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 threatened, I told her.
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.”