Daniel

Daniel

Daniel felt the wind kick at the side of his head, and watched a chunk of the concrete wall ahead of him explode in a shower of stone, before he actually heard the shot. The single staccato blast of the glock felt much closer and more ominous bouncing off the concrete and cars, like a gorilla breathing down his neck.

At least the bastard wasn't much of a sharpshooter. After the first shot, Daniel was able to dive behind an SUV. The problem was how much slower this was, because the others in the car were not far behind their friend here. That trick of climbing a few levels between the railings had only thinned his pursuers.

He had never put much stock in the concept of luck, but when he glanced at the tire of the SUV, with a rock stick in the tread, he decided to reconsider. Yanking the rock out and peeking just high enough to see through the windows, he waited for this asshat to look away for a second. When it happened, he dove out from cover, throwing the stone at the gun hand with all his might. Followed by a shout and a curse, the gun skittered across the ground a few feet while Daniel sprinted for the door to the stairwell.

Five stories later, he could swear he was dragging an anchor up those steps. His thighs were screaming at him, and he felt ready to vomit when his choice between doors and stairs dwindled to just a door. Shoving it open with a single gloved hand, he was shocked by the wet chill of the air washing over him.

He charged into the pouring rain, thankful as it instantly seeped under his clothes and cooled him. He managed a decent pace in his mad sprint from the roof access in the center. Unfortunately, he was acutely aware that he didn't hear the door shut when it should have.

“Stop or I'll blow off your fucking head!” The voice hit Daniel like a sledgehammer, and he skidded to a halt at the edge of the roof. “Turn around.”

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“Sir?” Daniel wasn't sure he'd heard right.

“I said turn around. You're done sparring with my green belt.”

Sensei Smith sounded irritated, and Daniel had a feeling why. He turned around and looked the man in the eye, admitting to himself that he had trouble accepting this man as a teacher. Sensei Smith wore a red gi and red belt (signifying him as being a Grand Master, the highest rank of black belt possible), which only accented his many tattoos. Between them, his long hair, and the five o'clock shadow, Smith looked like he should be in a leather jacket stepping off a Harley. From what Daniel had gathered over the last couple of weeks, this was very close to what the Sensei's life had been like before he started martial arts. He was like an ex-con you see in anger management classes, so stereotypical it was almost boring.

The sensei's brow looked like a roadmap as he grimaced at Daniel. “You seem to have some trouble with the stance. You haven't been anchoring yourself, and you won't be able to strike well like that. We're going to find out why.”

Daniel knew why. At this Gym, they taught “Spirit Force” Karate, which had branched off of Butotukan a few hundred years ago. Daniel had never had anything against karate (though he much preferred aikido or aikijutsu), but something was bothering him about this place. In the 60s, the Grand Master of the style came to the US and began teaching an American student. Four years later, the master was deported from the US, and announced his student as the Grand Master and gave him leave to teach. Within a few years, the new “Master” was teaching and noticed one very devoted student. Within two years the student had been deemed a black belt, and three or four years after that the master passed on the mantle of “Grand Master” to his student, and allowed him to open his own school.

Now, this was all well and good, except for one thing. In Japan, or in any other martial arts organization, one could spend the better part of 30 years working towards black belt and many more working through each of the dans (10 levels of black belt). A man could devote his entire life to learning, and die at 90 as a 6th dan, unerringly proud of his achievement. Daniel's problem was that he was looking at a man barely more than 35 (40 at the most), covered in biker tattoos and speaking in early 80s gang terms who had the audacity to claim the title of Grand Master. This man and the previous master each had only a few years of exposure to the style before becoming the primary teacher in the US.

Daniel holds his tongue as he listens to the sensei describe what he already knows: they will spar freeform, as Daniel was doing with the green belt, and he was to punch the sensei using the stance they'd been practicing. Daniel suppressed a grimace at the thought. The same things the sensei had praised about this stance were the very same reasons Daniel disliked it; it was solid and anchored, and felt too stiff and restrictive for him. Each time Daniel had begun sparring, he had tried to use the techniques this man had been teaching, but after the third blow caught him, he dropped into what he knew and defended himself. When the green belt punched, Daniel had caught his wrist, pulled it toward himself and kneed the boy in the chest. It worked, but it wasn't what was being taught.

When the sensei finished explaining, Daniel bowed, and stepped into the stance slowly and carefully. They exchanged a few blows and blocks at half speed, gradually increasing to a fairly fast pace. Daniel snuck a strike to the sensei's side, and his opponent grinned a little. In an instant, the sensei hammered Daniel in the solar plexus. Barely landing on his feet a few feet back, Daniel was suddenly very grateful for all his years of choir in school. He could already feel his stomach turning into a fist-shaped bruise, but his thick diaphragm had let him keep his dignity and his feet. His lips curled over his teeth for a second, but he composed himself and bowed slightly.

“Again.” ordered the sensei, as if there were any doubt. They squared off again, and Daniel relaxed his breathing, letting the endorphins wash over him. He made a decision, and the sensei began again.

The pace grew to its previous rate quickly, and kept increasing. The sensei would keep speeding up until Daniel began to strike, and Daniel refused to strike yet, focusing on defense. He let his eyes lose focus, giving in at least that much to his hard-earned habits. He could almost feel the growing frustration coming from the sensei. At the rate they were going, in a few more seconds Daniel wouldn't have a prayer of keeping up with the coming blows.

Sensei struck with his left at Daniel's chest, and Daniel broke out of the stance, putting his left wrist against the sensei's as he leaned his body down and to the right. Focusing past the point of impact as he was taught to do, Daniel twisted his torso to the left and drove his right fist into the sensei's ribs just under and to the side of the pectoral.

Daniel heard, but did not feel the crack. In fact, Daniel had not felt the slightest impact. Confusion hit him when the sensei crumpled and flew back more than six feet. Daniel stood dumbfounded as he watched the sensei roll onto his back and gingerly touch his chest, and all color left him when the sensei hissed in pain. Daniel's gaze dropped from the injured instructor to his own still-clenched fist, and the confusion collapsed into insane certainty. He had punched men that hard before, and he could feel it in his hand for a while afterwards. Judging from his hand, he could swear he had hit nothing but air.

Daniel reached into the changing area to grab his bag and rushed out of the building, forgetting even to bow at the edge of the mat. He wanted nothing more than out of that gym and away from that moment.

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“You deaf? I said turn around muthafucka!” Daniel allowed himself the briefest hint of a grin. This punk sounded almost as exhausted as Daniel felt - almost. Daniel slowly raised his hands (it seemed the thing to do), and turned where he stood. He looked his opponent in the eye, watching first confusion, then recognition roll over his face.

“Lil' D? What the f...” Carlos almost smiled, as he had known Daniel for years, and always seen him as harmless. The “almost” came a second later, when he realized that, regardless of who Daniel was, he couldn't walk after what he'd seen. Daniel watched all this play out across this face he’d grown up with, and he realized his escape was about to become an execution. Daniel started grasping at straws.

“Come on, man. You know I won't say anything. What would I tell? I didn't even see anything.” With all the tricks he’d pulled off today, he doubted he could stop a bullet, and he wasn't looking forward to testing it. He wanted to give an old friend every chance to decide not to shoot.

“Damn it, D! I wish...but you know how it is.” He tightened his grip on the gun.

Daniel stepped up and back onto the ledge. “I'll jump! You know you can't have that. I hit the ground and there'll be cops all over this place. Just let me go!” The rain was making it hard to stand, and Daniel knew that 25 stories will kill just as surely as 100.

“You lil' shit...get down from there!” Veins were popping out across his face, but the confusion could only last so long. Daniel watched in morbid fascination as fear and frustration turned to grim determination. “Have it your way.” Carlos made his choice, and raised the gun.

“NOOOOOOOO-....!”

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Thump, thump, thump, thump, inhale. Thump, thump, thump, thump, exhale. Thump, thump, thump...Daniel generally found it easier to think in the quiet of the night, and the air in these woods helped clear his head. Besides, running always felt better on loam than pavement. Tonight though, Daniel was so mixed up it wasn't helping much.

It had been weeks since he'd broken the sensei's ribs. It didn’t help calm his nerves that he was protected from any lawsuit by the gym's waivers, but at least he didn't have to worry about being subpoenaed. On the other hand, if it had ended there, he might have been ok by now.

It hadn't.

Daniel had been buying groceries a few days later, and noticed a father down the aisle holding a baby on his hip. Kids at that age love to arch their back, and if you don't hold them just right, they can hurt themselves. Sure enough, as Daniel was worrying about it, the little ball of cuteness grinned and flailed back. Daniel instinctively reached out to catch her (even though he was too far away by at least 20 feet), and stared in shock as she stopped in mid-air for a second before the father caught her. He had looked as confused as the baby, and Daniel made himself scarce.

What disturbed Daniel even more, strangely enough, happened in the back of the room in 3rd period English. He'd been a zombie all day, trying to wrap his head around what was going on. His mind settled for a moment on one theory, and in a silent moment of hysterics, he decided to put it to the test. He took the pencil he'd been playing with for an hour and laid it on the desk, pointing to either side. With effort, he quieted his mind and focused on moving a few grams of wood.

Daniel felt the seconds tick by, while nothing happened. An instant before he might have given up, he felt something change. Lights dimmed and colors brightened. The noises of the class were far away and clear as a bell. The room fell away as the pencil rolled across the desk, seemingly of its own accord, sounding like a jackhammer to Daniel's ears. It tumbled off the edge of the desk and, watching it fall, Daniel could almost feel his sanity going with it. He heard it snap in two when -

Wait, the pencil never broke. That was...Daniel came to his senses in the dark woods, and looked back just in time to see a mass of claws and fangs hurtling through the air straight at him. Twisting around to the right, he swung his arm as if to hit the thing, remembering in a detached way how the sight of a jogger sets off predatory reflexes in cougars. Just before his back-hand made contact, he saw the cougar turn into a blur as it was batted to the side, flying into the darkness followed by a horrible cracking sound.

Too stunned to think, Daniel ran, and continued running until those unearthly howls stopped ringing in his ears.

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A wrecking ball had hit Daniel in the shoulder, and a burning spear followed. Too stunned to think, Daniel fell.

The bullet threw him off the roof, and he tumbled end over end. The street below climbed quickly towards him, but it wasn't until he turned again to face the roof that he came back to himself. With a gut wrenching pull, he painfully stopped his fall. He marveled for a second at his dangling feet hovering 20 stories above the street below, then remembered he still had work to do. Pushing his good hand against the bullet wound, he lifted his eyes to the roof and slowly began to rise, floating upwards like a spirit.

Peeking over the edge of the roof, Daniel saw his would-be murderer standing near the door, cocking his head to the side to listen. Of course, thought Daniel. Listening for screams from the street. Let's get this over with.

He drifted up above the ledge, catching the eye of the shooter. Daniel watched confusion turn to fear, then hate, and Carlos raised the gun again. Can't have that. The gun leaped out of his hand and clattered to the ground at the edge of the roof, away from them both. Staring daggers at his childhood friend, Daniel reached out and pulled. He watched as the poor bastard went stiff and came forward, looking like a floating crucifixion with his shoes dragging on the ground behind him.

“¡Tu eres el Diablo!” Carlos spat out. Daniel had never seen the kid this scared. Somehow, he couldn't bring himself to feel much sympathy.

“No, I'm not the devil. You'll be seeing him soon enough. Uh-uh, can't have you screaming...” Cocking his head to the side, Daniel squeezed the condemned's throat from yards away, and watched his eyes bulge in terror. In the back of his mind, Daniel heard James Earl Jones “...I find your lack of faith disturbing” and fought off the urge to giggle maniacally. Ignoring the pounding in his temples, Daniel lifted his friend clear off the ground and brought him within a few inches.

With the rain pouring down his face, and blood running down his left arm, Daniel spoke just above a whisper, “Godammit, Carlito. The drugs were bad enough, but gun-running?” While he spoke, his terrified, choking Christ slowly rotated around him, coming to rest a few feet past the roof's edge. Carlos glanced down at his dangling feet and his eyes bulged nearly out of his skull.

“What?” Daniel continued. “I gave you every opportunity to make the right choice. If my oldest amigo is willing to put me down like a dog, I sure as hell can’t trust those meth-head bendejos downstairs. I'll be damned if I let that kind of hardware hit the streets.”

“When you get to hell, tell them to make room.” With that, Daniel gave in to the pain in his head, and lightened the load he was carrying. To his credit, Carlos didn't make a sound as he fell.

Exhaustion was coming like a freight liner, and Daniel realized he might drop out of the sky at any moment. He pushed in the direction of the hospital, biting his lip to stay focused. He was too tired and in too much pain to enjoy the superman thing he was doing across half of downtown.

He managed to land without breaking his legs, just inside the shadow of the bushes next to the ER entrance. He'd intended to walk in from there, but his legs refused to work, and he hit the ground like a ton of bricks. Wet bricks. He managed to shout at an EMT, and saw him come running. Inky blackness closing in around him, he thanked his old habits that he wasn't carrying ID tonight. The family didn't need to hear about this...