He glances over at me.
“Hey, man,” he says. Then he turns back to the TV. “What’s up?”
“I found the robot,” I tell him.
“Nice,” he says, cramming a handful of cereal in his mouth, giving the clusters and flakes a few chews, then drowning it all with a couple glugs of milk.
Obviously, he’s not listening to me.
I go over to the TV and hit the power button.
“Dude!” Edsley says. “I was watching that!”
“I FOUND,” I tell him, nice and loud, “THE ROBOT.”
Edsley’s eyes go wide.
“The robot?” he says. “You mean the one—”
“The one that you refused to make a sandwich and then let walk right out of your house and that I’ve subsequently spent the majority of my saved-up allowance and essentially all of my waking hours looking for ever since, yes,” I say.
Edsley blinks.
“Now come help me figure out what to do about it,” I add, heading back into the kitchen.
Edsley grabs the cereal and milk and follows me there.
47.
EDSLEY AND I MAKE A plan.
It’s by no means a brilliant one.
But it’s definitely better than Edsley’s first idea, which was to crawl into Things & Stuff’s ductwork, remove a panel from the ceiling, and spit down at Klaus until the bot goes SQUAH-POOM!
Before we head out to put our plan into action, I gather some supplies:
A pair of walkie-talkies.
An ice cream scoop.
And a soup ladle.
The latter is made of some type of rubbery plastic—meaning it’s flexible.
It’s like a one-piece, ready-made catapult.
“Edsley?” I call once I’m all set.
He steps out of the pantry.
And it looks like he’s been gathering supplies too.
He’s got a box of mini donuts.
Several containers of yogurt.
And a jumbo bag of trail mix.
“Really?” I ask him.
“You said we might be out there all day.”
I take a breath, and then nod.
A full Edsley is much easier to work with than a hungry one—not that working with Edsley is ever really easy.
Thinking this, I grab a few pieces of fruit from the bowl on the counter and stuff them in my pockets, just in case.
48.
I BRING EDSLEY TO THINGS & Stuff, then lead him around back.
The snow has already begun to melt, but on the opposite side of the parking lot from the Dumpster, there’s a bank of the stuff the height and width of a plow truck’s blade.
It’s as good a hiding spot as we’re going to get.
I set Edsley up behind the snowbank, then point to the unmarked metal door off to the Dumpster’s side—Things & Stuff’s rear exit.
“Keep an eye on that door,” I tell Edsley, handing over one of the walkie-talkies I brought. “If Klaus comes out, call me on this. Do not engage him in any way.” I remember what Dan told me the night before—one of the things he told me, at least. “We can’t risk antagonizing the guy. Okay?”
Edsley brings the walkie-talkie to his lips.
“Ten-four,” he says, his voice crackling out of the other walkie-talkie, which I’ve got clipped to my hip.
I start off.
My walkie-talkie crackles again.
“I forgot to say ‘over,’ ” Edsley says. Then, a second later, he says it again: “Over.”
I turn around, since I’ve only taken two steps.
“Mike. You don’t have to say ‘over.’ ”
He answers into his walkie-talkie.
“But how will you know when I’m done talking?” he says. “Over.”
Sometimes, you have to pick your battles.
“Okay,” I tell him. “You can say ‘over.’ ”
“Good call,” he says. “Over.”
49.
THERE’S A BENCH MORE OR less right across the street from Things & Stuff, and that’s where I set myself up.
It’s close enough to the store that I won’t miss it if Klaus comes out, but far enough away that I won’t look suspicious.
Or too suspicious, I should probably say.
After all, I’m a twelve-year-old kid who woke up this morning to news of a miraculous snow day, and here I am sitting on a bench holding an ice cream scoop and a soup ladle.
My walkie-talkie crackles.
I clutch the scoop and ladle more tightly, instantly on high alert.
But Edsley doesn’t say anything.
He’s just breathing into his walkie-talkie.
Or, I realize after listening a second longer, chewing.
I set down the scoop and ladle and grab my walkie-talkie just as Edsley asks, “What kind of nuts are in this trail mix? Over.”
“You’re supposed to be watching the door, Mike,” I say.
He doesn’t answer.
“Mike?”
“You didn’t say ‘over.’ Over.”
“You’re supposed. To be watching. The door. Over.”
“I am,” he says. “I can do two things at once, you know. Over.”
I listen to him chew some more, trying to keep my frustration from flaring up into anger.
“Hey,” he says. “What do you think everyone else is doing? Over.”
I’m not expecting the question, and it throws me for a bit of a loop. All of a sudden I’m feeling a lot more than just frustrated.
Everyone else is, of course, the rest of the EngiNerds.
The guys who, if anything about the last week had been even approximately normal, we’d be with right now too.
But we’re a long way from normal.
And I really don’t want to talk about it right now.
Picking apart how I feel about everything that’s happened, figuring out how to get things back to normal, or even just normalish—it seems like an overwhelmingly daunting task. Like trying to build a rocket ship from scratch.
So I tell Edsley, “I don’t know.”
And I’m hoping the conversation will end there.
It doesn’t.
“They’re probably sledding,” Edsley says. “Over.”
I keep quiet.
“Or maybe they’re building a snow fort. Over.”
I don’t answer.
“Whatever they’re doing, I bet they’re doing it with that Mikaela girl. Over.”
My body tenses at the sound of her name.
“Hey,” Edsley says. “I’ve been meaning to ask . . . what do you think of her? Over.”
“What do I think of her? Nothing,” I say, using the same tactic I use with my parents when they ask me a question I don’t feel like answering.
But Edsley doesn’t let me get away with it.
“What do you mean, nothing?” he presses, not even waiting for me to say over first. “You can’t think nothing about someone. That’s, like, impossible. Even if it’s just ‘meh,’ you’ve got to think something. Over.”
“Okay, then. That’s what I think of her. Meh. Over.”
Edsley’s silent, like he’s thinking. Which usually means something stupid or gross—or stupid and gross—is on its way.
But Edsley’s just full of surprises today.
“At first,” he finally says, “I felt sort of threatened by her. But then I realized that was actually just me being impressed.”
“Impressed?”
“Yeah. Not by the stuff she was talking about, really. The alien activity or whatever. But by how she was talking about it, I guess. She’s really . . . proud. Like those T-shirts. She lets the whole world know, right up front, that she believes in something pretty much everyone else on the planet doesn’t. That takes guts, man. It’s cool. Really cool. I don’t think I could do it. Over.”
I look down at my own T-shirt. It’s blue. That’s it. Just blue.
“No, wait,” Edsley crackles back at me. “I know I coul
dn’t do it. Over.”
“Mike . . . ,” I say, fighting off all the confusing feelings that, thanks to him, are now swirling around inside of me. “The batteries. We can’t have them dying on us. From now on, essential talk only. Got it? Over.”
He doesn’t answer.
Which is a relief.
I feel the tension seep out of me.
Some of it, anyway.
I spend the next few minutes trying to focus on Klaus and not Mikaela and Dan and the rest of the EngiNerds, all while hyperaware of the T-shirts that the people driving and walking by are wearing.
And then my walkie-talkie crackles again.
“Ken . . . ?” I hear.
I bring the thing back up to my mouth, ready to remind Edsley about the batteries, to tell him—
My train of thought hops the tracks.
Because something isn’t sitting right.
Edsley never said over.
“Ken?” he says again.
And this time I hear the fear in his voice.
“Ken . . . you’d better come here.”
50.
I GRAB MY SCOOP AND ladle and race across the street.
I find Edsley precisely where I told him he shouldn’t be. Not safely tucked out of sight behind the snowbank, but standing in the middle of the parking lot, right out in the open and just a handful of feet from Klaus, who’s over by the Dumpster with a trash bag dangling from each claw.
I’m just in time to see Klaus’s eyes flash red, and then hear him greet Edsley.
“Hel-lo, MICH-ael.”
The words come out as flat as ever. But still, I can sense the anger behind them.
It’s not exactly a warm and cuddly reunion.
“Have you COME to a-POL-o-GIZE?” the bot asks.
“Apologize?” Edsley says. “To you?”
I watch the fear drain right out of him, and see it replaced by a righteous anger of his own.
“You’re the one who tried to claw my face off,” Edsley says, jabbing a finger in the bot’s direction.
“THAT was for CROSS-ing meee,” Klaus argues. “You re-FUSED to MAKE me a SEC-ond SAND-wich.”
“Well, maybe,” Edsley says, “that’s because you didn’t show me any appreciation for the first.”
“Do you WANT me to SHOW you some ap-PRE-ci-A-tion?” the bot asks.
“Yeah,” Edsley says, lifting his chin. “I do.”
Klaus turns his back on Edsley.
And then a small panel in the upside-down trapezoid that is the robot’s pelvis slides aside.
Uh-oh.
I’ve seen this before.
But Edsley hasn’t.
“MIKE!” I shout. “DUCK!”
51.
EDSLEY, BEING THE AWESOME DIRECTION-follower he is, doesn’t duck.
But fortunately, thanks to the trash bags still hanging from the bot’s claws, Klaus’s aim is off.
The food-cube that comes shooting out of his backside goes both low and wide, zipping past Edsley’s ankle and skipping along the pavement, off into the distance.
I rush in before Klaus can fire again.
“Come on!” I tell Edsley, and just in case he decides not to follow these directions, I grab his arm and drag him across the parking lot.
I dive behind the snowbank, bringing Edsley down with me.
It’s not a second too soon.
Fwoosh!
Fwoosh!
Fwoosh!
That’s the sound of speeding food-cubes slamming into the snowbank.
“How is THAT for ap-PRE-ci-A-tion, MICH-ael?”
And that’s the sound of a seriously ticked-off bot.
52.
A SECOND AFTER KLAUS BURIES the food-cubes in the snowbank, we hear another sound:
SQUELCH!
The cubes react to water, the compressed comestibles expanding as soon they encounter a single drop of the stuff.
Meaning all of a sudden there are hunks of meatball subs, squashed slices of pizza, and handfuls of no-longer-hot-and-gooey cheese fries embedded in the snowbank.
It’s another thing that I’ve seen before, but Edsley hasn’t.
And he’s just as amazed as I was the first time I saw a whole bunch of food seemingly appear out of nowhere.
“DUDE!” he says. “DID YOU JUST—HOW DID THAT—OH MY—”
Fwoosh!
Fwoo-fwoo-fwoo-fwoo-fwoosh!
“Not now, Mike!” I say, hoping he’ll remember there’s a robot over on the other side of the parking lot who’s currently trying to fart him into oblivion.
SQUELCH!
SQU-SQU-SQUELCH!
Whole sausages sprout out of the snowbank.
Several turkey legs, too.
Plus enough bacon to feed a family of fifty-seven or so.
Edsley loses his mind.
“AHHH! KEN! ARE YOU SEEING THIS, MAN?!”
He plucks a piece of bacon from the snow, gives it a quick sniff, and snaps a bite off between his teeth.
I grab my ice cream scoop and drag it through the snow. Turning it over, slapping it down into my palm, I’m left holding a perfectly spherical snowball.
I set it in the shallow bowl of the soup ladle, pull back the long arm—and send the ball of densely packed flakes sailing into the side of Edsley’s head.
“OW!”
He turns to me, rubbing the red spot on his temple.
“What was that for?”
“Focus, Mike,” I tell him.
And just then, Klaus fires off another couple rounds.
Fwoo-fwoosh!
“Oh,” says Edsley. “Right.”
He holds out a hand.
I drop the ice cream scoop into it.
He looks me in the eye and says, “Let’s turn this bot into a pile of spare parts.”
53.
I STAND UP FROM BEHIND the snowbank—and have to duck right back down again.
Fwoosh!
A food-cube zooms over my head.
“Whoa,” Edsley says. He holds up a hand, the tips of his thumb and pointer finger just a smidge apart. “That was this close.”
This was not the plan.
The plan was to catch Klaus off guard—to do a sneak attack, bombarding the bot with snowballs until enough moisture worked its way into his stomach to make him go SQUAH-POOM!
I figured it’d take five, maybe six good shots.
And I figured I could get those five or six shots off without a problem—so long as we had the element of surprise.
But that, obviously, is long gone.
“What do we do now?” Edsley asks me.
I take back the ice cream scoop and make myself a snowball.
Then I toss it up into the air.
Fwoosh!
Klaus nails the thing, instantly turning it back into flakes.
They drift down and cover the top of my head.
“What we do,” I tell Edsley, “is make sure we get out of here alive.”
He gulps.
“And how do we—” he starts.
But I don’t let him finish. Instead I give him a good hard shove, sending him tumbling backwards and out from behind the snowbank.
I get to my feet just in time to see Klaus spot Edsley and adjust his body so his backside is aimed his way.
And before the bot can fire a food-cube, I chuck the ice cream scoop.
It cartwheels through the air and—
CLANG!
—smacks Klaus in the back of the head.
The robot staggers—but quickly regains his balance. At which point he whips around and fixes his flashing red eyes on me.
“FIRST cus-TOM-er?” he says. And if I could sense anger in his voice before, now I can sense betrayal.
I hurry over to Edsley and pull him up onto his feet.
“RUN!” I tell him, and fortunately, this is one direction he actually follows.
I risk a look back at the corner and see Klaus, his eyes still flashing, shake a razor-sharp claw over his head.
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“AND DON’T COME BAAACK !”
54.
“MAYBE I SHOULD’VE JUST MADE the guy another sandwich.”
It’s back at my house that Edsley has this epiphany.
Unfortunately, it’s six days too late.
So I ignore him and get back to doing what we’ve been doing ever since we returned from our run-in with the bot—figuring out how to prevent the guy from firing any food-cubes he’s got left inside of him at anyone else.
Because if one of those things had sliced through the snowbank and hit Edsley?
Not the end of the world.
Honestly, he kind of would’ve deserved it.
But what if some little kid ventures into Things & Stuff with a bag of pretzels, and Klaus just so happens to be feeling a bit peckish? Or what if someone wanders by chewing a hunk of beef jerky the next time the bot goes to take out the trash?
Things could go from bad to dire in about point-zero-six seconds.
Because maybe, as long as he was working at Things & Stuff and being regularly fed by Stan, Klaus didn’t pose a threat to the community. But now that he’s been reunited with Edsley? Now that we’ve thoroughly antagonized him? We need to put the bot’s butt-blasting days to an end before any of the nightmares I’ve been having all week come true.
Over the course of the day, Edsley and I come up with dozens of ideas about how to do this.
Most are bad.
Some are really bad.
And some . . .
Well, let’s just say that some of them make my fan-and-chicken plan from earlier in the week seem positively brilliant.
More than once, I consider calling Dan again. I even get the urge to call up John Henry Knox. Because Edsley and I could use some help. But I’m not sure if I can take hearing from the guys’ siblings and parents that they’re still out who knows where doing who knows what with Mikaela. I’m also not sure what to do about Mikaela herself, and I know if I ever want to talk to the rest of the EngiNerds again, I’m going to have to do something. I mean, I was wrong about her. At least a little bit. And maybe I shouldn’t have been so quick to write her off. And maybe I shouldn’t have told her off so rudely. By chasing her out of our meeting room, I thought I was protecting the EngiNerds. But that was just me being paranoid. Like Stan, “protecting” his store from any potential customer who isn’t old enough to vote.
Revenge of the EngiNerds Page 7
