The Instructions (140 page)

For now, they could but duck and cover, or flee their location, or waste some prayers.

The robots, for the most part, knew who they were, and they 1322

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knew the Arrangement was taking damage. Despite their lack of pain, the damage overwhelmed them, for the hits came from everywhere: kids on the floor who pulled on balloons, kids in the bleachers who pulled on balloons, the mother of a kid who’d been attacked with a balloon, and all those around them jostling and jumping, and the ones who were pushing toward higher ground, who weren’t so much looking for a spot to stand safely as searching for a view with a wider sweep.

And they, the vast majority, these everykid no-ones, these X-factors factioning at the simplest level—whether they knew it or not, they were pro or anti, on the Side or against the Side, and in no case merely on the side—they cheered in their hearts, if not yet with their lungs, for victory for this one here and the fall of that one over there, though victory for that one there and the fall of this one over here would certainly do in a pinch. As long as they got to be close to the fight.

They always liked to be close to the fight. They always liked to cheer a side and call that side the underdog; to stand, in their hearts, behind that underdog; to stand, in some cases, on their feet beside him. Yet they stood in most cases
around
all the fighters, siding as much with the fight itself as they sided with their underdog; their bodies bricks in walls they formed to stop robotic interference, to let it be had out.

Of course Jennys and Ashleys had flinched and moaned when Boystar’s mouth did its gory explosion. Of course most everyone, and especially the Shovers, wanted to see Bam Slokum kill Benji, 1323

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or if they didn’t yet see it was Benji who was shooting, then whoever it was who was attacking Slokum. And of course it is possible that I make it too simple, that deep inside all of them were latent desires and motivations that pushed against those which these factions would (or even could) profess—that maybe the Jennys and Ashleys were relieved to see Boystar’s face made ugly, that maybe they thought his ugliness would give them a better shot at being loved by him, or maybe the ugliness freed them of their love for him, which, unrequieted, had been causing them pain, and maybe
that’s
why they didn’t rush the floor, but then again maybe they were just frozen from heartbreak; and maybe the Shovers (like so many others who miss the point of worship) contained in their worship a streak of envy, a desire to discover Slokum wasn’t so great as they’d always suspected or feared, and that may be why
they
didn’t rush the floor, but then maybe they just thought he could protect himself, just give him a second to get his bearings, Slokum the king, Slokum the beloved—but latent desires and motivations, if they do exist (I suspect they don’t, my mother is sure of it, Adonai doesn’t care), are, at least in here, inadmissable. Even if they were, in fact, present, they’d be too complicated for me to describe with confidence: I didn’t know most of these people at all.

So let it for now suffice to say they’d all been stunned, at least a little; all through the gym the stun wore off in phases, and the velocity at which these phases got passed through varied so widely, person-to-person, and the variance itself did as much in 1324

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the way of dividing those we’d conquer as the very acts of violence that had at first stunned them. We knew who we were, the Side and the Israelites, and the rest, if not learning, were at least getting taught.

The suckerpunch is not so-named for its puncher.

June spinal-kicked an Ashley in the row below hers. Cameramen parried and panned and zoomed. Boystar’s whispers came booming through the speakers—a pre-recorded vocal track to sexy up the verses. “Fan-ta-size, girl, fan-ta-size.” Kids avalanched slomo under force of the Ashley, laughing as they tumbled, groping and punching, doubling the sightlines available to June. Chaz Black went sprinting to the soundboard for cover. Desormie sat squat near the east leg of scaffolding, calling Floyd’s name through the megaphone.

Brodsky pulled Boystar’s mom off my body. She kicked at the air and he turned and dropped her. Her husband sprung up, threw a textbook left hook. Brodsky got nose on his chin and cried out. I snicked out the sap and kneecapped the husband. He fell on his ass on his son and thrashed. Israelites got there and shot him til he stopped, Berman among them, and the cousins Kravitz-Segal.

The mother, who’d landed with her knee in her sternum, rolled side-to-side to stimulate her lungs. Mustache grisly, autotears blinding him, Brodsky walked backwards in half-steps.

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Floyd stood his chair and spat through his cone. Out the central exit, swiftly, walked Ruth Rothstein, two of the newsmen, and the New Thing fatcats. Klapper came off the bleachers to follow them, smiling a little, shrugging, amused, and Hector the Janitor followed Mr. Klapper. The other two newsmen went looking for their cameramen.

Brooklyn still north of the northern sideline. Brooklyn still aiming, still not shooting. Brooklyn still this, still that, just still. He lowered his weapon, chewed on his lips. He raised it and aimed again, chewing his lips. He threw down his weapon and picked it back up. He pocketed his weapon. His burning eyes burned. No few lines of fire lay between him and Baxter. He covered his eyes and prayed the Sh’ma.

Starla socked the Shover beside her on the ear. The Shover grabbed a neighbor and they plummeted in tandem. Two kids they bumped as they fell began to skirmish. Those two bumped three and those three began to skirmish. Her corner cleared of blockage, June reloaded.

“Barnum!” “Barnum!” “Barnum! Barnum!” Leevon and Jelly broke ranks to flank Main Man, who’d back-pedaled into the Nakamook V. They safed him in the corner and returned to formation, and he kicked off his medley of Marley unamplified.

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Brooklyn finished praying and flew between the missiles. Three steps from Baxter, he lowered a shoulder; on impact, he lifted and pushed. They travelled a yard, Eliyahu carrying, til Slokum kicked a chair at his knees and he tripped but, holding on tight, brought Baxter down with him. A nib pinned Slokum’s tie to his sternum; he took a step back, inhaled, and plucked it. His wince was whole-bodied, but there wasn’t much blood. A second nib buzzed his left temple and he ducked. Benji yelled, “Lackeys!

Aim at his lackeys! Clear out his lackeys!”

“A hammer, a hammer, a hammer,” Scott sang.

Shlomo Cohen: still a speedbump, still getting hit multiply.

Frungeon laid a chair on its side to wall him off. Pennies and blows drove Shovers to the floor. “Beauregard!” “Izzy! Izzy! Over here!” “In-fant-a-lize, girl, fan-ta-size.” Fifteen people, at most, had fled the gym.

Ally reached a hand down and pulled me to my feet. Googy doffed his ski-cap and did a kind of jig. The Chewer, off his chair now, stepped in our direction.

The face, I said to the Israelites behind me.

Three went forward, shot Floyd in the face. He staggered, sat down. Seven more shot him.

Keys, I said.

Berman went for the keys.

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“Should I keep them or—”

No.

Berman tossed me the keys.

The principal, waxen, held onto his nose.

The Five shooting Frungeon, Frungeon falling back.

June’s avalanche ended remarkably well. Twenty kids formed a pile five-wide by the sideline, the only bones broken a couple of fingers. They rolled over each other, some trying to rise, some crawling to flee, others still having fun, and the Janitor pot-shot the ones who were rising, Ronrico put Chucks to the guts of the crawlers, and Mangey was muttering, “You’re the fucker,” and firing on fuckers who’d gone off the side.

“I said clear his lackeys! The A-team! The B-team!” “We are!”

“We have!” “None of them are running!” “They’re sticking by Slokum!” “And you guys keep shooting him!” “We keep shooting all of them!” “It’s true, baby, look: we’ve hit every one of them. We’re
hitting
every one of them.”

Another twelve Israelites had descended to the floor. Half roved the north sideline, clipping fleeing Shovers. The other half occupied the gap between the bleachers, dropping the Shovers the first half failed to.

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Desormie crept westward, a chair in each hand. A cameraman fell, cradling his camera. Salvador Curtis said, “Oopsie,” reloaded. “Ori is down,” said the cameraman’s newsman, who bent over Ori to look in his lens. “Our cameraman’s down. We don’t know what hit him. Do you have any idea what hit you, Ori?” “Something must have hit me,” said Ori. “My dick hurts.”

Empty your pockets.

“Whud?” said Brodsky.

The skirmishes Starla had vectored grew thicker. “Infantalize, you tantalize, undressalize you with my eyes.” A cheerleader was chewing on a cheerleader’s hand. Next to them, cheerleaders oohed and hugged. Next to them, cheerleaders cheered.

“Why won’t they run?” “Cause they’re
sticking by Slokum
.” “No one’s asking you, Dingle.” “Mark’s right, though, Benji—he makes them fee safe.” “Safe?” “Well, safer.” “How safer? Why safer?” “He’s Slokum,” said Jelly.

Brooklyn and Baxter thrashed horizontally, struggling for leverage, squid-shaped, headbutts, gouging, headbutts. Brooklyn rose first, but he took friendly fire—a Dingle-shot quarter, thwack to the ballbag. He dropped to one knee and Maholtz decked him.

Empty your pockets.

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“Emmdy my
poggeds
?”

A penny struck Brodsky’s shin and he hopped.

Who did that? I said.

Berman said, “Me.”

He’s our prisoner, I said.

“Okay,” said Berman.

There wasn’t any action by the push-bar door. The clotheslined B-teamers weren’t getting up, the one who took the hexnut in the nose had turned back, and no one in the gym approached the alarm. Vincie told Ansul and the Flunky: “Triangulate.” “Don’t call me names—we’re friends,” said the Flunky. “With Benji,”

Ansul tried to explain. “No, we’re
all
friends, Ansul.” “Fucken shoot at the basketballers Nakamook’s shooting.” “Nakamook the boy or platoon?” said the Flunky. “Same fucken thing, Richard.”

“Richard’s long for Dick, Vincie. Friends call me Flunky.”

“Safer cause just cause he’s Slokum you’re saying.” “Yeah,” said Jelly, “but except not
just.
Take a look around the court. Take a look at who ran.” Jelly pointed north, toward the pushbar-door exit, at the clotheslined B-teamers splayed before the Flunky.

“Okay,” Benji said. “Fine,” Benji said. “Fuck,” he said. “So what should we do, baby? Tell us what to do. You want us to charge them?” “I want you to
clear
them so I can charge
him
.” “So then we should… what?” “Just keep on—fuck! Keep shooting, I guess.

Them, though. Not him. Shoot ’em in the faces, though. Shoot 1330

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’em in the eyes. Lay them all out. Get them out of the way.”

The guns of Nakamook were obsolescing anyway. For each of their projectiles that hit its mark, four or five went wild. Even twenty seconds earlier—when the Indians, clustered, were still a big static target—this hadn’t been much of a problem: the nov-ices’ wild shots had often struck lucky. But as the target moved apart, reflexively at first, becoming multiple targets with alleys between them, the currency and fasteners blew through the spaces, failing to damage, and the soldiers, frustrated, aimed worse and worse, and the Indians began to move with more purpose. Slokum flipped a chair and held it like a shield, dragged Baxter by an ankle toward halfcourt. Desormie crossed halfcourt and gave a chair to Lonnie. Maholtz grabbed a chair and they all crouched together, holding their chairs before them by the legs, shouting for their teammates to help form a bulwark. It was half a good strategy and, before it got whole, Benji needed to rush them with all of his soldiers, but he stayed in the corner, married to his strategy.

“A rammer,” Scott sang, “a rammer, a rammer.”

A misfired wingnut smashed part of a lightpanel, CHUCKETA-CRACKETA-CRACKETA-CHUCKETA. Plastic and glass got splintered and whirled. The burst bulbs retarding the stutter of the photons, the strobe effect slackened, devolved to mere flashing.

Eliyahu of Brooklyn limped south to the wall, leaned on a gym 1331

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mat, mumbled in Hebrew. In search of Big Ending’s remaining three chubniks, Beauregard and Isadore roamed the west bleachers.

“…and if you end this, now—”

Pockets
, Mr. Brodsky.

“…I can tell the police that you saw the error—”

I see no error.

“But if you—”

I see no error and you’re wrong either way. Look, I said, at this.

I whipped out Monitor Botha’s claw.

In the bleachers, the robots had all come unstunned. Some made attempts to evacuate their students, others cleared paths to get the fallen out first, and others yet shouted for everyone to sit. The few who tried to stop fights took hits. At first, the hits, however predictable—the robots kept stepping between kids who swung blindly—were completely accidental, and for the most part glancing: knees banged shins and elbows grazed asses, not personal at all, no harm no foul. But as the skirmishes spread, the hits came harder and they came more frequently: kids saw kids who hit robots go unstepped, and they began to manufacture their accidents = friends shoving friends so the shoved could bump robots, a tactic inspired by the pervs who pulled sly-gropes on girls in the hallways who didn’t like flirting. “I’m sorry, Melissa. I had to hold something. If I didn’t hold something, I’d have fallen—John tripped me.” “I tripped him, Melissa, and I’m sorry you got held, but you saw how he 1332