one side as he released a second fist, which slammed across Jason’s nose. Ryan threw the elbow of the same arm into his face with an audible snap, then wrenched the axe from his grip, growling like a bear. He whirled the axe before him like a man who had spent twenty hours a week swinging it as a profession—which he had once done, as an Orc and a goblin—before coming after Jason with all the fury of an annoyed Greek deity, swiping space with the blade, as if trying to cleave air molecules.

  Which each swipe, Jason dodged. In the scant light, Ryan’s form could not be seen, nor the axe, but the faint glow from Jason’s neck glinted off the blade as it struck, allowing him to keep his neck for a few more seconds. With one final leap, he slammed against the wall.

  Ryan chuckled. The laugh bounced off the walls, making it impossible to locate its owner. The axe swung once more as it flew through the air. Jason dove for the floor, grabbing for the T-shirt.

  Ryan smiled, counting on Jason’s reflexes to save him as he followed the glowing T-shirt with his wrist, firing from his right ammonia squirter. The trigger made a very distinctive click, but nothing came out, informing them both it was empty.

  ***

  Nicholas Diaz smiled as the tall blonde kicked him in the groin, as he hoped. He grabbed the woman’s foot and pushed, sending her to the floor. He grinned. “Groin cup.”

  He stepped forward, and a fire poker flew over his head, landing at Claudia Ryan’s feet. Diaz turned to see who threw it to her—remembering it had only fallen out the window moments before—and didn’t know how fast Claudia was. She was on her feet and slammed the blunt end across Diaz’s chest, and followed with a backhanded blow, across his face, breaking a cheekbone, and whipped it down behind his knee, slamming him into a genuflecting position. He fired an elbow into her stomach, bringing her down low enough for him to grab her hair and throw her across the floor.

  Diaz grunted as he slowly rose to his feet, his eyes twinkling with death. He stepped forward, reaching for a knife.

  The first bullet caught him in the shoulder, twisting him violently with the impact.

  At the door stood a man with a rifle. Diaz recognized the man immediately from a dozen movies. Even though the steely brown eyes were hidden behind thick wire-framed glasses, and the chestnut hair had turned to an iron gray, the strong dignified jaw hadn’t changed, nor had the resolve that reflected in his posture.

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” he said with the voice so many people knew; the voice of a man who had represented God in a dozen movies, and some would swear it was THE Voice of the Creator; that mark was the only thing holding the respect of his media colleagues as he led the National Rifle Association, even after the LA riots had prompted those same Leftist “friends” to ask him for weaponry in times of crisis.

  Diaz smiled as he slowly reached for his knife. “There must be some mistake. You remember you have Alzheimer’s, don’t you? This is just a little misunderstand—”

  He cocked the Winchester hunting rifle, leveling it at Diaz’s head. “My mind may be going, son, but I still remember how to use this. If you want to test that theory, I would suggest you might just lose your mind before I do.”

  Diaz glared as he let his hand dropped to his side. A few inches behind the hand was the holster for his handgun. “Where did you come from?”

  The old actor smiled. “Didn't you know? I live next door.”

  Diaz shook his head from side to side. “No. But I remember you said they’d have to pry the gun from your cold dead—” He drew his gun.

  ***

  “Jason” hurled the shirt from his neck just as Ryan brought his left arm around. The glowing shirt fell on Ryan’s arm, and his attacker was upon him, launching a fist into his stomach and a slap across the skull, bouncing Ryan’s head off the wall. Ryan ripped the shirt away and hurled it to the side. Jason’s eyes followed the shirt as Ryan pushed away with his foot, throwing himself into the murderer’s stomach. With a loud roar, Ryan lifted the man and twisted violently, plowing him into the nearest table. He fired three successive fists into the man’s stomach, and sharply straightened, ramming his head against the man’s chin.

  Jason’s head snapped back, and he punched, catching Sean’s jaw with his palm, and backhanded him before driving a fist into Ryan’s stomach, all with the same hand. He was about to launch a pile driver, but Ryan bounced backwards, performing a backwards body slam which sent both combatants over the table. They landed on a box of glowing shirts, scattering them across the floor.

  Ryan rolled to his feet and staggered back a little, starting to feel the exhaustion, as did Jason—Gee, I wish I had a better name for him. He squinted through the dark at the table, noting a large glass case…filled with pins, if he remembered correctly. He grabbed the case, lifting it from the ground, and twisted. The case came crashing down next to Jason, scattering the pointed objects all over the floor, and some into his side.

  Jason scurried away from the wall, glancing around for a weapon. He stepped back into the crime scene tape and smiled. He
followed the tape to the armory store, and grabbed the replaced Warrior Wizard’s staff, sliding it from its restraints. He peered into the darkness, and couldn’t see Ryan in the glow of the shirts, a pile of which he was now standing on…

  At that point, “Jason” said, “Oh crap.”

  The dwarf axe Sean had pried from the wall severed the wizard’s staff in two, and then the blunt top of the weapon slammed into Jason’s stomach, driving him back into the wall of the armory. The axe came down as Jason rushed forward, driving himself into Ryan, lifting him off the floor and over his back before he ran for the nearest emergency exit. Ryan rushed after him, dropping the axe as he did, hoping the lack of drag would help him catch up to the villain. There were too many questions to ask Jason to let him go so easily.

  Unfortunately, by the time Sean made it to the lobby of the sports center, the man who had donned the Jason mask had disappeared.

  But on the floor in front of the doors was something obviously stolen from the medieval table—a $3, “Ye Olde Death Warrant,” with the blanks filled in: “By royal degree S. Ryan has been found guilty of being a pain in the ass and sentenced to death.”

  Yeah, these guys have my number.

  His cellular phone vibrated and he sighed. Now what? “Ryan.”

  “Sean,” Inna said, “we just got a call about your sister. There was some shooting.”

  He closed his eyes and sighed. Not now. “And…?”

  ***

  Nicholas Diaz had spent his entire life trying to emulate every Old West movie he had ever seen, never going to the firing range without trying a quick draw at the bull’s-eye. He had fired thousands of rounds, and could hit dead center from ten feet away just by firing from the hip. He had killed dozens of men by firing Old West–style, merely drawing to kill them, even as they had held assault rifles on him. He had once killed four members from a single cartel once because they had fired on full automatic without aiming, and he fired four successive rounds and hit them all squarely in the head.