Mothership Read online

  We race down the bleachers, the entire court echoing as we skip-crash-thud onto every step. Ramona is almost to the bottom row, but I’m only halfway down. My belly is jolting up so hard with every jump that I’m starting to wonder why they don’t make support bras for baby bumps. But even I’m outpacing Natty, who—at seven-and-something months—has quite the belly of her own to support.

  Not to mention that goddamn tonsil.

  I narrowly miss wiping out on one of the bleacher steps, when I get an idea. “Ramona!” I holler down at her, just as she hops down to the second-to-last step. “The bleachers! Close the bleachers!” She makes it to the bottom and spins to give me a look like I’m nuts. “Punch the goddamn button!” I holler again.

  Ramona runs to the wall and whips open the plastic cover over the button that will automatically collapse the bleachers into the wall. She looks up at me, and I can see what she’s thinking. As soon as she punches that button, the bleachers are going to start rapid-fire closing, top to bottom—and with me and the Gnat only halfway down, there’s a good chance we’ll be squished like termites. But then we hear the stomp-stomp-stomp of boots from the doorway behind us. Clearly there’s not a second to waste.

  Ramona punches the button.

  Just like that, the bleachers creak to life. Shuck-AH! Shuck-AH! Shuck-AH! Every split second another step slams into the row behind it. And if I thought hopping my pregnant ass down the steps was hard before, it’s a nightmare when the whole thing’s moving. With each jump I make, the distance between the steps grows slimmer and slimmer, and I have to react lightning quick to make sure my foot lands square. Twice I misjudge and almost bite it, but I manage to right myself.

  I land at the bottom, squeaking on the waxed court floor, and look behind me to see that Natty is still struggling. “You can make it!” I shout at her.

  Ramona is less encouraging. “Bitch, drop the beach ball!”

  Natty is picking up speed, but not enough. All the steps are closed now but the bottom ten, and those are moving fast—she’s going to get squashed. I’m reaching for the button when Ramona grabs my hand and points to the top of the bleachers.

  Invaders. Five of them, looming ten meters above us in the doorway.

  Shit.

  “Natty!” Ramona and I bellow together. She’s seven steps from the bottom now. She could jump across them all and probably make it, but the slamming and shifting is clearly upsetting her balance, and she looks freaked. “Jump!” I scream at her. “Jump the rest of the way!”

  She looks at me, and she nods, and she swings her arms wildly and makes the leap, straight for me and Ramona.

  And she almost makes it.

  Her foot catches one step from the bottom, just as the bleachers are slamming shut around her. She falls to her knees and tries to get up, but it’s not fast enough. I can’t watch. The bleacher is going to catch her right below the knee. She’s going to lose that leg, all because of my brilliant idea.

  And then the bleacher stops. Natty skids forward and falls awkwardly down on top of me and Ramona, all of us landing with a thud on the court. I look back at the last row of bleachers, still ajar, the motor whirring in distress, to where Natty’s severed leg should be.

  “It’s ruined!” Natty wails as she stares at the mangled corpse of her art project, mashed between the bottom two steps of the bleachers.

  I grab her by the elbow. “We’re going,” I say, my eyes darting up to the gunmen in the doorway. “Now.”

  “But . . .,” Natty begins. She is clearly hysterical. “But—”

  That’s when Ramona slaps her across the face. “One more word,” she tells her, “and I will cut you.”

  And that pretty much does the trick.

  We’re booking it across the gym floor when from behind us we hear several soft thuds, and when we whirl around, we see that—holy mother of God—the gunmen have jumped the ten meters down from the top of the bleachers. They’re tucking and rolling and popping back up to their feet like freaking ninjas—except for one bozo who twists his ankle and stumbles to his knees as he lands, shouting, “Mother-humper!”

  So apparently even ninja space invaders can eff up.

  I don’t exactly have the time to contemplate this, though, because at the moment I am busy screaming at the top of my lungs as I race for my life to the end of the basketball court.

  Natty and Ramona and I bust out of the doors at the far end, and we’re rushing, rushing, rushing down the length of the deck, when from behind me I hear a deep voice bark, “Elvie, wait!”

  Da-fuh?

  That’s when Nat and Ramona both shriek. And I see it. Up ahead. More invaders. Three of them.

  Seriously, can’t a pregnant girl in space catch a break these days?

  We come to a screeching halt, of course, because that’s what you do when you’re pinned between gun-toting baddies. You stop running. It’s, like, common sense. You stop, and you huff to try to catch your breath, and then you wait for them to just get it over with and shoot you already.

  Only they don’t.

  We’ve come to a halt on top of the glass floor that looks down onto the main pool below—the very pool we’ve been trying so hard to get down to. Our lit teacher, Mr. Wilks, would probably point out the element of tragedy in our predicament—that we can literally see our goal and yet are still so far from it.

  I knew there was a reason I always hated English class.

  “You gonna shoot us or what?” Ramona says, cocking her head to the side. She may look sassy, but I’m thinking that the eight dudes with guns could still take her out. “Is that what you guys do for kicks? You got some sort of pregnant-lady fetish?”

  I elbow her in the side. But just as I think she’s gearing up to say something even worse, Natty shrieks again and slaps her hand over her mouth.

  “What now?” I say. Seriously, if she’s broken her favorite paintbrush or something, I’ll—

  She points down at the glass floor. I’ve always thought that whoever designed this particular area of the ship was a little pervy. It’s like the purpose is for creepy guys to stare down women’s cleavage while they swim. Not to mention that anyone engaging in water-related activity can tilt their head toward the ceiling and see all up your business. But if I thought that was demented, it’s nothing compared to what’s going on below us at the moment.

  At first the scene is hard to make out, because it’s all splashing and chaotic and confusing, but slowly I take it in. There are teachers down below in the water with the girls. About a dozen or so, more than half the faculty. No camo-wearing gunmen in sight. But do they seem happy about that? No. Not in the slightest. Because the teachers—our teachers, the instructors we’ve been living side by side with for three months now—are drowning the girls in the pool. I blink once, twice, to make sure my eyes aren’t playing tricks on me, but it’s clear that what I’m seeing is real. There’s Mr. Wilks now, his strong arms forcing one of the girls under the water while she flails and gulps for air.

  From my right I hear one of the invaders boom out a confused “Sir?” I snap my head up. It’s the dude who bit it coming off the bleachers. And he’s looking at the guy beside him, a fellow I’m assuming must be the Head Space Invader in Charge. “Sir?” Ninja Klutz asks again, more frantically. But his boss isn’t looking at him. He’s taking aim at the glass.

  He pulls the trigger.

  In a mass of light and sparks, the floor crackles beneath us, and there is a brief moment—just a nanosecond, really—where I think, Hey, the floor is going to hold. Right-O. But then there’s a massive CRACK! and a shatter, and the floor crumbles into a million tiny pieces of glass. And we tilt and topple and fall.

  Straight.

  Into.

  The.

  Pool.

  SPLASH!

  Okay, so there are a lot of things going on in my mind as I fumble around under the water, trying to figure out which way is up so I can, hello, get some oxygen into my lungs. I’m wondering
, for one thing, why my teachers have decided to go all schizoid, and who these camo guys are, for another. And I’m wondering who it was who said my name up there on the sports deck, and how these people know who I am, and, like, what else do they know about me, and why, of all things, would they find it necessary to shoot themselves into a pool?

  But all of that falls away in a flash, because as I’m still flailing and kicking, trying to get my head above the water, I see something that would’ve sucked all the breath out of me had there been any left to suck.

  The girl who always chews on her hair is being shoved under the water right in front of my face, two beefy arms forcing down her shoulders. Her eyes are bulging, and she’s doing her best to rip the hands away from her, but she’s clearly no match for the dude. She sees me looking at her, bubbles escaping from her mouth, but she doesn’t scream out. She blinks at me, and I know it’s, like, this totally panicked SOS. I reach out for her, but in that moment something strong grabs me from behind and yanks me backward. I try to twist free, but the grip is too strong. I’m gulping for air as I struggle with my captor, but I’m less concerned with the grip on my shirt than with what’s going on in front of me. I have to get to that girl, I just have to. The hands push her deeper, and her cheeks are bulging and her eyes are rolling back into her head, and even as I struggle to free myself, I’m thinking, That’s it. I’m going to watch this girl die. But just as I know it’s over, just when I’m sure I’ve lost her, the beefy hands that have been gripping her so tightly go suddenly limp and let go of their grasp, and Chewie gathers enough strength to kick her way free and swim to the surface. And as Mr. Wilks sinks down into the water, a deep red stain inking out of his body, I realize that he’s been shot from somewhere up above.

  Which doesn’t totally make me want to come to the surface—you know, the whole people-shooting-other-people thing—but whoever has me from behind tugs harder, and I am pulled up. Eyes stinging, my head pops above the water, and just as I’m gulping in the best bit of oxygen I’ve ever tasted, I see that it’s one of the space invaders who has a hold of me. He scoops me up under the armpits and plops me, rag-doll-style, onto the edge of the pool. I’m trying to talk and breathe, both at once, but I can’t get anything out. He drags me to the wall behind a row of lounge chairs and lets go.

  “Stay here. You’ll be safe,” he booms.

  I blink the fuzz out of my eyes and look up at his gun.

  “No offense,” I force out, the trembling in my voice undercutting my biting wit. “But I’d feel a whole lot better if you pointed that thing somewhere else.”

  He looks down and realizes he’s got his gun trained right at me, and for a split second I detect just the slightest slump in his shoulders.

  “Just stay low,” he says, and then he turns back to the fray, leaving me a wet shivering heap in the corner.

  It seems that these camo guys really have a bone to pick with the Hanover faculty. That’s the gist I’m getting from the way they’re shooting them in the face and all. The guns they’re using don’t fire bullets, as far as I can see. Instead when the trigger’s pushed, there’s a low hum and a circle of sparks seems to whirl around the barrel. But however they work, they’re effective, because the teachers are dropping like wet teen-murdering flies, their chests or—ewww—faces exploding as they get hit. Without even registering what I’m doing, I barf up every last bit of my ice cream.

  Now more teachers are coming in from the outside, and they have guns of their own, which make a distinct popping sound as they fire—but again, no bullets. So my teachers are shooting at space invaders with what amount to ray guns, and that’s insane. I mean, not exactly what you’d expect for the wrap-up of an underwater prenatal yoga lesson. The teachers seem to have given up on drowning the girls, who are now scrambling in every direction, some trying to escape the cross fire, while others just splash about uselessly.

  That’s when I see something that you’d think would be, like, my ultimate escapist fantasy—Britta and Other Cheerleader being dragged out of the pool by two teachers, writhing and wailing for dear life. The teachers are hauling them toward the back doors, for God knows what purpose, and in all the commotion it appears that the invaders haven’t even noticed. There’s a part of me that wants to order a monster-size soda and a tub of popcorn and just watch the whole scene play out, but in the moment . . .

  “Goddammit,” I spit as I slither out of my hiding spot toward the two biggest bitches I’ve never wanted to rescue. Staying crouched (like that’s going to stop a ray gun from slicing through my brain—real smart, Elvie), I scamper across the slick tile floor, snatching a stray pool skimmer off the ground as I go.

  The guy with the death grip on Britta is Mr. Zaino, the phys ed teacher. He’s almost to the door when I reach out with the skimmer and hook the net around his raised foot.

  “Hey, dirtbag!” I holler, giving the skimmer a sharp tug.

  Mr. Z’s feet fly out from under him, and as he stumbles, he loses his grip on Britta and smacks his face into the tile. Blood and teeth fall out of his mouth as he tries to rise back up. Britta wails and slumps into a ball, crying. Holy cripes, I want to shout at her. Could you be more useless?

  Mr. Sandinsky, our French professor, is giving me the old hairy eyeball, making me think he might drop Other Cheerleader and attempt to tackle me. But Mr. Z., still splayed out on the floor, gestures weakly at the door and squeaks out something that sounds like a foreign language. I don’t think it’s French, although in my defense, it’s sort of hard to understand someone with no front teeth. Mr. Sandinsky seems to get it, though. He gives up on the whole sinister-glare-at-Elvie thing and turns back toward the door, Other Cheerleader in tow.

  Unfortunately for Monsieur Sandinsky, that’s when he comes face-to-face with Ramona, water running in rivulets off her leather skirt. She is one pissed-off mademoiselle. She looks down at the ruined pack of clove cigarettes in her hand and squeezes the water out of them, forming a fist.

  “Conjugate this, asshole,” she tells him, then socks him square in the jaw.

  As tough as Ramona is, Mr. Sandinsky has a good half meter on her, not to mention that he’s built like a truck. Her right hook has left him surprised but still standing, and his grip on Other Cheerleader doesn’t seem to be loosening anytime soon. He’s about to give Ramona the tit for her tat, arm cocked in striking position, when there’s a sizzling sound, and before my very eyes a hole burns right through his chest and he collapses to the ground.

  Zapped, good and dead.

  Toothless Mr. Z, still doing his best jack-o’-lantern impression on the tile floor, turns just in time to see the shot that kills him. Britta, of course, is still a helpless mess. She’s just sitting there, eyes squeezed shut, squealing like a toddler who’s wet her pants.

  Man, how great would it be if she pissed herself?

  I’m not sure how long the rest of the fight lasts, because, you know, time flies when you’re dodging lasers. But it does end eventually, and there isn’t a single faculty member left standing. The invaders are starting to pull the girls out of the pool, and Ramona and I jump back in as well to help. I fight the urge to tell the weepers what helpless snots they’re being. Some of us were chased through kingdom come before falling through a broken ceiling, for crying out loud. As the remaining girls are retrieved from the pool, the invaders usher them toward the chairs so Mr. In Charge can take a head count. I’ve pulled three girls out of the pool so far, and reach to grab the last one left. She’s just floating on her back, staring at the shattered ceiling, all, like, catatonic or something. She doesn’t even move when I tug on her arm.

  “Come on, Linda,” I say, in this sort of harsh voice because, sorry, it’s been a rough morning. “Or Lindsey. Or whatever the hell your name is. Paddle party’s over.”

  I tug again, and the water around Linda—or Lindsey, or whatever—turns cloudy and red.

  There’s a bitter taste rising in my throat as I slowly turn her over in the w
ater.

  Burn marks.

  There are two of them, one on either side of her spine. All of her innards are oozing out into the pool.

  “Linda!” I cry. “Lindsey!” I shake her, hard, which I know won’t do any good. She’s dead. But I can’t stop. And suddenly I’m shaking too. The harder I shake her, the darker the water grows.

  I feel hands on my shoulders, warm and strong and holding firm.

  “It’s okay, Elvie.”

  It’s the gunman with the busted ankle, the one who pulled me out of the pool and stashed me behind the chairs. Gently he removes my hands from the body and turns me toward the edge of the pool. Then he lifts me out in one fluid motion, as if I didn’t weigh anything at all, and leads me back to the mess of chairs, where the other girls are huddled. I sit down next to Ramona, who looks at me out of the corner of her eye, clearly as unsure about what to do as I am.

  “So, to hell with midterms, huh?” she says.

  The dude taking the head count walks over and points his finger at me. “You,” he says. “Are you injured?”

  “No, I don’t think so. I—”

  But he’s moved away before I can finish, barking into a little walkie-talkie-looking thing that he’s whipped out of his pocket.

  “Alpha Leader, this is Tango Squad. We have neutralized all hostiles and secured the yoga class. Copy?”

  There is a long crackle-gargling noise, and then, at last, a voice. “Copy that, Tango Leader. Casualties?”

  The Tango Leader dude looks over to the pool where Lindsey—no, I think it was Linda after all—is still floating.

  “Minimal,” he replies, and he says it so matter-of-factly that I kinda want to shove one of those ray guns up his ass.

  “Good work, Tango Leader. We’ve secured the package on our end and are heading back ourselves.”

  “The package?” I whisper to Ramona. I’m doing my best to wipe the tears and chlorine and snot off my face, and I’m pretty sure I look like a drain clog right now. But no one else here would really win Miss Universe at the moment either, so I guess it’s not really an issue.