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?
“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.