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  “I warned you. The cake of gold was not to be broken. Pure and devoid of imperfections.”

  “Dude . . . you weren’t there. It was everything I could do just to get away. They tried to bite me.” Bryan started to explain, but the math teacher cut him off. He picked up the smashed package of sponge cake and tossed it in the wastebasket.

  “I am afraid . . . you have failed,” he croaked.

  “But I got your stupid cake,” Bryan protested.

  “Be gone.”

  “You can still lick the inside of the package.”

  “I said BE GONE!”

  The math teacher looked at Bryan with burning red eyes.

  Bryan had so many other things he wanted to say, but he bit his tongue. He picked his backpack up from where he’d left it and headed for the door, eager to be out of the room, away from Tennenbaum and the cloud of smoke that hovered around him, but the handle wouldn’t budge. The door was locked.

  Then Bryan noticed the slot set into the door. The words flashed above, right next to the narrow paneled window.

  INSERT COIN TO CONTINUE.

  Bryan dropped his head. “Seriously?” Reluctantly he dug in his pocket as the timer started counting down. He had only three coins left. At the rate he was going, he’d never make it through the day. He dropped a dime in the slot and the timer stopped with eight seconds to spare.

  He turned back to Mr. Tennenbaum, who had swiveled around and was staring out the window, where the blanket of dark clouds had finally unzipped, loosing fat raindrops that thumped against the panes. Bryan couldn’t help it. He had to ask.

  “Do you know what’s going on here? What’s happening?” he said to the back of the math teacher’s head. “Because if you do, please tell me. I don’t understand what I’m supposed to be doing, or why everything’s different, or why everyone’s acting so weird. It’s all just a big, jumbled, confusing mess, and none of it makes any sense at all.”

  Bryan watched as a tendril of smoke wove itself into a halo over the math teacher’s head. It was a full ten seconds before the man spoke.

  “Welcome to middle school, my son,” Tennenbaum said. Then he pointed behind him with the tip of his pipe. “Be sure to shut the door behind you.”

  11:20 a.m.

  Call of Dodgeball

  Bryan left Mr. Tennenbaum wreathed in a crown of smoke, then quickly made his way back toward the gymnasium, all the while listening for the sound of Amy Krug’s shoes clunking across the floor. He met Oz by the boys’ locker room. His best friend looked like an overinflated balloon, barely able to contain himself.

  “So you won’t believe what Chris Smith told me in Spanish today. I mean he said it in English, but we were in Spanish—,” Oz sputtered the moment he saw Bryan.

  “I was just attacked by a pack of teachers who wanted my Twinkie,” Bryan interrupted.

  “Wait. When did you have a Twinkie?”

  Figures that that would be the sticking point with Oz. Bryan ignored the question. “Oh, and Mr. Tennenbaum thinks he’s Gandalf. And Mercutio’s a zombie. And I’ve gained a hundred and fifty experience points and leveled up once, though I don’t have any idea what that means. And needless to say, I’m still seeing things. And sometimes hearing them. And you’re right—I am completely crazy.” Bryan looked at Oz, waiting for a response.

  “Do you still have the Twinkie?”

  “No, I don’t still have the Twinkie! Did you hear what I just said?”

  “Okay. Just asking. So I guess you’re still having a bad day.”

  “Yeah. You could say that.”

  “Then I probably shouldn’t tell you that Chris heard Micah talking to Olivia Walker, who said that Landon Prince was going to ask Jess to be his girlfriend tonight.”

  Bryan felt a pain in his gut, instant and crushing. “Did she say yes?”

  “Did who say yes?”

  “Jess. I mean, did Chris say if Micah said whether Olivia knew if she was going to say yes?”

  “Dude, it’s just a rumor. And it’s not like you don’t have more important things to worry about. What was the part about zombies again?”

  “Long story. Written by Shakespeare. You had to be there.”

  Bryan moped his way into the boys’ locker room, Oz in tow, both of them finding a space as far from the other boys as possible. Locker rooms were death traps: You certainly didn’t want to get caught with your pants down. As they changed into their gym clothes (thank God there were no mirrors in the changing area as he replaced his Tunic of Unwashing with what was probably a Tank Top of Infinite Stinkitude), Bryan relayed as much of his morning as he could, starting with his challenge at the SMART Board and ending with his harrowing escape from the teachers’ lounge. He left out the part about ducking into the girls’ bathroom. He knew Oz would have way too many questions about it.

  “I can’t believe Ms. Wang attacked you,” Oz marveled. “She seems so nice.”

  “I’m just telling you what happened. Between them and Tennenbaum and Amy Krug, I feel like half of the school is out to ge—youch! What was that for?”

  Bryan rubbed the red spot on his arm where Oz had just pinched him. The red letters appeared above Oz’s head.

  -1 HP.

  “Thought maybe you were dreaming.”

  “I’m not dreaming, all right? First off, if I were dreaming, you would be part of that dream and wouldn’t be able to pinch me to see if I was dreaming.”

  “Unless I’m just a part of the dream and you’re dreaming that I pinched yo—ouch!”

  Oz rubbed his arm this time.

  “This isn’t a dream,” Bryan insisted. “Something majorly freaky is going on, and I need your help figuring it out.”

  “I am trying to help.”

  “Pinching is not helping.”

  “Tell me about it,” Oz said, inspecting his arm.

  From outside the locker room they heard an unfamiliar adult voice yell for everyone to hurry up and get out there.

  “We better go,” Oz said.

  Bryan tied his shoes, then had a thought, reaching into the back pocket of his Breeches of Enduring Stiffness and pulling out one of his pennies, tucking it into the cuff of his sock. Oz gave him an inquisitive look. “Just in case,” he said. Then he and Oz filed out with the rest of the seventh graders. Bryan spoke over Oz’s shoulder. “So what do you think she will say?”

  “Who?”

  “Who? Jess who.”

  “About what?”

  “About Landon Prince!” Bryan snapped. Sometimes talking to Oz was like trying to suck Jell-O through a straw. And not a normal straw. The kind people use to stir coffee with.

  “Oh.” Oz shrugged. “I don’t know. What would you say if you were a teenage girl and Landon Prince asked you out?”

  Bryan didn’t bother to answer.

  “Come on now, hurry along,” boomed the unfamiliar voice. The gym looked different today. Several wrestling mats had been propped up, creating temporary walls. Two carts full of basketballs sat to one side. A man in too-tight gym shorts and his own tank top, revealing copious amounts of armpit hair (hormones had obviously been good to him), came up behind them.

  “Hello, everyone. My name is Mr. Kilton, and I’m your substitute gym teacher today. Mr. Gladspell says that since it’s Friday and it’s raining, we get to spend the whole period playing deathball.”

  “Did he say ‘dodgeball’?” Oz whispered.

  “He definitely did not say ‘dodgeball,’ ” Bryan whispered back.

  “I’ve already had two of your classmates volunteer to be team captains,” Mr. Kilton explained. “So they will choose teams. Go ahead, boys.”

  The substitute gym teacher nodded to Reese Hawthorne and Max Trilling, easily the two tallest kids in the class and both on the junior varsity basketball team. Bryan sighed. He was pretty sure the process of choosing teams had been outlawed in every other school across America, but not at Mount Comfort. He was never picked last, at least; that honor always went
to Charlie Miner, who had a serious weight problem and a tendency to wipe his snot on his sleeve. Still, you always knew where you stood in the social pyramid when it came time to pick teams in gym. Max looked at Reese and told him he could go first.

  It was no surprise that Reese Hawthorne picked Kyle Paul, a solid brick of a kid who was shaped like a pro wrestler. Probably Hunter Warrick would go next. He was a baseball player and part of the inner circle of cool jocks that Reese and Max belonged to. Max and Reese would take turns gathering their friends, and then they would reluctantly sweep up the dregs. Like Bryan and Oz.

  “Oswaldo,” Max Trilling said.

  Oz’s jaw dropped. He pointed to himself in disbelief, but Max nodded, smiling. “Yeah, you. Get over here, man.”

  Oz looked at Bryan, eyes wide with wonder. Oz was almost never picked before Bryan, and neither of them had ever cracked the top ten before. “Huh,” he said, then walked a little cautiously over to stand beside Max.

  “Hunter,” Reese called out as the logical second pick went to join the other team. Bryan saw Oz reach up and whisper something in Max’s ear.

  “Biggins.”

  Bryan pointed to himself just to be sure, though there were no other Bigginses in the school or even in the whole town. Max nodded in affirmation, and Mr. Kilton urged Bryan to move already. He gave Oz a strange look as he walked toward him. Something wasn’t right. The two captains continued to call out names, building their squads.

  “Gavin.”

  “Juan.”

  “Mike.”

  “Charlie.”

  Charlie Miner stumbled over to stand beside Bryan. He was already sweating, but he was also smiling. He wasn’t last, probably for the first time in his life. In fact, there were quite a few popular kids still left to go. Bryan tried to return the smile, but he couldn’t. Something terrible was happening. And by the time every kid had been chosen, it was obvious to everyone, even Charlie Miner.

  “They stacked the deck,” Bryan murmured to Oz, looking out over the other team. Nearly every kid on Reese Hawthorne’s team was at least three inches taller than the kids on the opposite side, a battalion of student athletes with necks as thick as telephone posts. The only serious weapon Bryan’s team had was their own team captain.

  Max Trilling looked across the gym at Reese and smiled.

  “It’s a trap,” Oz whispered.

  Mr. Kilton stepped to the center, in between the two groups, and raised his hands.

  “You know the rules. Get hit and you’re out. Catch the ball and the other guy is out. We’ve added a few obstacles to keep things interesting, but they won’t last, and once they’re down, they stay down. Also,” he added, pointing to the carts of basketballs, “I couldn’t find the rubber play balls you guys usually use, so we are going to have to make do with these today.”

  “Basketballs?” Juan Delgado gulped. On the opposite side of the center line, Bryan saw the members of Reese’s squad nod in sadistic appreciation. “Won’t those hurt when they hit us?”

  “So don’t get hit.” Mr. Kilton stepped back beside the carts. “Let the battle begin!” he roared, then simultaneously blew his whistle and tipped the carts over, spilling two dozen basketballs onto the court, rolling toward both sides. Bryan saw one of the balls spin in his direction and contemplated going for it—maybe get a shot in before anyone on the other team was armed—but just as he was about to take off, he felt a tug on his arm.

  “Take cover!” Oz yelled, pulling Bryan across the gym toward one of the propped-up wrestling mats.

  Bryan looked to see most of his team doing the same, retreating toward the back of their half of the gym, ducking behind the foam and vinyl barricades that were barely standing of their own free will.

  All except for Max, who stood right up on the midline—the battle line—calmly bending down and snatching a basketball, palming it easily. Most of the other balls had been snagged by the opposing side, but they hadn’t thrown any yet. Max Trilling, the team captain, leader of the dregs, stood defiantly in front of the other captain, Reese Hawthorne. They exchanged nods. Max casually lobbed his basketball across the line. Reese caught it easily.

  Mr. Kilton blew his whistle and pointed.

  “Guess I’m out,” Max said with a shrug. He turned around to face Bryan and the others, who had their heads peeking out from the mats like timid mice. “It’s all up to you guys.” He grinned. Bryan heard a tremor of laughter from the other side of the gym as the full weight of what had happened—and what was about to happen—descended.

  “You set us up, you jerk!” Oz shouted.

  Beside them, Rajesh Tambe, a kid that Bryan had once gone to summer wilderness camp with, stood up, seething with anger, thrusting his arms in the air. “Traitor!” he screamed, shaking a fist at Max. “You cheating—”

  Boom. Raj went down. Dropped like a sack of flour, the sniper’s shot bouncing off his face, leaving its red imprint like a bloody sunburst on his cheek. Head shot. Insta-kill.

  “Man down! Man down!” little Stevie Richter screamed from the barricade opposite Bryan, rushing to Rajesh’s side, but in doing so he accidently knocked over the wrestling mat, exposing him and three other kids as targets. The sky was suddenly filled with orange.

  Stevie took a ball to the chest and another to the leg, stumbling once before smacking the floor, the sound of sweaty skin slapping against laminate. A kid named Marcus Stover, who was one of the Capulet zombies from Bryan’s English class, dived to avoid one shot, which barely missed his heel. Mr. Kilton blew his whistle and pointed to signify that he was out. When he turned to protest, he took a second shot to the head and crumpled like a used Kleenex. Bryan looked to see DeShawn Murray bump fists with Reese. Bryan ducked back down behind his mat.

  “Marcus is gone,” he said.

  “We are pinned down,” Oz replied. “We need reinforcements.”

  “There are no reinforcements, you fool!” Juan Delgado screamed. “We’re cut off!”

  More balls flew. Bounced off the mats. Off the back wall. Off the heads and bodies of Bryan’s teammates. Rajesh had managed to crawl to the sideline, where he propped himself against the bleachers, head in his hands. Some of Bryan’s other teammates managed to avoid the hail of basketballs fired across the gym, diving and rolling or simply landing with a wet-sounding thud. A few of them picked up balls of their own, tossing them with all their might—but it was a fruitless endeavor. The platoon of jocks on the opposing side easily sidestepped them or caught them, not only scoring kills but reloading in the process. Reese’s team didn’t even bother to crouch behind their mats. They didn’t need to. They crowded the line like a firing squad. It was a massacre.

  Mr. Kilton blew his whistle again and again. Pointing to some kid writhing on the ground and then to the bleachers, ordering him off the field of battle. A basketball careened off one poor boy’s chest right into another’s, taking them both out.

  “Double kill!” Hunter Warrick shouted from across the line.

  All around him Bryan heard the hollow thunk of balls, the steady percussion of widespread annihilation, as he and Oz huddled together, watching the bodies pile up. Basketballs whizzed by, thrown with deadly velocity. They bounced off the gym mat, pummeling it, threatening to knock it over before rolling back to the enemy’s side. Bryan looked over at the bleachers. His half was already full of the wounded, many of them doubled over in pain. The other side had only two players sitting down, and one of them was Max Trilling, traitorous team captain, who had given up the charade and gone to sit with his friends. The gymnastics mat buckled under a steady salvo of balls. More of them rained down from the ceiling as Reese and his squad tried lobbing them over the wall like grenades. One of them nearly got Archie Goldman in the leg.

  “They’ve got air support,” Oz said as the lobbed balls inched closer.

  Bryan chanced a look over the edge of his barricade, then ducked back down as two basketballs nearly took his head off. He looked at the others. There were
only five of them left. Giant orange orbs rained down from the ceiling. “We can’t hold out much longer,” he said. “We’re going to have to fight back.”

  “Againtht them?” Archie protested, speaking with a lisp through the roller coaster of wires that served as his braces—newly acquired two days ago. “We will get thlaughtered.”

  “I’d rather go out fighting, wouldn’t you?”

  “No, not really,” Oz said. “I’d rather just hide here and wait for the game to end.” Sitting beside Oz, barely keeping his body behind the barricade, Charlie nodded his assent.

  Juan shook his head. “Bryan’s right,” he said. “We have to engage.”

  The five boys looked at one another. Finally Archie nodded. Charlie made a cross over his chest. The basketballs continued to pound, rebounding off their makeshift fortification.

  “All right,” Bryan said, trying to sound braver than he was. “On my mark we storm the barricade and bring the pain. One . . . two . . .” He started to stand up.

  “Wait,” Oz commanded, pressing a hand to Bryan’s mouth. “Listen.”

  Bryan stopped. He listened. The only sound was the bu-bu-bu-bum of one lonely basketball dribbling, rolling, coming to rest in a corner. The gym was otherwise silent.

  “They’ve stopped,” Oz said giddily. “It’s over. The battle is over!”

  Oz stood up, his white T-shirt a symbol of surrender, the armpit stains a symbol of their struggle. But something didn’t feel right. Bryan reached for him by the back of his shorts, trying to pull him down without pulling them off. “Oz . . . no . . . wait . . .”

  It was too late.

  Bryan watched the sky darken. They came from everywhere, one right after the other, blotting out the harsh fluorescent glow of the track lights above, like a fusillade of cannonballs shot from a galley’s broadside, striking Oz in the arms and chest. Oz twisted, stepping backward, throwing his hands up, rocking and reeling with each blow. To the shoulder, the knee, the stomach, the poor boy whipped around like a rag doll in a Doberman’s jaws.