Adam Levin - The Instructions

An everykid, midcourt, was holding the mikestand, lifting it to swing on a Shover with his back turned, when Benji emerged from a nearby skirmish and rabbitpunched the everykid, wrested free the mikestand, swept the Shover’s legs with it, and headed, stand-first and vaguely westward, in search of Bam Slokum, who was half the court east of him.

Slokum was the one who’d taken Boystar’s belt. With the chain double-knotted around his ropey forearm, the padlock dangled a foot below his fist. He was standing by the east wall, north of the Israelites, catching his breath and panning for Benji and not getting shot or struck by anyone. Maholtz was gathered by his side with some Shovers.

At the corpse of his coach stared Co-Captain Baxter, eyebrows high and mouth agape. He crouched just over the dead man’s head and, on a sentimental whim, parted the lips of the dead man’s mouth with the whistle that was chained around the dead man’s neck, then fixed, by clamping with the fingers of his free hand, the lips around the whistle so the whistle would stay.

When at last he stood up, Eliyahu, before him, face wracked with disgust, said, “Boulders,” right crossed, and knocked him out cold.

“Baby!” June said, as we came up the bleachers. The Flunky set me down. June hugged me, I winced. “Does someone have aspirin?”

No one had aspirin.

I’m fine, I said.

I sat by June’s feet.

To Vincie and the Flunky, June said, “Nurse Clyde.”

“Clyde’s gone,” said Ansul. “He entered the pipeline as soon as the scaffold fell.”

June said, “Fuck.”

“Maholtz?” said Vincie.

“Maholtz,” June said.

We’ll get drugs later, I said. Find Scott.

“Scott’s protected,” said Vincie. “Look.”

Regrouped around Main Man, in the southwest corner, was all of Nakamook, minus Benji. Big Ending was with them, and so was Western Portite. Their zone was arranged the same as the Israelites’ (to which Berman, pockets stuffed with nibs, had returned) but half the area and fortified doubly. Big Ending knelt a line holding chairs legs-forward, while half a step behind them all the other soldiers, except for the Janitor, stood a second line shooting whoever Jelly told them to. The Janitor leaned on the walls looking grey, one eye normal, the other like a frog’s, and while Ori shot footage from over soldiers’ shoulders and while his newsman kept trying to interview anyone, Main Man quit Marley for Radiohead. “Holy Roman Empire,” he sang.

“We’re winning,” said the Flunky.

The Flunky spoke truth — the gym was nearly ours — though you wouldn’t have known it if you didn’t see the corners, for the bandkids still dominated most of the court. Their dominance no longer owed to their weapons, though: whether chairs, belts, or knuckle-clutched housekeys, nearly all the combatants had improvised weapons. And it didn’t owe much to their heartiness, either: anyone who could have run (by then most could’ve; more than half of the school had done so already) and didn’t had heart. They were dominant because, in the midst of 170 other combatants, each of whom attacked anyone within reach, the bandkids would not attack other bandkids = Where the bandkids fought as 30 against 170, each 1 of that 170 fought 199.

The Israelites, Big Ending, and the Side of Damage numbered roughly 80 soldiers in total. Subtracting Main Man, the Janitor, the few downed Israelites, and those manning the pipeline, we had about 60. If 30 could dominate 170, then our 60—assuming that our oneness and superior positioning (6 soldiers on high, 3 of whom were crackshots; the rest in two zones, relatively rested) neutralized the advantage to the Bandkids’ of their oneness (a safe assumption) — our 60 could annihilate 200 easy, and 200 diminishing on its own even easier.

“Should we go get Maholtz?” Vincie asked me, and by the time that I answered, 3 more no-ones had already fallen: only 197 were left.

No, I said. We stay here and snipe.

June kissed my cheek. I banged fists with Vincie.

Vincie was low, June was out, but the Flunky and Ansul were flush with projectiles. From my jacket, I pulled three portions of nibs, one portion of fasteners, fifteen coins. “I can’t shoot for shit,” said the Flunky. “I’ll block,” and he went to the third lowest bleacher and waited to slow any charge that might come our way. The rest of us split up the coins and fasteners. I doled out the nibs to myself, June, and Vincie.

Eliyahu’d hauled Baxter to a clearing near the southwall. He pulled him up crooked by one lapel, then knuckled his earlobe and jerked. Baxter came to, confused, held his ear. “Fucker,” he said to Eliyahu, “you fucker.” Brooklyn crowned him, picked him back up. “Now eat this,” he said, the earstud gem-forward. “Eat this, you mamzer hat-wrecking bancer. Eat this, you filthy uncircumcized dog.”

The Five were fine too; didn’t need coverage either. Bored with Shlomo, who no longer convulsed, and glimpsing Eliyahu between heads and shoulders, they gamboled toward the south wall, the better to see, a capering troop that undermined its native cuteness shooting mystified kids in the eyes at close range, stepping on crotches and faces on purpose, vociferating multiple Yiddish vulgarities. On encountering an Ashley weeping into her pom-pons, Shpritzy and Pinker windpiped the Shovers who were squeezing her ass, and Shpritzy kissed her cheek and told her she was gorgeous, and she took Shpritzy’s hand and she followed the Five.

Slokum had come off the wall to find Benji, who I kept one eye on, although he was safe, still cutting west through the thinning-out mini-riots.

Vincie quartershot the Shovers who had Slokum’s back.

June washered some everykids groping a Jenny.

I’d just smashed a bandkid’s nose with a wingnut and was shaking my wrist out — the recoil stung it — when my thigh started humming. Botha’s phone.

Ben-Wa, I said. Everyone still standing?

“Cody got whacked by Mr. Novy when it started, but Stevie chaired Novy hard in the face and there was lots of blood, and we kicked him and chaired him because of ferocity until Miss Farmer and that bancer Mr. Bilge got him out, and then anyone else who was trying to fight us ran out of here screaming like you told us they would. Cody lost teeth, but I think they were babyteeth, but maybe they were broken — anyway, everyone’s fine except for that. It’s the newsguys, though. That’s why I called. They’re out in the bus circle, setting up cameras and talking to teachers and all these crying kids. What should we do?”

Do you hear any sirens?

“No sirens,” he said.

Did the Side evacuate the teachers lounge yet?

“I don’t think so,” he said. “I wasn’t looking. I’m sorry.”

It’s fine, I said. You’re doing good. Give your keys to Anna Boshka and send her to the lounge to evacuate them. Tell her to lock the side-entrance behind them.

“Boshka’s on the alarm with Chunkstyle,” he said, “but I guess no one’s really tried to pull one yet, so…”

No, I said. I said, You’re right. Send Jesse Ritter instead.

“Got it.”

If any newsguy or anyone tries to get back in, shoot.

“How close should we let them?”

Thirty feet.

“I’m suck at distances, Gurion, I’m sorry.”

Don’t cry, I said. Distances shmistances. Thirty feet’s about a fifth of the way between the door and the bus circle.

“A fifth?” said Ben-Wa.

What’s halfway between the door and the parking lot?

“The bikerack.”

What’s halfway between the door and the bikerack?

“The end of the hedge.”

Okay, I said. Three bushes closer than that is how close they can come. Got it?

“Yes.”

Now listen, I said. Are you still looking outside?