My Life as a Computer Cockroach (7 page)

“Actually,” the secretary yelled, “it's the two inches of
Greas-o
poured over each helping that really upset them.”

My suspicions were confirmed. “Where exactly are the jail cells?” I yelled.

“Behind those steel doors at the end of the hall!” the secretary shouted.

Without a moment's hesitation, I turned and started down the hallway.

“Wally,” Wall Street yelled. “Where are you headed?”

“Enough is enough!” I shouted as I continued forward. “I'm not sure how, but I'm going to clear this up once and for all!”

“Not by going in there, you're not!”

But I'd made up my mind. Maybe it was the hope of getting to talk to Coach Kilroy. Maybe it was explaining to the inmates the real problem. I didn't know. All I knew was that it was time to start being honest.

I arrived at the steel doors. To my right, a guard sat in a room with thick glass walls where he could see both our hallway to his left and the jail cells to the right. I gave him a nod, but he hesitated.

I cleared my voice and shouted over the alarm, “As police chief, I'm ordering you to open this door.”

He looked nervous.

I tried again. “Mister, that is a direct order from your superior officer!” I wasn't sure it would work, but it always did the trick in those army movies. I figured I'd give it a try. He threw a nervous look at the secretary, who reluctantly nodded. Finally, he reached down and pressed a button.

The steel door clicked loudly and then swung open.

“Wally!” Wall Street shouted. “Don't go in there! Wally, that's crazy!”

Crazy?!
I thought.
Crazy
is when you accidentally create a mixed-up microchip and start using it to cheat with your grades.
Crazy
is when you have to cover that cheating by having your coach arrested.
Crazy
is when the only way to free him is to pretend you're the chief of police. If you want to talk crazy, then
that's
crazy!

I stepped through one doorway and then the other until I was finally in the hall where all the jail cells were. That's when I realized Wall Street's definition of crazy might be better than mine after all.

The place had gone berserk. Prisoners were yelling and banging on the bars of their cells. Some were flinging Opera's gourmet masterpiece in every possible direction including

K-Splat

mine. A kitchen worker had started a grease fire, and the place was filling up with more smoke than our house when it's my little sister Carrie's night to cook.

But it wasn't just the food that was making them so angry. Someone had also gotten hold of the overhead PA and was playing Pavarotti or Tortellini or one of those Italian opera guys. It was terrible. Almost as bad as Dad's solos in the shower. And there was only one person to blame.

“Opera!” I shouted as I stumbled through the smoke-filled hall. “Opera, if you can hear me, turn that stuff off ! Opera!”

There was no answer . . . at least not from Opera. There was, however, another voice I recognized.

“McDoogle! McDoogle, is that you?”

I spun around to see a man with his face pressed against the bars. It might have been Coach, but I couldn't be sure. I mean, without his sweats, his whistle, and his constant shouting at me, it was hard to tell, until he finally shouted:

“McDoogle, you moron, what are you doing here?”

Yup, that was him.

“McDoogle!”

“I'm here to get you out.”

“What?”

Without another word I turned back to the guard in the glass booth and shouted, “Unlock this man's cell.”

The guard looked confused and uncertain.

“I said, unlock this man's cell!”

“McDoogle,” Coach yelled, “what are you doing?”

I gave no answer. “Guard! As police chief, I am giving you a direct order. Unlock this cell, now!”

With as much enthusiasm as someone getting a tetanus shot, the guard finally obeyed and hit the button. Immediately, Coach's cell door unlocked. I pulled it open.

“McDoogle, what are you—”

“I'm rescuing you!” I shouted over all the noise. “Hurry!”

Reluctantly, he stepped out of his cell to join me. We turned and headed back toward the guard, who pressed another button. The steel door swung open, Coach and I stepped through, and a moment later we entered the office hallway.

“Wally!” Wall Street shouted. “Coach Kilroy!”

But that was as far as our little reunion went. Because at that exact instant the real police chief stepped out of the elevator with Opera. He took a look at me, then he took a look at Coach Kilroy.

“All right, McDoogle,” Coach half-whispered. “Tell me what we're supposed to do now.”

I sized up the situation and quickly put my McDoogle genius to work. I evaluated every possibility and every consideration until I finally had a plan.

“Well?” Coach demanded.

I opened my mouth and at the top of my lungs suggested the best idea I'd had all day:

“RUN!!!!”

Chapter
7
11:59 and Counting . . .

Since the real police chief was busy blocking the elevator, and since running seemed to be our only option (either that or suddenly admitting everything, which would be far too easy and end all of this pain, misery, and misadventure), we decided to head for the stairs. I took the lead (a definite mistake for all involved), Coach Kilroy followed, then Wall Street and Opera.

I reached the door to the stairs, threw it open, and we started down them.

“Wally!” Wall Street shouted from behind me.

But I couldn't be bothered. I was on a mission. I'd gotten us into this mess, and now it was up to me to get us out.

“Wally!” she repeated.

“Don't worry!” I shouted over my shoulder. “I'll get us down to the exit!”

“Wally!!”

“What!”

“If we want to go downstairs, why are we heading up the stairs?”

I came to a stop. (The only thing worse than my lack of coordination is my lack of direction.) “Sorry,” I said, starting to turn back, “I guess I wasn't thinking.”

Suddenly, Coach Kilroy held out his hand and stopped me. “Then we're doing the right thing?” I looked at Wall Street. She looked at me. I looked at Opera. He looked at me. Then in perfect three-part harmony we all turned to Coach and looked at him: “Huh?”

He explained. “Every time McDoogle thinks, he gets into trouble. Right?”

“Right.” We all nodded.

“No offense,” he said, “but he ain't the brightest bulb in the pack. Right?”

“Right,” we agreed.

“Or the most athletic,” Opera offered.

“Or the best looking,” Wall Street agreed.

“Or the most gracefu—”

“All right, all right,” I said, “I get the point.” I looked at Coach and asked, “So what do
you
suggest we do?”

He answered, “You've thought it over and want to go down, right?”

“Right.”

“Then we better hurry and go
up
.”

Of course. It made perfect sense. Without a word, I turned, and we continued running up the stairs—me doing what I do best: wearing myself out, coughing and gasping for breath, and Coach doing what he does best: “Come on, McDoogle! Move it! Move it! Move it!”

And then, just when I was about to sprain a lung, we reached the door to the roof. I pushed against it with all my mightiness, which we've already established is pretty mighti
less,
but the door didn't budge.

“Come on, McDoogle, push!”

I leaned back and slammed my body into it as hard as I could.

K-Bamb

The door still didn't move.

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.