My Life as a Computer Cockroach (8 page)

“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.