by Gini Koch
“You’re right, Johnny. The President’s got some moves, too, doesn’t he?”
“He does, Mitch, he does. Frankly, everyone on the ice is doing a great job. Oh, wow, look at those hits the two teams’ enforcers are managing. Those flying things are going to be sorry they went up against two prime NHL teams.”
“And the First Lady’s holding her own, too, Johnny. Impressive since she’s not on skates.”
“Well, natural ability’s a wonderful thing, Mitch. Not everyone has it, but those who do sure impress the heck out of me. Folks, if you’re just tuning in, we’re underway in what should have been the last preseason game between the Washington Capitals and the Arizona Chupacabras but what’s turned into a gigantic free-for-all combining hockey, tennis, synchronized dancing, and more. Don’t change that channel, we’re going commercial-free right now and you don’t want to miss a thing.”
“Johnny, look! New arrivals.”
As Mitch said this, heard a bird’s angry scream and looked up again. More help was indeed on the way—the Peregrines had arrived. All of the males, as near as I could tell.
Bruno landed on my shoulder as I did another spin and heard Christopher whiz by, still shouting “Whoa!”
“Bruno, my bird, what kept you?”
Bruno cawed, warbled, leapt off my shoulder to avoid getting hit, grabbed the flying puck in his talons, ripped it to shreds, dropped it down, and landed back onto my shoulder to finish his sentence. The Peregrines had been protecting our kids and families until said kids and families were deemed safe, Peregrine safe. Lola and all the females were with our kids, and definitely had their Kill ’Em All and Let Kitty Sort ’Em Out mindsets on.
“You all rock above all other birds, now and forever.”
Risked another look around while I did another spin. There were now various Lyssara honeycomb shelters all over the stands. Saw people being moved to them by Field agents, Secret Service, and arena security. Flying pucks were bouncing off the honeycombs and, once bounced, didn’t try again. “Good thinking, those Honeybees.”
Bruno cawed. He agreed that the Lyssara were excellent to have around and suggested we add a few onto our security teams.
“We’ll revisit that great idea when we have some downtime, but I’m with you.”
Assessed the current state of the situation. Positives were that the people in the stands were getting to safety and becoming harder to hit. Negatives were that security in the stands were having to focus most of their protection on the Lyssara, since there weren’t that many of them here and we needed a lot of honeycombs made, and that those of us on the ice were once again getting the full brunt of the flying pucks’ attack.
“Any ideas?” I asked Bruno. “I’m hella open.”
He shared that he was confident I’d figure it out. Always the way.
The music changed to Gloria Estefan & Miami Sound Machine’s “Conga” right as I heard Christopher’s “whoa” getting closer. Considered options as he zoomed past. Spun around. “Dudes, conga line! Hold on tight! Pass it down!”
Turned back and readied myself, as Jeff somehow got ahead of Tim’s line and grabbed the back of my jeans. “I hope you know what you’re doing, baby.”
“Oh, me too. Glad to see that you’re focused on the priorities and not letting someone else grab my butt.”
“Never have, never do, never will. The situation doesn’t matter. Your butt is mine.”
“No argument from me and right back atcha. Now probably isn’t the time to share that some of the flying pucks have pinched me, is it?”
“No, it’s the perfect time.” He slammed his stick against two of them, destroying them both with one blow. “Jealousy helps my aim, as far as I can tell.”
“I’ll keep that in mind and won’t comment about the fact that you’re jealous of some metal disks of evil.”
“Everyone needs one flaw, baby, or else they’re boring.”
“Oh, stick with that story, Jeff. It’s working for you.”
The sound of Christopher’s inability to slide-skate came nearer again. Or maybe he was the best slide-skater around. Tough one to call. However, knew without asking that he’d like to slow down or, barring that, at least be more helpful in the fight. Planned to help him do both.
As the sound got louder, reached out with my left hand and grabbed for him. Managed to catch his suit jacket and held on tight. Go team. Literally.
We moved into the fastest spin I’d personally ever done. I could still hear the music, though, meaning I could still move to the beat. So I did. We were going clockwise around the rink. As I started bobbing, used my left foot to push us away from the boards while swinging the stick in my right hand around to the beat. Hit flying pucks by the droves this way.
Could see the others do the same since we were now the snake eating its own tail and the guys were still doing whatever I was, proving that hockey players were a lot smarter than they tended to be given credit for.
The Poofs, meanwhile, were slide-skating or whatever they called it right next to us, scooping up every flying puck we slammed to the ground, making little growly sounds that, as far as I could interpret, meant they were totally having fun. So far, so very good.
Christopher caught up to the player at the end of our conga line, just managing not to hit into him, but only because I yanked him back. “Christopher, grab hold of the hockey player in front of you!”
Apparently he’d had enough of his own personal version of the Spinner, because he didn’t question, complain, or snark, he merely did as requested. Well, ordered. Clearly, spinning around like this had been good for him.
He got a hold on the player’s jersey and, once I knew he had it, I let go of his jacket. Momentum and the slickness of the ice meant we still kept moving briskly, but no longer at the fastest hyperspeed imaginable. Heard some gagging, but these guys were all top athletes and everyone’s adrenaline was running well past eleven, so no one barfed.
“Conga” was still playing. When I’d done this dance before—you know, at frat parties and the like, where there weren’t flying metal puck things trying to kill us—moving in a circle over and over again wasn’t fun. You had to move around, serpentine-like. Normally you went through rooms, but we’d have to make do with just the ice rink and the nets, which were, somehow, still mostly in place.
So, I did, because us going in a circle would make it really easy for the flying pucks, and this was more interesting for me. Began to slide-skate in earnest again, only this time I snaked us around, doing a big S shape, and then circled around the nets, just to keep the flying pucks guessing.
Had to lift up my right foot, then my left, then jump to avoid flying puck parts the Peregrines had created that the Poofs hadn’t gotten to yet. The guys in the line did the same. Ducked and bobbed and got to see the line imitate this as well. Only managed to control the Inner Hyena because the situation was still serious. Plus, it was kind of cool.
We had a lot of debris still in front of us, because the Peregrines were doing their thing and they weren’t following our conga line, so had to slow us down. Heard gunshots and looked around to see who was shooting—if we had a shooter then we also had someone who might be trying to shoot Jeff. This was truly a great opportunity for an assassination.
Had to look way up, but was relieved when I spotted the shooters—Mom, Kevin, Buchanan, and Chuckie were up in the cheap seats, all firing at the flying pucks that were above the Peregrines. Hitting and not missing, too, which was totally one for the win column.
More gunfire. Looked around to spot some people high up in the rigging—Siler and a Turleen I was pretty positive was Mossy. They were also shooting, but they were using sniper rifles. Where they’d gotten them I didn’t know, but kind of figured Mossy had brought them along somehow, because he was cool that way.
There were far fewer flying pucks about, but w
e weren’t out of the woods yet. There were still plenty in the areas where those with guns couldn’t shoot without risking hitting those of us on the ice, those still in the stands, or the Peregrines. And either the flying pucks did learn, or whoever was controlling them did, because the remainder moved lower, out of safe firing range.
The Peregrines were flying where most of the pucks were congregating in order to prepare for more attacks on the ice, which was good, in that when they caught one they destroyed it. But it was bad because there were still more flying pucks than there were birds, and the birds were far bigger targets.
Three flying pucks surrounded a Peregrine, then they all zapped it at the same time. Heard the bird shriek, then it plummeted down and hit the ice with a thump.
And it didn’t move.
CHAPTER 86
INSTANTLY SAW RED. I’d already been furious that whoever had launched this attack had done so when my children and other people’s children were here. But now they’d hurt one of my pets, an innocent animal just trying to protect innocent people. An animal dedicating its life to protecting me and mine. They might have even killed it. And I knew they wanted to do the same to all my pets, and my children, my family and friends, our protectors, and everyone else, too, if they could.
Bruno flew off my shoulder, shrieking, and the other Peregrines joined him, attacking the flying pucks with even more ferocity.
“Son of bitch must pay!” It might not be the greatest war cry, but it was working for all the Peregrines, so it worked for me. “Break up, guys! Jeff, let go and pass it on!”
He let go of my pants and I headed for the Peregrine as fast as I could, which, considering I was now fully enraged, was pretty darned fast. Scooped him up into my arms right before a flying puck could hit him again. It was one of our younger Peregrines, Edgar, who’d attached to Lizzie, and he was still alive, but I wasn’t sure for how long, or how badly he was hurt. “Hang in there, buddy.”
“Oh no, Johnny, it looks like we have a man down. Bird down.”
“The First Lady seems to be trying to get him to safety, Mitch. Folks, do we have any veterinarians in the audience? Any vets at all here tonight? If so, you’re needed down at the ice.”
Doubted we’d get any takers, but it was nice of Johnny to give it the old college try.
Cuddled Edgar to my chest and headed us for the nearest net, dodging flying pucks and shielding him with my body, because while I could take more hits, knew Edgar couldn’t. Several flying pucks tried to surround us and I couldn’t really swing the stick and hold onto Edgar.
Flipped us into a forward roll on the ice. Landed well and our momentum allowed me to slide the rest of the way to the net on the Butt That Belonged To Jeff.
Got to my feet with an assist from the net, put Edgar on top of it, where the goalies left their water bottles during games, put my stick next to him, and started shoving the net toward the area where the Zamboni came from, pausing to hit flying pucks with my stick as needed and kicking some, too, because the skills were working perfectly—when I had a live studio audience, no less—scooping up busted puck parts in the net along the way. That was me, getting at least a double out of everything.
“Our First Lady’s a firecracker, isn’t she Mitch?”
“She is. And, look, Johnny, there’s someone hurrying toward her.”
“Hope it’s a veterinarian, not an attacker, Mitch.” So did I, Johnny. So did I.
Thankfully, that someone was Tito, and he reached the opening at the same time I did. “You’re a vet, too?”
“No, but I’m the best we’ve got for this.”
“Dude, you’re the best we’ve got period and you know it.”
He grinned as he carefully took Edgar from the net. “Hang on, more reinforcements are coming.”
“Who?”
The music changed to “Hips Don’t Lie” by Shakira and Wyclef Jean. As it did, Rahmi and Rhee leaped over the glass, which was hella impressive considering how high it was, landed on the ice, and started spinning their battle staffs, with the glowing ends definitely activated. They sliced through several of the flying pucks before the little machines had time to react.
“They waited until all the civilians were safe, children and the elderly in particular,” Tito said. “Now, go fight with your protégées. This is your kind of fight, Kitty, remember that.”
He ran toward the nearest honeycomb, and I grabbed my by-now-rather-bedraggled stick and slide-skated toward the princesses. “Guys, get off the ice now,” I shouted to the hockey players I passed. “I don’t want you getting hit by friendly fire! You, too!” Shouted at Christopher, who wisely hadn’t let go of his hockey player. He nodded to me and left with the others.
Several of the flying pucks surrounded me like they had Edgar. Well, screw that. Listened to the beat and moved to it, swinging my stick on the backbeat, using my hips to keep from getting hit. The princesses saw what I was doing and started imitating me, since they were surrounded, too. Back to synchronized dance-fighting for the win.
“The two new ladies seem to be as good on the ice as the First Lady,” Johnny said.
“They do!” Mitch agreed. “I think the number of flying weapons has been reduced by quite a lot, too.”
“Let’s hope that this fight continues in this way, Mitch. Most of the hockey players are off the ice now.”
“I think the First Lady told them to go, Johnny.”
“She did, Mitch. Folks, now on the ice it’s just the First Lady and her, ah, female honor guard, the President and three other men, those big birds that look like peacocks, and those weird little animals doing cleanup.”
“Amazing how well they’re all doing in street shoes, isn’t it, Johnny?”
“That it is, Mitch, though one of them managed to grab some skates. Maybe he’s trying out for one of the teams.” Mitch and Johnny both chuckled at this as the song changed to “She Bangs,” thankfully the version by Ricky Martin, not the cover by William Hung. “And apparently they all bang, too.” Oh yeah, they were hilarious, but the song was great at helping us bang on the flying pucks.
“Pretty birds, aren’t they, Johnny? Real fighters, too. More than a few teams could use a couple of those in enforcer roles.”
“Ah . . . I suppose so, Mitch. Might have an issue putting them into skates, though.”
Mitch laughed heartily while Johnny chuckled at his joke as well. Clearly Johnny was on a comedy roll. “And those fluffy little animals doing cleanup? Those things are damned adorable, Johnny.”
“That they are, Mitch.”
“I want one, Johnny.”
“Take that up with the First Lady, Mitch.”
“Great idea! What a show, folks! What a show! And the music—it’s Latin Night here at the Capitals arena, folks! What. A. Show!” Mitch was really into it. He should get out of the safety of the press box and try it down on the ice and see how into it he was then. He might score a Poof that way.
The princesses and I were drawing most of the remaining flying pucks’ attention, which made sense—the Shadow had said this attack was going to be centered on me.
The Peregrines were forcing the flying pucks lower and not allowing them to escape via the air. Jeff, White, Reader, and Tim were effectively herding or hitting the flying pucks toward us, depending. The princesses and I shook our hips and swung our sticks and made good progress.
As always, though, the remaining flying pucks regrouped and attacked in our rhythm. Fortunately, it was taking them about a full song to adjust, so as they landed zaps on me, Tim, and Rahmi, the music changed to Shaggy’s “Chica Bonita.”
New beat, new moves, more flying pucks shattered on the ice. This was the way to do it, though I kind of missed the hockey players. This song had a little more of a reggae beat, and while the backbeat remained constant, the main melody went from faster to slower, making it great
for confusing nasty flying machines with more smooth dance-fight moves.
Took the full song, but by the time it was done, we were smashing the last of the flying pucks into the ice and the Poofs were finishing cleanup. The moment they were done, the Poofs disappeared. Bruno squawked at his flock and they all flew off, perching on the tops of the honeycomb shelters.
“Wow, folks,” Johnny said, “looks like it’s all over.” The music changed to “Pause” by Pitbull. Had no idea if this was Algar telling Johnny and Mitch to shut up or if it was a hint that more was coming.
“Has the fat lady sung, though, Johnny?”
“Not that I’ve heard, Mitch. All the artists we’ve heard were or are in shape. Commercial break time, folks. Don’t go away, though, because we’ll have interviews with all the participants once we’re back, and don’t forget, the game hasn’t even started yet!”
“Are those guys for real?” Tim asked as we regrouped.
“Hey, they want you to try out for the Capitals.”
“I’m a Kings fan.”
“You’re dead to me.”
“Hey, the Chups are my second team.”
“You get to live again.”
“If you two are done bantering,” Jeff said, “is it safe to let people out of the shelters?”
Was about to reply in the affirmative, when I heard something, and it wasn’t music.
Turned toward where I’d left the net. It was still there. But not for long.
A Zamboni was coming through, going as fast as a Zamboni could, which was about nine whole miles an hour. But it was going far faster than I’d seen most of them come out of the gate.
“What the literal hell?” Reader asked. “Do they seriously think the game’s really still on?”
“Don’t they normally wait for everyone to get off the ice before they begin cleaning it?” White asked.
“Normally.” The Zamboni hit the net and kept on going. “They also normally don’t wreck the nets, either.”
“Did they not realize the net was there somehow?” Jeff asked.