Adam Levin - The Instructions

“Yeah,” he said.

In the two-hill field, do you see any kids?

“There’s some kids in front of it.”

Any you don’t know?

“There’s that dickhead Ronnie Bascomb and—”

You see any other kids? Maybe behind them? Any kids in black hats?

“No,” said Ben-Wa.

Call me when you do. Or if you hear sirens. Now send Jesse Ritter.

I ended the call and looked at the time. Only six minutes since I’d uglied Boystar. I doubted the phonecalls from those who’d escaped had yet convinced dispatch to send in the bulls, but a live broadcast could do so at any second, if it hadn’t already. We needed to lock the school down fast. We needed to hold it til the scholars arrived, but in addition to the Israelites and the Side of Damage, some 150 people were left in the gym, roughly 2/3 of them standing up, fighting; 2/3 of those wielding improvised weapons. If we locked down now, we’d have 40 more prisoners than soldiers — no good — and 2/3 would be hostile, hard to manage: they hadn’t failed to escape because they loved peace; they weren’t still fighting because they feared violence or couldn’t take a punch. Other than those on the Side of Damage, these were the hardest hundred kids at Aptakisic.

I said, Give me the soundgun.

Vincie gave me the soundgun.

I turned on the soundgun.

I said, JOSH BERMAN.

Berman and his Israelites looked toward the bleachers.

JELLY, I said.

Jelly and the Side looked up at the bleachers.

ANYONE WITH A PENNYGUN IS MY BROTHER, I said. ANYONE WITH DAMAGE ON HIS HEAD IS MY BROTHER. NO ONE ELSE IN HERE’S ALLOWED TO STAY. MAKE THEM LEAVE. THEIR CHAPTER IS OVER. PUSH THEM OUT. WE’VE GOT YOUR BACK.

And the Side and the Israelites went forth from their corners in two walls of violence with one shared objective, and we in the bleachers shot down at resisters, who after the first thirty seconds were halved, for any fighter in the gym who’d failed to hear me or take my meaning was made by my brothers to understand what I’d said.

And as the mass on the floor moved north toward the exits, Benji found Slokum and Slokum found Benji, and Benji charged Slokum as Slokum charged Benji. They swung on each other with the weapons they’d taken, and each went down, and they blurred and rolled and flew apart, and each rose up, and again they collided, and Benji, whose hand — the weaker, the left — had been, along its chopping-edge, demolished by the padlock, held Slokum, whose chin had been caved by the mikestand, high by the throat, as high as he could reach, in a right-armed impossible, and drove him forward — first slowly and wobbling, then running and steady with the mounting momentum — into the gym’s southern wall skullfirst. Slokum went limp, Benji released him, Slokum slipped down the cinderblocks slowly.

“What!” Benji shouted. “What! What!” He slapped Bam’s face. Bam’s head lolled. He slapped him again. Bam covered his face. “That is not fucken it, man! What! Get up! Quit fucken faking! Get the fuck up!”

Knees bent, Benji leaned into Slokum’s chest, wrapped an arm around his ribs — just one arm, the right; his left hand was already too swollen to close — and started to hoist him up onto his feet, then suddenly dropped him and stood up straight. A nib was sticking out from his neck, by the spine. He plucked it, revolved, got nibbed in the clavicle, and dove to the floor, behind the scaffold.

To June, Vincie said, “What the fuck?”

“Wasn’t me.”

It wasn’t me either, I said. Just cover him.

But we didn’t need to cover him. He had all kinds of coverage. Flanked by three Israelites, Berman went to cover him, threw his body on top of him, knelt on his back, took his hair in his fist, pushed his face in the floor.

We did need to cover him.

Vincie launched a washer, nicked Berman’s shoulder, Berman turned around.

I got on the megaphone. BENJI’S WITH US! NAKAMOOK’S US!

“What the fuck!” Vincie said.

They made a mistake.

“What kind—”

Stop shooting. They made a mistake.

And Berman and the Israelites showed us their hands, to shrug or surrender — there was no way to tell. Vincie’s gun was still raised and I stepped in front of him, embracing him hard til Berman and his three raced back to the battle and vanished inside it.

A mistake, I said.

“Okay,” Vincie said.

Let’s end this, I said.

“Okay,” Vincie said.

There was little left to end. The Five took turns bracing Baxter and smacking him, while Brooklyn, in front of him, proferred the earstud. Except for that, and Main Man singing, and the prisoners attempting to un-knot their bindings, all action was north of the northern sideline.

I put my last nib inside Seamus’s armpit, blew the wire-rimmed specs off a teacher with a nickel, and by the time I reloaded another projectile — a tiny black wingnut — there was no one to shoot.

Israelites cheered, high-fived, banged fists.

Ronrico yelled, “We damage we!” and got echoed.

Fat-lipped and wan, Baxter swallowed the rhinestone.

I aimed at the clock, I fired at the clock.

Jelly found Benji and sat down beside him.

“Eliyahu,” the Five said. “Brooklyn.” “Hey Brooklyn.”

“Yeah?” Brooklyn said.

Chucketa-cracketa, cracketa-chuck. Some glass from the clockface fell to the floor.

“Look.” “Brooklyn, look at him.”

“What?” Brooklyn said.

You see that? I said.

“Yeah,” June said.

I did that for you.

“Thanks,” June said.

Jelly cradled Benji’s broken hand in her lap.

Something was buzzing.

“Hey,” June said. “I think that’s your—”

Yeah.

The screen of the buzzing phone read WOLF.

I pressed the green button.

Yeah? I said.

Ben-Wa said, “Gurion.”

Yeah? I said.

“Sirens,” he said.

Friday, November 17, 2006

10:49 a.m.–12:09 p.m.

No kids in black hats?

“None,” said Ben-Wa.

How loud are the sirens?

“How loud?” he said.

How far away are they?

“They’re not in front.”

Sirens in the distance, you’re saying.

“I am.”

Lock down the entrance. No one comes in.

The Side and the Israelites continued to celebrate, blowing out bulbs with projectiles and yelling, lifting our fallen and embracing each other. We in the bleachers went down to the sideline. Thirty-odd bodies were sprawled on the floor. Except for Desormie’s, all of them breathed. I ordered the Five to bring Boystar forward, then ordered forward the five remaining cameramen. Three worked for New Thing, two for the news. One of the news ones was wearing a chai.

You get the scoop, I said. Tell me your name.

“Ori,” he said.

Ori gets the scoop, I said to the cameramen. Leave us your cameras and you’ll get them back later.

One of them hesitated. June shot his lens out.

You’ve still got the footage. You want to keep the footage?

He laid down his camera. The Flunky took it under the bleachers with the others.

Boystar was saying something. “Please,” he was saying, and sniffling blood.

I almost forgot about you, I said.

“Just—”

Pinker shook him and he ceased to speak.

I gave Glassman the nutmeg I’d pocketed earlier.

Feed him, I said.

“Gur—”

The Levinson choked him til he opened his mouth.

I pointed at Desormie and said to the cameramen: Pick up that corpse and bring it to me. Do anything other than what I tell you, and my friends over here will end this kid.

“We’ll kill him,” said Shpritzy. “We’ll kill him with our hands.” “His life’s in your hands.” “We’ll kill his whole body.” “We’ll kill him to death.”