The Instructions by Adam Levin
The damaged near the doorways were rising, clearing out. Except for the people laying trampled on the court—most of whom, by now, had begun to crawl away—the northernmost third of the gym was all clear. Many of the robots, momentarily forgotten, were able to escape, and that’s what they did, along with some kids at the edges of the riot, but there were soon as many vectors of attack as aggressors, and there wasn’t any shortage of aggressors. By the time most kids who wanted to flee realized the exits were once again passable, the riot, like a mushroom too dense with ballistopores, had launched several mini-riots off of its stem, and those runners who attempted to weave between them were wrangled inside them as often as not.
Desormie, on top of me—the southbound push having tipped him sideways, opposite the wound from which his blood arcs projected, thinning with each passing spurt—died. No surge of sympathy or sudden sense of loss overcame me as it would have were the world a stage, but it didn’t feel much like victory either. Had a dead man I wished alive come alive, it would’ve been different, but a man I wished dead had merely been made dead. I hoped his final shudder was painful was all, hoped it lasted for years on the astral plane, and I tucked in as close as I could to his body, covered my head and my neck with my arms, let the gym teacher’s corpse absorb the horde’s footfalls, and that’s how I survived getting trampled and piled on.
Most Israelites, meanwhile, had zoned themselves off. After I’d left them to go kill Desormie, they’d retreated southeast, principal in tow. Their zone was a right isosceles triangle, with walls for two borders (the south and the east). Shoulder-to-shoulder, their pennyguns drawn, a line of twelve soldiers spanned the hypotenuse, all of them shooting at passing Shovers, the ex-Shovers among them shooting bandkids as well. An ex-Shover trio, commanded by Berman, held weapons on Brodsky, who was crouched in the corner, while a fourth tied his wrists and legs with cables yanked from the scaffolding’s wreckage.
Beneath the west hoop, Shlomo Cohen got cancanned. He couldn’t stop coughing. “What happened to your voice?” “Where’d your voice go, Shlomo?” The plasterdust cloud the Five kicked from his cast: it choked him and stuck to his eyeballs and cuts. “Cuh,” gacked Shlomo. “Give us a scream.” “Where’d your voice go, Shlomo?” “Gack.”
Their brass scarred from teeth and their padcups askew, the bandkids were blitzing in squads of fours and fives, walking through the mini-riots, mowing down anyone. Cymbalists alternated neckchops with headclaps. Flautists pulled their flutes apart for double-fisted piking. Tubas and euphoniums remained strapped to players who held them under-arm to ram with like jousters. Splinters poked from fractures in oboes used for skullshots. The buttons jammed forever on trumpets gone knuckleduster.
Once Brodsky was tethered securely to himself, Berman left Cory Goldman—same Cory I’d seen in the Office with Ruth on the previous Tuesday—in charge of the Israelites’ triangular zone, and went forth with six others to kick downed Shovers and gather projectiles the Side had fired. “We’ve got enough coins, so forget about the coins,” he said. “Get the nibs and the fasteners—especially the nibs, though. Every single nib that you see. They’re the best.” “What about the ones that’re stuck in people’s bodies.” “Those too,” Berman said. “They’ll pull right out. If they’re stuck in some meat, you just pull them right out.”
His parents still writhing and rolling where they’d dropped and then been trampled (then trampled some more), Boystar stirred, rose, fell. His tire-chain belt failed to clank—it was gone.
It was Vincie who found me, Starla by his side, Ansul trailing. They batted back the swarm with chairs and their belts while the Flunky unpiled me and got me on my feet. Lots of parts of me were throbbing, swelling. Before Desormie’d tipped, I’d taken some stomping.
I reached for the soundgun, lost balance and fell.
The Flunky caught me, put me over his shoulder.
Megaphone, I said.
Vincie picked it up.
Get me to June.
Vincie cleared a way north, soundgun forward, putting sirenblasts into the ears of those who blocked us. Starla, behind him, spun left and right, random-launching fasteners to fend off any flank-assaults. The Flunky, who had me in a fireman’s carry, stayed close on her heels, and Ansul, on ours, walked backward to rearguard, twirling his belt like a boat-propeller.
Three everykid no-ones who noticed unbuckled.
The alarms, wide open, remained unpulled. To be near an alarm was to be near an exit, and those near an exit who weren’t being damaged were either bringing damage or escaping through the exit.
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 co
“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?
“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
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.