Brass Monkeys

by Terry Caszatt

  I stopped once, under the meager shade of a large cactus-like tree, and tried to steady my nerves. The heat was suffocating, and now some small red flies began to bite me. I reached inside my tunic and checked the book. Safe …

  One thought pinballed through my head—hurry up and find Lulu on the Avenue of the Musicians. I wanted to ask for directions, but squads of Stormies were everywhere. I saw them stop several drone kids and ask for I.D. I spotted most of the squads early enough so I could dodge behind some of the thorny shrubs that grew along the street, and a couple of times I saved myself by slipping inside the crowds of drone “shoppers.”

  Shops selling various kinds of school supplies lined the streets, cheap knockoffs of things you’d see up in the surface schools. But also there seemed to be a thriving business in antique school equipment, probably stuff that Ming and her people had stolen from the schools they’d worked in.

  As I moved along, I found myself inside a large group of drone kids. Listening to them talk among themselves, I learned they were “on break” from their various jobs, most of which sounded horribly boring. I could tell some of them knew each other, but many of them appeared to be strangers, just hanging out like myself.

  I kept studying their faces, trying to pick out someone who looked friendly enough to talk to, but most of them seemed glum and unhappy. Also, I didn’t know what their various letters stood for—and that made me wary. The group I was in stopped to stare at some television sets in one of the shops, and I was about to take a chance and ask one of the older boys for directions, when all the sets suddenly switched to a picture of me! As I froze in fear, another burst of excited chatter rose from my group, and one of the girls pointed toward the big video screen. The rest of us turned to look, and there was the same picture of me.

  My first instinct was simply to run, but then I realized the picture Ming was using was the one taken last year at Harris. I looked like I was ten years old, my teeth stuck out, and my hair gave the impression that a small wild animal had died on my head. Some of the kids laughed, and one said, “What a weird looker!” Another piped up with, “He’d have to be dumber than a box of rocks to bring the book down here.”

  I nodded and laughed right along with them.

  I was jarred out of this conversation by the sound of shouting from up the street. I snapped around nervously, trying to see what was going on. My first thought was that I had been spotted, but right away I could see the Stormies were after someone else, and this time they were shooting at him.

  The other kids around me scattered for cover as this man came tearing down the sidewalk, right toward me. It was obvious he wasn’t a drone or a Stormie. He was wearing regular clothes, and there were three or four Stormies not far behind him, shooting like crazy. He stopped behind a cart-load of world globes not thirty yards from me. He raised a big, strange-looking pistol and fired back at his pursuers, his gun making a lethal sounding brrripp! brrripp! Then the Stormies cut loose with long-barreled guns that made a strange thwut! thwut! sound.

  A shop window exploded behind me, and I finally had the sense to flatten out on the walk. As the battle got louder and more fierce, the guy’s pistol jammed, or maybe he was out of ammo. He said something angrily, then leaped out and ran across the street into a side alley.

  My eyes must have been bugging out as I watched him. Not only did this man have wild blond hair, but he had on a ratty-looking white sport coat. The last of Webster’s words came back to me: “Every Stormie in the territory will be after him.” It was McGinty.

  From my position sprawled on the walk, I was probably the only one who saw what happened next. The blond guy jumped onto a fire escape, shot up the ladder, and was on the roof of the building in mere seconds. He’d already disappeared across the rooftops, heading to my right, before the Stormies raced up, panting and furious.

  I turned my face away, thinking they might recognize me, but they were too intent on catching their man. They went thundering down the alley, and I was up in a flash and hurrying down the sidewalk, heading for the next street. I thought it was a good bet the blond guy would surface over there. I walked quickly and turned down the next street, which actually proved to be another small alley.

  Looking up, I spotted the guy coming hand-over-hand down a drainage pipe. I thought about yelling to him but stopped myself just in time—the Stormies were too close. In the next instant he leaped to the pavement and sprinted away. I raced after him, trying desperately to keep him in sight.

  He flew out of the alley and into the bright light of another street. I came thumping out behind him into some heavy pedestrian traffic. We both slowed quickly, trying not to attract attention.

  This street happened to be filled with shops that sold musical instruments and sheet music. It must have taken a solid minute before it dawned on me to look up at a street sign. Duwang! Avenue of the Musicians. This was exactly where Webster had told me to look for Lulu’s Blue Goat.

  I had started closing in on the guy when he suddenly stopped and moved quickly behind a cartload of clarinets. Looking up the street, my heart began to race fearfully. It looked like an entire army of Storm Teachers was moving toward us, searching the shops as they came. The blond guy took one look at them and dodged into a nearby shop. The sign over the front said LILAH’S BLUE NOTE.

  I felt like bolting the other way, but I knew I had to seize the moment. I patted the book which was still securely tucked under my tunic and mumbled “Here we go, men.” Then I rushed toward Lilah’s Blue Note and slipped inside.

  I found myself in a long, softly lit room with a ton of instruments on display and no one in sight. I stood there for a few seconds, amazed by the music coming over the shop’s speakers. It wasn’t “Midnight Scholars,” but some neat harp music. I took a few tense steps forward and right away I spotted a fantastic silver trumpet. For a moment I totally forgot what I was doing and stood staring at it. There was a card by it that read:

  This trumpet belonged to Todd Lemons, 14,

  of Leesburg, Iowa. Todd visited my school

  and graduated satisfactorily. Today he has

  no memory of his passion for music. He

  forgot his trumpet and now lives an empty,

  meaningless life in Black River, Illinois.

  Celebrate Monkeymind!

  Merci Mingley

  That was depressing as the dickens and I felt sorry for this Todd kid, whoever he was. I turned to move on and ran straight into a harp that sent out some loud jangling noises. As I muted the strings, the man in the white sport coat stepped out of the shadows, his pistol pointed right at me.

  He was young-looking, not real big, but there was something about the determined set of his mouth and chin that made you think he was big enough. He was unshaven, his coat was dirty, and there was something really dangerous about his movements. His blue eyes danced with a wild light.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” he snapped at me.

  “Duh … me?” I stammered.

  “Yeah, you.” He moved closer, keeping the weird-looking pistol pointed right at me. “You know I have a real problem with drones. I don’t like them.” I saw his eyes drop to the letter on my tunic.

  “Hey, fine with me,” I said, my voice yodeling with fear, “cause I’m not a—”

  He grabbed me and jammed the pistol barrel against my nose. “And I especially dislike, jokesters, who think they’re funny.”

  So now I knew what the “J” stood for. But I was more concerned about the pistol barrel, which had a bunch of small holes in the end. My nose would look like Swiss cheese if the gun went off.

  “I’m not trying to be funny,” I burst out. “I’m serious. I’m actually looking for you and—what kind of gun is that?”

  “Why are you looking for me?” he shot back. “You think you’re going to get a reward from the Big Lady?”

  “No, don’t be a fardex!” I said. “Okay, wait a minute, I didn’t mean to say that. I’m looking for you b
ecause Webster told me to find you. He said find—”

  “Wait a sec,” he cut in. His eyes widened. “Aren’t you whatsis face, the kid she’s after because you’ve got something she wants? I didn’t get the details, but I heard the drones yacking about it. So that’s what this is all about.”

  “I’d say most of it is about you,” I snapped. “I mean, sure she hates me, but—”

  “You little birdbrain,” he rasped out. He pushed me away. “I can’t believe this. You just hand-delivered me to the Stormies.” He began rummaging furiously through his pockets.

  Stunned, I stared at him. “How do you figure that?”

  But he was spilling out the contents of his coat pocket and mumbling feverishly. “Car keys, two quarters and a penny … a stupid button! Because, that’s why this whole area is crawling with Stormies. You’re here!”

  “Wait a minute,” I said, hotly. “Those guys were chasing you.”

  “Just three of them were after me, J-boy. The other four hundred and ninety badhairs are looking for you. And now you’ve brought ‘em all here.” With frantic movements, he began turning out his pant’s pockets.

  “I don’t believe you,” I began. “I mean, Webster told me they’d all be after you. And he said, ‘You’ll recognize McGinty because—’“

  “McGinty?” He stared at me as if I had grown a second head. “What are you talking about? You thought I was McGinty?”

  I nodded vigorously.

  He rolled his eyes. “Loonier and loonier.” He rushed over to a desk and began hauling out the drawers and rustling through the contents. “The sad truth is, I’m just plain old Jack Hastings, ex-English teacher from Orion Middle School in Ohio. I’m a little wild, but hardly in the same league with McGinty.”

  “But you’re blond and you’re wearing the ratty white sport coat,” I stammered.

  He laughed harshly. “Listen, this coat is tan, a dirty tan at that. He spilled out the contents of a drawer. “Chalk, chalk,” he muttered. “Yeah, baby! Got it!” He dumped a box of it on the desk, popped the cylinder on the pistol, and began loading pieces into it. He glanced up and must have sensed my desperation.

  “Look, I’m sorry I’m not who you thought I was. The Big Lady brought Orion Middle down here three years ago and I’ve been on the run ever since, trying to figure a way out of this joint.”

  I felt my eyes filling. “So, do you know where McGinty is?” I managed to say.

  “I haven’t the foggiest. All I know is he’s Number 1 on the Big Lady’s hit list. Or was until you came along. What have you got her—favorite wig or something?”

  “Worse than that,” I said.

  “Her favorite dentures?”

  “Worse,” I replied bleakly.

  He gave it up and grinned. “Then I’d say whatever it is, you’re in deep do-do.”

  He finished loading the pistol and stuck it under his belt.

  “You’re joking, aren’t you?” I said. “I mean, you can’t shoot chalk.”

  His eyebrows lifted as if he couldn’t believe what a slug I was. “Kid, you better wake up. This is a chalk pistol! Get hit with it and, bam, you flash back to all the bad times you had in school.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Dead serious. And the long guns the Stormies are using? Eraser guns. Catch an eraser head-on, and it’s phhtt! Everything’s erased. You’re a zero.”

  “That’s terrible.”

  “Got that right.”

  He headed toward the front window of the shop and I followed nervously. He flattened against the wall and peered out and I did the same. The street was packed with armed Stormies. They were going from shop to shop, searching for us.

  He snapped me a look. “You’ve got her favorite ground-up-toenail sandwich spread?”

  I tried to grin, but it didn’t come off. “Worse,” I said. “A lot worse.”

  His blue eyes glinted with amusement. “What could be worse?”

  Just at that moment a young woman drone stepped out from behind a stack of bass drums. She held a weird, long-barreled pistol and it was pointed directly at us.

  “This could be worse,” I said.

  19

  the drone with the curly black hair

  The young drone woman was probably in her early twenties and really pretty, with curly black hair and snappy dark eyes. She wore the letter “T” on her tunic. She grabbed Hastings’ pistol and slipped it into her tunic pocket.

  “Easy lady; don’t shoot,” said Jack in a tense voice. He turned to me. “She’s holding a test gun. It shoots rolled-up test papers. Get nailed with it and it’s like getting back an ‘F’ on an exam. You stay depressed for weeks.”

  A loud crash of breaking dishes could be heard from a nearby shop.

  “Ma’am, please,” I burst out, “you’ve got to let us go.”

  But she waved me quiet and held a finger to her lips.

  “Kid, you’re wasting your breath,” said Jack in a low voice. “She’s a drone and they all work for the Big Lady.”

  At this the woman’s dark eyes sparkled with anger. She jammed her pistol under her belt. Then she began hand signing at Jack and I realized she was deaf. She ended by speaking in a peculiar, even-toned voice. “Not all drones!”

  “Whoa, not all drones?” Jack, who evidently understood her, began signing and speaking back. “Lady, if you believe that, then you’ll want to buy Mozart’s hat, which I happen to have in my back pocket.”

  The young woman groaned angrily and signed back with a flurry of motions.

  I grinned at Jack in amazement. “How do you know what she’s saying?”

  “I taught hearing impaired for a while,” he said, keeping his eyes on her hands. Now he snorted sarcastically. “You’re going to help us? Who’s kidding whom here? Okay, don’t get peeved. And don’t sign so fast. I’m a bit rusty.”

  “Inaccurate, too,” snapped the young woman. She hurried to the front of the shop and peered cautiously out the window. She had her test pistol back out again.

  I whispered to Jack. “So are the drones bad? I mean, she seems okay.”

  “Kid, snap out of it,” Jack hissed back. “They all spy for Mingley.”

  I was confused. “Where do they come from? And what do the letters mean?”

  “Mingley recruits bad teachers from all across the country,” Jack said in a low voice. “They’re usually friendless people, no families. The mean ones become Stormies and the gossipy, spying types become drones. The letters refer to their rotten classroom personality.”

  “She’s got a ‘T,’” I said. “So what does that mean?”

  Jack snorted. “Probably ‘Terrorizer.’“

  The young woman came back, eyeing Jack suspiciously. “What are you saying to him?” she demanded.

  Jack grinned, then signed and spoke back. “He wanted to know about drones, and I’m trying to explain how wonderful you all are. And what your letter means. But if you really want to help, lady, maybe you should let us get out of here.”

  “We’ll all go in a minute,” she replied coolly. “I have help coming.”

  “Oh, woo woo, you’ve got help coming,” snapped Jack. “That’s wonderful, but we don’t have a lot of time to wait.”

  She turned to me with a warm look. “My ‘T’ means ‘Temperamental.’” “Oh hey,” said Jack, “who could have guessed?” “But it means nothing,” she replied sharply, “because I’m not a real drone.” She turned back to me with an encouraging gaze. “I just need to know two things and quickly. One, what’s your name, and two, did someone send you?”

  At that moment a light bulb went on in my head. It wasn’t bright, believe me, but all of a sudden I understood. “I’m Billy Bumpus,” I blurted out. “And Webster sent me.” It was funny the way I said Billy Bumpus. It seemed easy and natural.

  A beautiful smile flooded the young woman’s face. “I knew it was you!” she burst out. “I just knew it. Webster gave us your initials.” She put out a slim brown han
d. “I’m Lilah Corbett, and we’ve been expecting you.”

  “Lilah!” I said, shaking her hand. “Yeah! Not Lulu! What a moron I am. I got the name wrong! You’re the fabulous Lilah at the Blue Note, not Lulu at the Blue Goat!” I gave a nod toward Jack. “This is my friend, Jack Hastings.”

  “Friend?” said Jack. He’d been signing everything for both of us and looking increasingly confused. “What are you jabbering about, Bumpus? I don’t understand this. Who sent you and what’s the goat stuff?”

  Lilah’s dark eyes flashed wickedly. “You’re so slow,” she signed and spoke to Jack. “Webster escaped from here, went to the surface and found the book, and sent Billy back with it. It’s simple.” She turned to me. “You do have the book?”

  “I certainly do,” I said.

  Jack was squinting as if he had a bad headache. “What stupid book?”

  Just then Lilah’s cell phone cut loose with a neat ring tone.

  “Whoa, cool,” I said. “That’s Spanish music, I think.”

  Jack nodded. “‘España Cañi.’ But she isn’t hearing it; she just feels the pulse.”

  I was amazed that he recognized the music and was going to say something about it, but I didn’t get the chance.

  “Rebel Two, this is Rebel One,” Lilah said into the phone. “We’re ready!”

  A loud banging on the front door reverberated through the shop and I could tell Lilah felt the sudden vibration. She also saw my reaction.

  “Stormies,” whispered Lilah. “But I’ve got the front door locked.”

  “Oh, gee, that’ll help,” Jack’s hands snapped as he signed and spoke.

  The Stormies outside yelled out a warning in guttural voices. This was followed by a tremendous bang, which must have come from a battering ram.

  Lilah tossed Jack his pistol, then rushed over and picked up Todd Lemons’s trumpet. She underhanded that to me and I caught it. Her eyes glinted emotionally and she signed something to me, then rushed on toward the back entrance. Jack and I followed, but we didn’t go two feet before the front door came crashing down. Two burly Stormies burst in, waving their weapons.