My Life as a Computer Cockroach (10 page)

“Yes?” I asked, giving him my best wide-eyed, innocent routine.

But, before he could respond there was a low

rumble, rumble, rumble,

that quickly grew to a loud

RUMBLE, RUMBLE, RUMBLE.

“Now what?” I moaned.

The good news was that I didn't have to wait forever to find out. The bad news was that even forever wasn't long enough. Because coming down both ends of our street were dozens of giant tanks. But they weren't only coming down the street. They were also busting through:

CRUNCH, CRUNCH, CRUNCH

the fence of our backyard, and

SMASH, SMASH, SMASH

through the neighbor's house across the street.

“Great,” I groaned, “now we've got tanks for our little army.”

Wall Street came to my side. “Actually—”

“Haven't we seen enough?” I interrupted.

“Actually, uh—”

“I mean, how many more weapons do we need?” “Actually, uh, Wally . . .”

“What?” I finally turned to her.

“Those aren't
our
tanks.”

“They're not?”

“Nope.”

“Then whose are they?”

“Guessing by the American flags, I'd say they might be American.”

I slowly turned back to the tanks. As if on cue, they all began grinding to a halt. A moment later there was only silence.

So there we stood in my front yard, completely surrounded by tanks, completely frozen in fear. That is, until each of the giant guns on those giant tanks swiveled toward us, bringing us into their sights.

“Say, Wall Street?”

“Yes, Wally?”

“You wouldn't happen to have any suggestions, would you?”

“Not really.”

“Are you certain?”

“Well, maybe just one.”

“I see. And what might that be?”

“Actually, it is not my best, I mean, I have had better.”

“I understand,” I said.

“And I really haven't had much time to think it through.”

“I can appreciate that,” I said. “But given this particular situation, in our particular time frame, what in particular would you suggest?”

“Something we've had a lot of experience at.”

“I see.” I nodded. “Please continue.”

“First, I suggest we turn around like so.”

I followed her example. “Okay, good.”

“Then I suggest we take a deep breath.”

“All right.” I took in a deep breath. “Now what?”

“Well, now, I suggest we

“RUNNNNN!”

You'd think by now I'd have gotten tired of following Wall Street's suggestions. But, considering the options (her way, or death's way), this one didn't sound half bad. So the two of us ran up the porch steps as fast as we could. Any second I expected those giant guns to open fire, any second I expected to be turned into a little pile of McDoogle dust. But nothing happened. Nothing at all. Well, unless you count the part where Wall Street opened the door and I

K-Bamb

ran into the edge of it.

“Come on, Wally!” she cried as I began my typical stumble-and-fall routine. “Quit clowning around.”

I nodded, doing my best to stay on my feet as I staggered back toward the door and

K-Bamb

ran into it the second time.

By now, I'd been on the porch just slightly longer than forever, and I couldn't figure out why they hadn't already opened fire on me until

K-Bamb

I hit the door the third time. That's when I heard the snickers coming from the direction of the tanks, then the laughter, then the out-and-out knee-slapping guffaws. It was a great comfort to know I was entertaining the troops (it would have been an even greater comfort if they had been
my
troops—but I suppose you should spread goodwill wherever you can).

Finally, Wall Street grabbed me by the collar and yanked me through the doorway. Once inside, she cried, “Are you all right?”

“Yeah.” I nodded, still dazed from all the door
K-Bamb
ing. “I wonder why they didn't shoot me.”

“Must have thought you were on a suicide mission,” Wall Street said as she examined the three giant bumps on my forehead.

By now, my vision had pretty much stopped blurring, at least long enough to see what they'd done to the house. I suppose it wasn't too bad . . . if you don't mind a few walls knocked down to make room for the machine guns, or that the kitchen was now being renovated into a missile launching center. Then, of course, there were the trenches and foxholes being dug in the living room. (War can be a real hazard to carpet sometimes.)

“Wall Street . . .” I slowly turned to her.

“I'm thinking,” she said. “I'm thinking, I'm thinking . . .”

Knowing that she was thinking brought little comfort, although I appreciated the effort.

“BURP.”

I spun around to see Opera coming out of the back bedroom. “Hey, these rations aren't
BELCH
half bad.”

“What are you eating now?” Wall Street sighed.

“Spam chips.” He grinned.

Her expression made it clear she was sorry she'd asked.

“Mister President?”

I turned to see the General motioning for me to join him at the front window. (Well, it had been a front window—now, with the glass smashed out, it was more like a front opening.) “We've reestablished the electricity and utilities for this quadrant, sir.” He held out a pair of night vision goggles. “Would you like to survey the troops, sir?”

I walked over to join him. “Did you see those tanks outside?” I asked.

“No problem, sir.”

“Did you see all those guns pointed at the house?”

“No problem, sir.”

Suddenly, a half-dozen red laser beams poured into the room, filling it with a half-dozen bright red circles.

“What's that!?” I cried.

“That might be a problem.”

Before he could explain, the phone rang and a nearby soldier picked it up. “Hello?” he said. Then, with a trembling hand, he held it out to me. “It's for you, sir.”

“Who is it?” I asked. Unfortunately, I didn't have to wait long to find out.”

“President McDoogle?” the voice on the other end asked.

“Uh, this is Wally McDoogle, yes.”

“This is the President of the United States. How are you doing today?”

“Um . . . not real good, sir.”

“Oh, sorry to hear that. Well, listen, do you happen to see a bunch of bright red laser dots filling your room there?”

I glanced around. “About half a dozen,” I said. “Ah, excellent.”

“What are they?”

“Well, they're part of our laser-guided bomb system.”

“Your what?”

“We have about, oh, I don't know, a hundred or so bombers circling your city. Each has several of those fancy laser-guided bombs, which, coincidentally enough, all happen to be aimed at your house.”

“A hundred bombers!” I choked.

“Give or take a dozen. Anyway, before they drop their bombs, you have about thirty seconds or so if you'd like to make any last requests.”

I opened my mouth then closed it. Then opened my mouth and closed it. I suppose I could have stood there doing my fish imitation the rest of my life, which by the looks of things wouldn't be all that long, but I had to think of something and it had to be fast.

Chapter
10
Wrapping Up

“Thirty seconds . . .” That's all the President of the United States said we had left before we were bombed to smithereens! I glanced at my watch. Better make that 29 seconds. Er, 28. The point is that we were running out of time. Without a moment's hesitation, I dropped the phone and raced for the stairs.

“Mister President!” the General shouted after me.

“Wally!” Wall Street yelled.

“BURP!”
Opera cried.

But this was no time to talk. It was time to do what I should have done when I had time to do what I should have done when I had time to do it.

Translation: No more cheating or trying to fix the cheat.

I arrived at the stairs, taking them two at a time, which (thanks to my athletic ability) only meant spraining both ankles . . . twice. But it didn't matter. It was time for the truth.

I glanced at my watch: 22 seconds and counting.

I arrived at my bedroom, which now served as a lookout post.

19 seconds.

There on my desk was Ol' Betsy, looking just as innocent as she always did. And why not? It wasn't her fault I'd gotten us into this mess.

17 seconds.

“Excuse me,” I said, squeezing past a bunch of soldiers with binoculars, telescopes, and listening devices, “excuse me, please, excuse me,” until, finally, I reached Ol' Betsy.

“Wally!” Wall Street arrived outside my door, shouting. “What are you going to do?”

I glanced at my watch:

14 seconds.

“What I should have done at the beginning,” I yelled. I picked up my computer, started unwinding the extra-long phone cord connecting her to the wall, and headed for the door. “I'm putting an end to Ol' Betsy!”

“You're what?” she cried as I squeezed past her and into the hallway.

I didn't answer but headed down the hall toward the bathroom. I suspected Dad had filled the tub and sink to store more drinking water, but if I did this right, all of our problems would be over in a few seconds. If I didn't do it right,
we'd
be over in a few seconds. Speaking of which . . .

10 seconds to go . . .

Wall Street stayed at my heels, arguing all the way. “If you destroy Ol' Betsy, you'll destroy your Choco Chum story! You'll destroy all of our hard work . . .”

I turned and entered the bathroom.

8 seconds . . .

Wall Street continued. “You'll wind up getting that F in P.E.”

I nodded. Now at last we were getting close to the truth.

“. . . and I'll, I'll, I'll wind up getting a C in English instead of a B!”

We were even closer.

6 seconds.

I arrived at the tub. It was full. With shaky hands I held Ol' Betsy over it. The water was deep and clear . . . and it would spell instant death for her.

“Wally! There has to be another way!”

I couldn't think of any. I had to destroy the computer bug. I had to destroy Ol' Betsy.

4 seconds.

“Delete!” Wall Street shouted. “Hit the delete button! It will erase all of your Choco Chum story! It will erase everything we've ever written for him to do.”

3 seconds . . .

I looked at her. I looked at Ol' Betsy. Maybe she
was
right, maybe there
was
another way. Maybe I could spare Ol' Betsy's life and still straighten everything out. Maybe all I had to do
was
to delete the Choco Chum story.

2 seconds . . .

“Wally, you've got to believe me! Just hit ‘DELETE'!”

I reached for the delete key, my finger hovering over it.

1 second . . .

“Wally, do it! Hit the delete key! Now! Hit it now!” Finally, I pressed it.

Ol' Betsy started churning and grinding away, making more noise than Dad's stomach in church when he's had too many pieces of anchovy pizza the night before. It was pretty obvious, the old girl didn't want to give up the program. But she kept on grinding until finally, after a couple of last-minute grunts and a few more groans, the most amazing thing happened . . .

A single cockroach scurried out from under the keypad. He glanced around kind of dazed and confused. He looked up at me, gave his antennae a little rub, then hopped off the keyboard and into the tub, landing with the tiniest splash. After a dozen backstrokes he made it to the edge of the tub, crawled up the side, and disappeared into a crack in the molding.

“That was it!” Wall Street cried. “That's what was wrong with Ol' Betsy. That's what was scrambling up her program. She really did have a computer bug!”

I hoped Wall Street was right, but I couldn't be certain, not yet. I stuffed Ol' Betsy under my arm and headed back into the hallway. Out there, soldiers were standing around, scratching their heads, looking confused and trying to figure out what had happened.

I headed for the stairs. Down below the General was still shouting out orders, but they were a different type. “All right, men, I want this place shipshape and clean as a whistle—and I mean now!”

As I arrived, he spotted me and walked over. “Sorry, kid,” he said. “I'm not sure what all happened.” He let out a long sigh and continued. “Best we figure, it was that Millennium Bug. Messed up everybody's computers—the government's, the military's, everyone's.”

I slowly nodded.

“Not to worry, though,” he said. “Looks like some genius has just solved it. Before you know it, everything will be back to normal.”

I nodded again.

“Oh, here,” he said, handing me the phone. “It's the President. He still wants to talk to you.”

I took it in shaking hands and numbly answered, “Hello?”

“Wally? Wally McDoogle?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Listen, sorry about the little mix-up. Best we figure it was that Millennium Bug thing.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Anyway, I trust there are no hard feelings. Tell your folks we'll get the house and everything else fixed up lickety-split.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Oh, and Wally.”

“Sir?”

“To help express our sincere apology and to prove there are no hard feelings . . .”

“Sir?”

“Well, tell your friend, Opera, that there will be no charge for all those Spam chips he's eaten.”

“Thank you, sir,” I said. And then, ever so slowly, I hung up.

It only took a few days for things to get cleared up. Eventually, the power came back on, stores got food back in, and people finally started to relax. Of course, everybody had their theories about what had happened. But only Opera, Wall Street, and I knew what had really gone on and what the real “computer bug” was. And now that everything was all fixed up, we figured why bother explaining. After all, what they didn't know wouldn't hurt us.