The Instructions by Adam Levin
“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.
21
THE VERBOSITY
OF HOPE
Friday, November 17, 2006
10:49 a.m.–12:09 p.m.
N
o 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.”
His molars destroyed, Boystar chewed like a dog.
I took up the soundgun and made an announcement: EVERYONE LISTEN. THE WAR’S NOT OVER. EVACUATE ANYONE WHO ISN’T MY BROTHER. PUT THEM ALL OUT THROUGH THE PUSHBAR DOOR. VINCIE PORTITE’S IN CHARGE WHILE I’M GONE. NO ONE ELSE.
“Where are you going?” shouted seven random Israelites.
I’M—I turned off the soundgun. I’m going up front, I said.
“Why?” they all said, and just as they said it, the cameramen returned. They dropped Desormie’s body on the sideline and stretched.
I’m going up front to protect us, I said. No time for more questions, now.
They stopped asking questions, started clearing the gym out.
I took aside Vincie and gave him the soundgun.
Get this to Scott and stay close to Benji. Don’t let him go after Berman.
“Who’s Berman?”
The one who accidentally shot him.
“Got it. But I don’t think Benji’s in shape to fight anyway.”
I looked between the shoulders of soldiers at Benji. He was leaning on Jelly and the southwall, sitting, his jawmuscles bulging, his eyes pointed high, his busted hand darkening fast on his lap. Beside himself with pain or anger or both, he seemed to be melting and hardening at once.
I said, Watch Benji. And lock the door when the bodies are cleared.
I gave him Floyd’s keyring.
“Don’t the firemen have some kind of universal key?”
I don’t know, I said. Maybe? Guard the door, too.
“How about I jam it.”
With what?
“Cross the mikestand through the pushbar like an X so it wedges and—”
Yeah, I said, do that, that’s good, and watch Benji.
Vincie took off.
Desormie’s silver whistle was laying on his eyeball.
Pick him back up, I said to the cameramen.
They followed me and June to the northeast exit, and the Five and the Ashley surrounding Boystar—who they clutched at four points: the wrists and the neck and the hair—followed them. Ori walked backwards in front of us, filming. Main Man, finally amplified, sang, “Let’s go down the waterfall,” and we entered the pipeline and headed east.
As we walked, I gave the Look of The End to Ori’s lens, said, Hear O Israel, listen up the rest of you, I’m Gurion ben-Judah and I’ve got an army. Today’s a new holiday. We’ll name it later. I’ve taken prisoners, mostly kids. As a show of good will, in honor of our holiday, I’ve already released some out the back door. The rest of the prisoners are safe and secure, but there’s spotters in here on every entrance, and Adonai is on our side, so don’t come within fifty yards of the school, or prisoners will suffer the fate of Desormie, atop whose corpse you’ve found this recording. My first demand is the last great Jew. I want you to get Philip Roth on the phone. I’ll call 911 in thirty minutes. Make sure they can patch me through to Roth. Am Yisrael chai, good yontif, we damage. Cut now, Ori.
Ori turned the camera off.
“You,” whispered June, “just sounded like a crazy.”
Did I sound sincere?
“That’s why you sounded crazy.”
Good, I said.
“Who’s Philip Roth?”
“The greatest American novelist alive who isn’t DeLillo or McCarthy!” said Ori.
How do you spell DeLillo? I said.
Ori spelled DeLillo.
What should I read?
“End Zone to start with, then White Noise. McCarthy’s Blood Meridian, though—I’d read that one first. Seems more your style.”
I thanked him for the recs and took away his camera, said, Where’s the recording?
“On the hard drive,” he said.
No backup? I said.
“Auto backup,” he said. “There’s a flash in that slot.”
I ejected the cartridge, put it in his hand.
Mazel tov, I said. I hope they promote you.
We’d arrived at the door.
Two helmeted firemen were retreating toward the bus circle. Ben-Wa was saying, “They told us, ‘Open up,’ we told them, ‘Go away,’ and they said they’d come back with the battering ram.”
The firemen climbed in the cab of their truck. Another truck and ambulance pulled into the circle. Then a cable newsvan. Then two copcars.
I unlocked the doors and pushed one open.
Put Coach out there, I said to the cameramen. Lay him out flat on his back.
They did what I said, then one of them sprinted away and June drew.
Let him go, I told her.
You guys go, too, I said to the others. Just make sure you run like you’re scared, or we’ll shoot you.
They ran like they were scared. We didn’t shoot them.
Ashley, I said.
Shpritzy’s Ashley said, “Yeah?”
Get going, I said.
“She’s with me,” Shpritzy said.
“I’m with him,” said the Ashley.
“She’s with Shpritzy,” June said. “It’s settled. That’s that.”
It’s settled then, I said.
“Thanks, June,” said Shpritzy.
I set Ori’s camera atop Desormie’s chest, then stepped back inside and locked both doors.
Bring him, I said.
The Five brought Boystar before the left door. I stood before the right with my hands in my pockets.
Guns on the Ashley, I said to Wolf.
Behind me, Wolf aimed their guns at the Ashley.
Act threat
The Ashley raised her hands above her head and frowned.
Returning with their ram, the firemen—six of them—slowed at the sight of those we’d let go; they stopped completely when they got to Desormie. Two shorter ones knelt to check his vitals, and a tall one stepped over the gym teacher’s body, then rapped on the glass as if testing its thickness, as if seeing killed men laid out in front of schools with holes in their throats and cameras on their chests and blood crusting blackly all over their collars was business as usual for a suburban fireman. Pursing his lips, he rapped on the doorframe, then again on the glass, then went back to the doorframe, squinting and nodding, rapping and tapping, brow all furrowed now, faking unfazedness, pantomiming thinking, the act of calculation, the act of determining ideal points of impact, battering-ramming a science of precision. Throughout this peformance, he threw furtive glances, trying to guage the effect of his poise on us. Pinker said, “He doesn’t want to use that ram.” And Shpritzy said, “He’s scared.” “You’re scared!” yelled The Levinson. The fireman heard him. He looked at Ben-Wa, the one he’d spoken to earlier, said, “Enough with the bullshit now. Open this door.”
Tell me what to do, I said. I’m the leader.
“Open this door or we’ll break it in.”
I spun and cracked Boystar so hard in the nose that it spattered my sleeve all the way to the shoulder. The Five lost their grip and he crumpled up fetal. I kicked him straight, set my heel on his throat.
Tell me again, I said to the fireman.
“Easy,” he said. “Easy.”
Take that camera and take away the corpse. Get fifty yards back on all sides of the school or I’ll kill this kid and then I’ll kill some other ones. Everything else you need to know’s on the camera.
The fireman stood there, looking down at Desormie.
That’s right, I said. Big guy, I said. Thirty pounds on you easy. And that was just me. I did that alone. And I’ve got a whole army and we’re armed to the teeth. Get out of here now. Get back to your truck.
I split Wolf up. The four in front—Ben-Wa, Jesse Ritter, Stevie Loop, and Christian Yagoda—would stand at the doors pointing weapons at Boystar, who we tied to a chair with his bootlaces. I gave Cody von Braker Brodsky’s phone and posted him and Forrest Kenilworth over at the side entrance. If anyone came at the school from the side, Cody’d call Ben-Wa. If anyone came at the school from the front, Ben-Wa would see it himself. In either case, he and Jesse and Stevie and Christian would whale on Boystar with their weapons and their fists until all comers retreated.
Boshka and Chunkstyle I sent to the library to get a TV so we could watch the news. It was a one-person job, but they were kissing when I found them, pressed against the wall, and it didn’t look gross.
The gym had been cleared of fallen enemies. The pushbar door was jammed with the mikestand. I headed up halfcourt holding June’s hand, the Five and the Ashley walking behind us. The rest of the Israelites were standing in the bleachers, except for Jelly and Eliyahu, who sat with Big Ending and the Side of Damage atop the fallen scaffolding’s crossbar.
Vincie and Berman met us at centercourt.
How many soldiers do we have? I said.
“I don’t know,” Vincie said.
“Fifty?” said Berman.
Let’s count, I said.
We all started counting.
I had 43 Israelites up in the bleachers—12 of them ex-Shovers—and then another 19 soldiers sitting on the scaffolding—14 Side of Damage, 5 Big Ending—plus me plus June plus Vincie and Berman and the Five and the Ashley = 72 soldiers in total in the gym. Add the 8 of Wolf platoon, and that gave us 80 soldiers all told.
Vincie and Berman confirmed my count.
I said, What about injured? How many are injured?
Vincie said, “Two.”
“Three,” Berman said.
Is it two or is it three? I said.
“Five,” said Berman. “They’ve got two, and we’ve got three.”
How bad? I said.
“Benji’s hand looks fucked, and the Janitor’s ugly, but I asked them if they wanted to leave,” Vincie said, “and they gave me the stinkeye, so they can’t be that bad.”
“Our guys are fine,” Berman assured me. “Minor contusions.”
“Contusions?” said Vincie.
“Cuts,” Berman said.
Wait, I said. They’re cut or they’re bruised?
“Both,” Berman said.
Something started banging. It came from the bleachers. Ex-Shovers parted and I saw Brodsky’s head. He was laying in the space between the bottom two benches, bound at the ankles and wrists with cables, gagged with a sock, thrashing around.
Help him sit up! I yelled. Take out that gag!
A pair of ex-Shovers did as I’d ordered. Brodsky sat slumped, chest heaving, scalp red.
What is he doing here? I said to Vincie.
Vincie chinned air at Berman and told me, “He told me you told him to keep Brodsky hostage.”
I didn’t, I said.
“I told you he was lying,” Benji told Vincie. He and Jelly were coming over from the scaffold. His left hand was twice as thick as his right, a big purple pillow.
“Fuck you, you told me,” Vincie said to Benji. “He’s on our side. Why would he lie to us?”
“I didn’t,” Berman said. “I didn’t lie to you.”
I didn’t tell you to take any hostages, Berman.
“I thought that you… well… I mean I guess you didn’t say ‘hostage,’ but you told us to drag him back into the corner, and then you ran off—to go, like, I don’t know, kill Desormie, I think, and—”
I wanted you to protect him from getting trampled, I said.
“Well, we misunderstood. Or I misunderstood. It’s probably my fault. But I thought that’s what you meant—to take him hostage, I mean. I think the rest of us did, too. Thought that’s what you meant, I mean.”
In the bleachers, they nodded and mumbled their assent, and a few stood up, started heading for centercourt.
Berman said, “I’m sorry. The way things were happening—”
Fine, I said. It’s fine. You misunderstood. Now we have another prisoner.
I didn’t want another prisoner. We didn’t need another prisoner. We didn’t need anything more to control. But it was, like I’d just said to everyone, fine. I didn’t like that they’d gagged him and made him uncomfortable—that hadn’t been called for; it seemed thoughtless at best, potentially malicious—but that part was over. We’d take him to the Cage, where no one could hurt him, the scholars would arrive, and all would be well.
“We were just trying to do what we were supposed to,” said Berman. “If you want us to put him out now, no one’s gonna argue with you. I mean—obviously. Right guys?”
The Israelites behind him said, “Right.” They said, “Yeah.”
“Just tell us and we’ll do it,” Berman said. “Hand me the key and we’ll put him out the door.”
That door stays locked. We don’t know who’s behind it.
“We could put him out the front or the side, then,” said Berman.
We can’t put him out. It’ll look like it means something—like we’re bargaining or something. That’s not our next move, I said.
“So what’s our next move?” an ex-Shover said.
“We should get him some aspirins from the Nurse’s,” Brooklyn said, “and put him in the Cage with Botha—problem solved.”
Exactly, I said. That’s what we’re doing.
By then, most of the Side had come over from the scaffold. They stood in a semicircle to my left with the Five and Vincie. To my right, right of June, stood twenty-odd Israelites. The suckness of this arrangement wasn’t entirely lost on me, scholars—I hadn’t failed to notice where they’d been sitting when I’d returned, nor failed to hear Berman’s us’s and them’s—but it seemed to me an outcome of friendship, not animosity. Rather than staying away from those he didn
I said, Where’s Scott’s megaphone?
“Exactly,” said Nakamook.
Immediately I saw that I’d made a mistake.
“One of them has it,” Jelly said, chinning air at the Israelites.
“Them?” came a voice from among the ex-Shovers. “Who’s this them?” another voice said. “One of us says them!” “Well look who she’s dating.” “What’s one of us doing with someone like him?”
“Come again?” Benji said.
No don’t come again, I said. Don’t come again. First thing’s first: whoever has the megaphone—
Ally handed it over. I brandished it at Main Man. He wouldn’t come and take it.
“He insulted him,” Jelly said.
“I didn’t mean to insult him!” protested Berman. “I just didn’t think he should sing what he was singing.”
You didn’t think he should—
“No one did, Gurion. None of us, at least. He was singing some slow thing by Radiohead. That’s no kind of Israelite victory music.”
So you took his megaphone?
“He gave it to us.”
“After you insulted him,” Nakamook said.