by Bill Myers
Coach continued yelling, “McDoogle!”
I hit it again, even harder.
K-Bamb!
Still no door movement, still more Coach yelling: “McDoogle!!!”
Suddenly, Wall Street had a brainstorm. She reached past me and turned the knob. The door opened effortlessly. (Hey, I’m a writer, not an engineer; I can’t be expected to know how everything works.)
Sunlight poured over us as we raced out onto the roof.
“There!” Coach spotted a fire escape on the other side of the building. “Over there!”
We all took off. After my usual staggering and stumbling across the roof, including the mandatory running into a few air-conditioning vents along the way, we finally made it to the fire escape. This time Wall Street suggested I go last. I didn’t understand why until everybody got down to the street and it was my turn. Suddenly, the reason became crystal clear. Because once everybody else was down, it made my landing
K-Bounce . . .
K-Boink . . .
K-Break . . .
K-“OOAF!”
a lot easier. Well, easier on me. I’m not so sure about those I landed on.
We circled around the back of the building, but we didn’t dare go out to the main street. Because there, in front of city hall, stood a bazillion police- men and SWAT team members. Of course, I recognized most of them from my past McDoogle mishaps. And, of course, I wanted to step out and say “hi”—you know, talk about old times, see recent photos of their kids and stuff.
But Wall Street held me back. “You can’t go out there,” she whispered. “They’ll arrest you for sure.”
I nodded.
“And we can’t go home, ’cause they’ve probably already got our places surrounded.”
Again I nodded.
“So what do we do?” Opera whined. It had been several minutes since he’d had any junk food, and it was obvious he was starting to go through withdrawal.
Wall Street shook her head. “I don’t know.”
“I do,” Coach said.
We all turned to him. “Remember how I’ve been telling you kids to prepare for the big computer crash? How when that Y2K bug hits tonight—New Year’s Eve—that there’s going to be rioting in the streets?”
We all kinda rolled our eyes. How could we forget? That’s all Coach had lived and breathed these last few months.
“Well, preparing is exactly what I’ve been doing,” he said. “In fact, I’ve made sure the underground bunker in my backyard has enough food and water to last for months. Let’s hide out there. Come on!” He turned and started toward his house.
I threw a nervous glance at my buddies. Don’t get me wrong, I appreciated the offer, but being cooped up in an underground bunker with Coach Kilroy wasn’t exactly my idea of a good time. Then again, being his prison cellmate for the next twenty years sounded even worse. Reluctantly, I turned and followed. So did Wall Street, and, finally, Opera—not of course without asking, “Excuse me, Coach, but exactly how big is your supply of dehydrated chips?”
To make sure we wouldn’t be noticed, Coach kept us in the back alleys and shadows until nightfall. Then, to be certain no one was tailing us, he had us zig and zag through the streets for hours until he was sure it was safe to head for the bunker. As far as I could tell, it was pretty much a waste of time. Everybody was so excited about their big Millennium New Year’s Eve parties that they really didn’t pay any attention to us. But that didn’t stop Coach. In fact, by the time we’d finally zigged our last zig and zagged our last zag, it was almost midnight.
At last we arrived. Coach pulled open the big metal door, and we climbed down inside. As far as dirty, cold holes in the ground went, the bunker wasn’t half bad (if you happen to like dirty, cold holes in the ground).
Of course, Coach thought it was great. In fact, all he did was keep telling us how lucky we were. “Yes, sir, this is a terrific place to hide,” he said. “Not only that, but when the clock strikes twelve and all the computers in the world crash, you’ll thank your lucky stars you’re safe in here with me, instead of out on the streets with them rioters.”
“You really believe things are crunch, crunch, crunch going to get crazy at midnight?” Opera asked, while munching on the dried cucumber chips he’d found. (Hey, desperate times call for desperate junk food.)
“Believe it?” Coach practically shouted. “I know it!” He looked at his watch. “In just two minutes and thirty-seven seconds, when all the computers crash, civilization as we know it will cease to exist!” He went on jabbering about some sort of computer bug that would throw everything into chaos, but Wall Street and I weren’t paying much attention. Instead, we’d found Coach’s phone line in the bunker, plugged in Ol’ Betsy, turned her on, and tried to figure out what to do next.
“There’s only one thing we can do,” Wall Street finally said.
“Delete the program and hope everything just magically turns back to normal?” I asked.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said scornfully.
(Hey, it was worth a try.)
“No, we have to give you more clout,” she said. “Instead of police chief, we have to make you someone more powerful. Someone who can actually pardon the coach.”
I swallowed hard. “You mean like the mayor?”
Wall Street shook her head. “No, the mayor’s not powerful enough to do that . . . only the—” Suddenly, her eyes lit up like a Christmas tree. “Actually, only the governor can pardon people.”
“The governor!”
“One more minute, kids,” Coach shouted. “One more minute before the New Year comes and the destruction of society begins.”
I barely heard. I was too focused on Wall Street. “You can’t be serious,” I said.
“It’s the only way. Here”—she reached for Ol’ Betsy—“let me have that.” Before I could stop her she typed:
Choco Chum, turn Wally into the state’s governor.
“Wall Street!”
She hit “ENTER.”
“What have you done?” I cried. “That’s crazy!”
“Why do you say that, Mister Governor?”
“Mister Governor? Stop that, I am not the—”
“Stop what, sir?”
“Thirty seconds,” Coach called.
“Wall Street, you’ve got to put an end to all of this, right now!”
“Sir, I’m not the one with the mixed-up computer that tells all the other computers in the world what to believe. Nor am I the one responsible for all of this mess.”
She was right, of course. I glanced down at Ol’ Betsy. I don’t know what had gotten into her (other than all the salt water, the fish, those half-dozen cockroaches . . .). But, whatever it was, it was definitely the cause of our troubles. (Well, that, and the minor fact that we’d been trying to cheat.)
“Fifteen seconds!” Coach shouted.
“Listen,” I said. “Enough is enough.”
“What do you suggest we do, Mister Governor?”
“Stop calling me that!”
“Ten seconds.”
“Here.” I nudged her away from Ol’ Betsy and stared at the screen. There had to be some way to stop all the craziness . . . some way to wipe the slate clean and get everything back to normal.
“Five seconds!”
Suddenly, I had it! I reached for the keyboard and started typing.
“Four . . .”
Choco Chum, clear up all the computer messes by—
“Three . . .”
—wiping their slates clean!
“Two . . .”
“No!” Wall Street shouted. “Wally, not that!”
But I’d made up my mind. Before she could stop me I reached over and— “One . . .”
—hit “ENTER.”
Suddenly, there was a squeal of brakes outside, followed by a loud crash, and then a scream.
“What’s that?” Opera cried.
“And so it’s begun,” Coach answered grimly.
“What?�
� Opera shouted. “What’s begun?”
There was another crash and another scream . . . and then another . . . and another.
“What’s going on?!” I shouted. “People are getting hurt. We’ve got to go out there and help them!”
Before Coach could grab me, I squeezed past him and raced up the steps to the bunker’s door.
“Don’t!” he yelled. “There’s nothing we can do!”
“Of course there is,” I shouted as I pushed open the door. “We’ve got to help!”
“McDoogle—”
But he was too late. I’d pushed open the door and stepped outside. There was more squealing of brakes, more crashes, and more screaming. I scampered out of the bunker and raced toward the back fence to see what was happening.
When I arrived I could only stare in horror. Just beyond the fence was something that looked like a combination war zone and demolition derby. All of the traffic lights were out and car after car was crashing into one another. Up above, the transformers on the light poles were blowing up and sending showers of sparks over everyone. And the people . . . everywhere they were running, shouting, screaming. It was terrible, everyone was out of control, it was almost as bad as the Day After Christmas Sale at the mall!
Wall Street was the first to arrive at my side.
“Nice work, sir.”
“I don’t understand,” I said. “What happened?”
She handed me Ol’ Betsy. “Take a look at your screen. Look at what you typed.”
I glanced down at the screen and read:
Choco Chum, clear up all the computer messes by wiping their slates clean.
“I still don’t understand,” I said, straining to hear her above the sounds of screaming, chaos, and crashing cars.
“You’ve fulfilled Coach’s prediction. You’ve ‘wiped everything clean.’”
A fire engine roared past with its siren blasting, and I had to shout. “What?”
“I said, you’ve wiped everything clean!” she yelled.
“How?”
“You and Ol’ Betsy have just cleared every bit of memory from every computer in the world!”
“That’s impossible!” I shouted.
She pointed to all of the chaos going on in front of us. “See for yourself.” By now, dozens of cars were piled up and more were flying past. Fire hydrants were sheared off, spewing water high into the sky. Across the street, people were breaking into a local grocery store, stealing food. And there was no longer any light except for the cascading sparks from the exploding transformers.
“I don’t get it!” I shouted. “What’s going on?”
By now, Coach was beside us. As he surveyed the scene, he answered quietly, “It’s only the beginning.”
“The beginning of what?” I yelled.
“The beginning of the end of the world.”
Chapter 8
The United States of Wally
The good news was my house was only a few blocks away. The bad news was a few blocks was like a few light-years—at least with all the craziness going on around us. Still, I had to get home. I had to see if my family was okay.
Convincing Opera to leave with me wasn’t too hard.
“Your folks got BURP chips?” he asked.
“You bet,” I said.
He glanced at the empty bag of cucumber chips in his hands. “Nothing weird like spinach chips or broccoli chips or some sicko health thing like that?”
“No way,” I said. “We’ve got the real thing—complete with grease, salt and . . . and . . . and more grease!”
“All right!” He gave me a high-five. “So, what are we BELCH waiting for?”
Wall Street wasn’t quite so easy to convince. “I don’t know,” she said. “What about Coach?”
“Yeah,” Coach agreed. “It’s gonna get lonesome spending twenty-four hours a day doing sit-ups, push-ups, pull-ups, chin-ups, fifty-yard sprints, and squat-thrusts all by myself.”
Suddenly, Wall Street was a little more sure about leaving.
“Besides,” Coach continued, “who am I going to yell at and chew out if you’re all gone?”
Suddenly, Wall Street was a lot more sure about leaving. So was I.
After bidding a fond farewell to Coach (and promising he could call up and yell any time he got too lonely), we hopped over the fence and started running down the street through the chaos to my house.
Things were getting worse by the minute. By now, nearly every store had been broken into. Everywhere people were stealing and looting. Men were fighting over kerosene lanterns. Women were fighting over bread. Children were fighting over old Barney toys! (I told you it was bad.)
I wanted to shout to them and explain that it was all a mistake, just another McDoogle Mishap. But after Wall Street pointed out that it might lead to an uncomfortable situation (like my death), I decided it was best to keep my mouth shut and my feet moving.
When we finally got to my place, I was glad to see my family staying cool and calm. The generator was working, and Dad was pouring what water had been left in the pipes into jugs to be placed with the rest of our supplies; and little sister Carrie was helping Mom gather candles. The only people having major panic attacks were Burt and Brock, my twin superjock brothers:
“We’re going to miss tomorrow’s bowl games,” they kept screaming. “We’re going to miss the bowl games!” I was clueless about which bowl games they were talking about (Rose Bowl, Orange Bowl, Tidy Bowl—They’re all the same to me). The point is: everyone else in my family was staying calm. Although not as fanatical as Coach, Dad had always said we should be prepared for something like this, and for the most part we were.
When we were sure we weren’t needed, Wall Street, Opera, and I raced upstairs to my room. Whatever Ol’ Betsy and I had done, it was important to undo it as soon as possible. But how?
We quickly turned on my computer and plugged it into the phone line, hoping it still worked. Sure enough it did. But the screen had no sooner come up than a message began flashing across it:
URGENT
URGENT
URGENT
“What’s going on?” Wall Street asked.
“I don’t know,” I said.
“It must be another computer glitch.”
“I don’t think so,” I said. “It didn’t come on the screen until we plugged into the phone line.”
“How can it work? Everything’s been wiped clean—even the phone lines!”
“I don’t know!”
Suddenly, there was a long, loud
BEEP
followed by more letters. All three of us leaned forward to read the screen as the words quickly formed:
TO: GOVERNOR WALLY McDOOGLE
FROM:THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES
I gasped. Wall Street gasped. Opera gasped. Then, looking for something else to do, we decided to keep reading.
WE HAVE ISOLATED THE GLOBAL CHAOS
TO THIS LOCATION.YOU HAVE EXACTLY
TEN MINUTES TO CEASE YOUR
AGGRESSION. IF YOU DO NOT CEASE AND
DESIST, WE WILL CONSIDER YOUR
ACTIONS AN ACT OF WAR UPON THE
UNITED STATES OF AMERICA AND WE WILL
RESPOND SWIFTLY AND APPROPRIATELY.
THIS IS YOUR FINAL WARNING,
GOVERNOR. I REPEAT, THIS IS YOUR
FINAL WARNING.
HAVE A NICE DAY,
THE PRES.
All three of us stared at the screen a good minute. Finally, Opera asked a question that wasn’t exactly on any of our minds: “I thought you said your parents had chips.”
I ignored him and turned to Wall Street. “If all the phone lines are down, how can the President e-mail us?”
She shrugged. “I guess when it comes to national emergencies, he’s got ways.”
“But what does he mean when he says they’ll respond ‘swiftly and appropriately’?”
Wall Street took a deep breath and slowly answered. “I think the swiftly p
art means he’ll be declaring war on us.”
I slowly nodded. “And the appropriately part?”
“It means they’ll be bombing us to smithereens.”
I let out a long, low sigh and mumbled, “I just hate it when this type of stuff happens.”
As usual, Wall Street and I had like the longest debate over what to do. She wanted to keep trying to fix things by using Ol’ Betsy’s powers, and I just wanted to call it quits.
“Look,” I said, “this whole thing started by trying to cheat with our grades.”
“Which are still,” Wall Street happily pointed out, “what we changed them to.”
“What difference does that make now?!” I shouted.
“I’m just trying to look on the bright side.”
“The bright side? The bright side!? The President of the United States is about to declare war on my house, and you want me to look on the bright side?!”
“Actually,” Opera said as he began looking under my pillow, “I don’t think the President can legally do that.”
“Why not?” I asked.
Now he was checking between my blankets. “To declare war on a foreign country, I think he has to get Congress to vote on it or something.”
“We’re not a foreign country,” I said. Now he dropped to his knees and stuck his head under my bed. “Opera, what are you doing?”
“Don’t you ever like eat popcorn and chips and stuff in bed?” he asked as he started rummaging around underneath. “You musta dropped crumbs around here somewhere. I mean everybody drops—ah, here we go.”
crunch . . . crunch . . . crunch
Even though it was faint, I could still hear the muffled munching of Opera finding something to eat under my bed.
“Hold it,” Wall Street said. “He might have something.”
“Of course, he has something,” I said. “Probably a stray corn chip or pretzel left over from—”
“No, no, no,” Wall Street said as she rose to her feet and crossed back to Ol’ Betsy. “I mean about declaring war on us. If we’re a foreign country, maybe the President can’t declare war on us without getting Congress’s permission by a majority vote!”
“But we’re not a foreign country,” I repeated.
“Not yet,” she said with a twinkle in her eyes. Once again she reached for Ol’ Betsy.