Crazy for You (26 page)

“Can’t trust ’em.” Eddie’s brown eyes took on a paranoid glint. “They might be Cobra fans. You’re the only one here I know is on our side, Maze. C’mon.” Grabbing my hand, he hauled me down the bleachers and across the lot to a van loaded with paintball gear. He rummaged around until he found a helmet. Ignoring my protests, he clapped it over my head. I felt encased in a portable tomb. Staring at my reflection in the van window—bulging black visor, safety goggles, and a snout-like breathing tube—I was seized with the sudden urge to start exterminating termites.

“Nothing to it, Maze,” Eddie gabbled. “Us guys will be out in the woods, working our way toward the enemy base. Alls you gotta do is stand by our goal. Any dummy could do it.”

“Just stand there,” I repeated, my voice sounding like it was coming from inside a manhole.

“Yeah. And shoot the shit out of any Cobra that tries to get past you.” Eddie thrust
a paintball gun into my hands. “This is your marker. The big thing on top there is the hopper, loaded with a paintball clip. You put it up to your shoulder and just pull the trigger.”

“You know I hate guns—”

“Shut up, Maze—we got like thirty seconds.”

My finger jumped and I accidentally pulled the trigger. The marker made a
kachunka kachunka kachunka
sound and spat a round of red paint against the side mirror of a nearby minivan. Startled, I screamed. Then I screamed again because my first scream, ricocheting around inside the helmet, had scared me. Eddie rolled his eyes so far back in his head he probably was going to need an eyeball splint.

“Stop screwing around,” he snapped. “Listen! If your marker stops working, check this thing here.” He pointed to a button that looked like a doorbell. “That’s the safety. Safety off, you can shoot, safety on, you—Cripes! We got fifteen seconds.
Echa la cookie
, girl!”

Eddie hauled me across the field so fast there were times when my feet actually flew off the ground. If he could have loaded me in a cannon and shot me across the field, I think he would have done it. Chivalry was all very well in the proper time and place, but this was not a time for gallantry—this was a time to
beat the crap out of the Cobras
.

Apparently the Cobras had picked up their extra player, too, because the head marshal gave a thumbs-up. The Cobras took off toward their base on the far side of the woods that separated the two teams.

Our base was simply a U-shaped net that looked like a junior-hockey-league goal. Eddie ran over, took the glow stick out of his vest pocket, and shook it. Its chemicals activated and it began glowing with an unearthly rosy-red gleam. He jabbed the stick into the ground.

“Guard it with your life,” Eddie growled at me. “And be careful, okay? Cuz if you get bumped off, we don’t got a replacement.”

“Thanks for caring,” I yelled, but he was already dashing away, vanishing into the undergrowth.

I stood there, feeling like a dodo. What the hell was I supposed to do? I was exposed here, clearly visible to the crowd, who were probably sniggering about the
Mojos’ runty loser goaltender. Deciding to strike a more aggressive pose, I swiveled my gun left, then right, trying to appear sort of paramilitary, even though my interior dialogue sounded like a whiny five-year-old.

This is boring. Why do I have to do this? This is stupid. When will this be over? I’m cold. This gun is too heavy. I don’t want to do this. I hate this. I want a cocoa
.

To keep warm, I started pacing in front of the goal. Pretending to shoot other human beings, what a terrific concept. Did Amnesty International know about paintball wars?

The snow had picked up; it was like a heavy white curtain. Maybe they’d have to call off the games because of low visibility. Maybe they’d—

A sound to my right made me jump, my heart nearly bursting its walls. Through the white curtain I could dimly make out a moving tree branch. What was I supposed to do? I couldn’t just shoot without knowing what it was. What if it was an innocent squirrel or rabbit, and I blinded the poor thing?

“Behind you,” someone in the crowd shrieked.

I jerked around. The snow was so thick I actually pawed at it with my hand. And discovered that the curtain was just a layer of snow built up on my goggles. Now I could clearly see a Cobra jogging toward our flag. He’d thrown a snowball at the tree to distract me, and was going to grab our stick. He was sneering at me! Even though I couldn’t see his face through the helmet, it was a body sneer, a nanny-nanny-boo-boo posture that showed he wasn’t intimidated by some pussy scared of her own shadow. In his mind, the stick was already his.

A jolt of adrenaline shot through me. Not until you rip the gun out of my cold, dead hands, buster! I aimed. I pulled the trigger.
Kachunka!
A bright red stain blossomed on the Cobra’s groin.

“Crap!” he yelled, staring down at himself in disbelief. He shot at me as he died.

His pellets whizzed past me, splattering spectators in the front row.

A whistle blew. “Foul on the blue team,” boomed a voice. “Ten-point penalty.”

I gazed up at the sky, gobsmacked. Where had that voice come from? It sounded like the voice of God, and God was not pleased.

Then I realized that the voice was a loudspeaker. Amplifiers were hooked up to
nearby trees and an announcer was doing commentary. I looked up at the jumbotron. It showed a replay of what had just happened, the Cobra darting out of the woods, throwing a snowball to distract me, and then darting for our glow stick. And there I was, clumsy and clueless, getting off the world’s luckiest shot. The Cobra wasn’t allowed to shoot people after he was dead, and that’s why the Cobras had been hit with a ten-point penalty.

“And the first elimination in the game comes from …” Paper rustled as the announcer checked his notes. “Substitute goaltender Margery Maguffin.”

Potato, potahto; close enough. People were actually cheering for me! Beneath my helmet, I grinned. This wasn’t such a bad game after all.

But it went on for ages. An early dark fell and the lights above the field turned on, haloing the thickly falling snow. Out in the woods, the Cobras were trouncing us. The scoreboard on the electronic screen had us down by fifty points. According to the announcer, the only way the Mojos could still win was by capturing the Cobra flag. One by one, the dead Mojos limped off the field, riddled with the hated blue paint. Spidey, Hulk, Batman, Captain America, Thor…

The Cobras attacked four times, but each time I managed to drive them back. After I’d taken out their first guy, they became more wary. No more foolhardy frontal assaults. I didn’t hit anyone again, but managed to pump out a fierce enough spray of pellets to force the blues back into the trees. Beneath my heavy clothes, I was sweating buckets, but during the long periods of inactivity the sweat would freeze and I would start shivering so violently I could barely hold my weapon.

Eddie and Rico were lethal out in the woods. Between them, they eliminated five blues. But at last a Cobra nailed Rico in the back with a sneak attack. Shortly after that, Eddie was tagged. He came trotting up to me, exhausted and spattered with blue paint.

“Mazie,” he rasped, “you’re the only blue left. There’s still two Cobras out there. Watch out for the tall guy—he’s the one who spiked me.” He jammed an extra pack of pellets in my pocket, squeezed my frozen hand, and jogged over to the sideline.

The only one left.

I’d never felt so helpless in my life.

I tried to load the extra pellets into my gun, but my hands were shaking too much. Both Cobras attacked at once. The shorter one pinned me down with a hail of pellets,
while the tall one lunged for the glow stick. He snatched it; he ran with it; he was going to run it back to his base!

I chased him as he wove in and out between trees. My breath was coming in harsh gasps. He was way ahead of me, but he was easy to follow because the red glow stick shone like a radio-tower beacon. A paint pellet fired by the guy on my tail exploded against a tree trunk, spraying me with blue paint. Not a direct hit, though—I was still in the game. I dodged from tree to tree, trying to elude my stalker, who was so out of shape I could hear him wheezing even through his helmet. Soon he fell far behind.

The tall Cobra and I burst out of the trees into a snow-covered clearing about forty feet from the Cobra base. A thorny bush beneath the snow snagged the Cobra’s pants. In the few seconds it took him to pull free, I managed to stagger up to within a few yards of him. Clear shot! His shoulders were so broad even I couldn’t miss! I raised my weapon, squeezed the trigger.

And nothing happened. My hands shook as I vainly jabbed at buttons and gadgets. What was that saying? Safety on, you got a shot, safety off, you’re gonna get caught? No, that didn’t sound right. I was so tired I couldn’t think straight. I staggered toward the Cobra, knowing I’d never catch him in time. He was twenty feet from his goal. Fifteen … ten … five … the dumb gorilla was dancing toward the goal, whipping around to taunt me, waving the red stick high above his head, doing a mocking waggle-hipped victory dance.

Anger boiled up in me. Taunt me, will you? I hurled myself toward him in a clench-jawed, do-or-die leap so incredibly pointless that he reeled backward in disbelief and stumbled over a hidden rock. Then I was on him, locking my arms around his knees, tackling him to the ground. We rolled down a slope in a bumping, thumping ball of flailing limbs, and he landed hard on his belly, the breath knocked out of him, his helmet jarred loose, the red glow stick spinning away.

Groaning, he rolled over.

I stared at the exposed face.

It was Ben Labeck. And he was way beyond mad.

“Foul!” he croaked.

But he didn’t seem to have any broken bones and the game was still on. While he
fumbled for his helmet, I snatched the red stick from the ground and, operating under the principle of “in for a penny, in for a pound,” grabbed the Cobra’s blue stick, too.

Then I ran, tailed by two furious Cobras. I stuck the glow sticks in my pockets so they wouldn’t shine. I crawled on my belly like a reptile and slunk like a skunk. Exhausted, with a shrieking pain in my side and my lungs feeling like they were being skewered with barbecue forks, I nonetheless felt a wild exhilaration. This was like the games of commando I’d played with my brothers back on the farm. Being small worked to my advantage, making me harder to hit. I was smoke, I was wind, I was air!

I was lead. I could scarcely make my legs move as I staggered out of the woods into open ground, with the Cobras breathing down my neck, pellets zipping everywhere, dye spattering the snow. The spectators were howling. Dropping my gun, clutching the blue stick like an offering to the gods, I dived for the net and jabbed the blue glow stick through it. A hail of Cobra pellets peppered my backside, but I was home, baby, home!

Bedlam. The Mojos spilled onto the field, hauled me to my feet, and set about killing me. They yanked off my helmet, whacked me on the back until I staggered, showered me with snow, whirled me around in their arms, whooped, yipped, and screeched until my eardrums nearly blew in. Meanwhile, the Cobras were equally insane. A furious posse was dancing around the judges, screaming that the goal didn’t count because I’d committed a body-contact foul.

In the end, our team was penalized thirty points for my body foul, but since we gained a hundred points for capturing the flag, it didn’t matter. The judges were in no mood to listen to arguments; at this point, they were as cold and wet as everybody else and just wanted to go home. I kept trying to break away from the Mojos so I could go find Labeck, but it was ages before I finally managed to peel myself away. The jumbotron had been taken down, the bleachers were deserted, and the parking lot was rapidly emptying.

Eddie and Rico left in Eddie’s car, making me swear I’d attend the victory party, which they planned to hold in Spawn’s hospital room.

“I’ll be there,” I promised, crossing my fingers behind my back.

I finally spotted Labeck. His back rigid, he was steaming down a trail that led toward the lake. Even a hundred feet away, I could make out the waves of anger
emanating from him, waves so sizzling they were melting the falling snow.

“Ben,” I called.

He didn’t turn around.

Chapter Thirty

There’s no cheaper high than having someone take a shot at you and miss.

—Maguire’s Maxims

“Ben?”

When I finally caught up to him I was so out of breath I could hardly talk.

He spun around to face me. He’d shaved off his beard, probably because it was driving him crazy. For a moment I thought he was bleeding, but then realized he was covered with Mojo paint spatters. He was still clutching his paint gun. “Come to gloat, Mazie? Congratulations on making me look like the sissy of the century.”

I stared at him. “That tackle, you mean? I didn’t know it was you.”

“That
illegal
tackle.”

He turned and stomped off down the path.

I followed. He crashed through scrubby trees whose branches whipped back and slapped me, and now
I
was mad because he was being so rude.

“What about the
taunting
? Taunting is illegal, too!”

“Only in football.”

“You shouldn’t have done that dumb victory dance. That’s like counting your chickens before they’re hatched.”

“That’s what I need now, farmyard clichés.”

“You know what your problem is?”

“No, but I’m sure you’ll tell me.”

“Your problem is you’re a sore loser! And your victory dance was lame! I mean what was that supposed to be, the hoochie coochie?”

We’d reached the old bungalows, set back among a grove of tall cedar trees that shielded them from the parking lot. Most of the cabins had collapsed roofs or stoved-in walls, but there were a couple that were still inhabitable. Labeck marched up to the fourth
cabin in the row, kicked the door open, and stomped inside. Not waiting for an invite, I followed, closing the door after me. Not that it made much difference. The indoor temperature was only about a degree warmer than outside. The entire cabin was no larger than a ranch-house bedroom. Its walls were the logs of the cabin itself, darkened by age and rimed with frost, its floor was worn linoleum over a cement slab, and its windows were boarded up with plywood. Shelves along one wall held canned food, liquor, and a couple of battered saucepans. No toilet, no plumbing, and no electricity, although there was a miniature camp stove that ran on a canister of butane gas. The place smelled of mold, mouse droppings, and kerosene from a hanging lamp. Labeck’s sleeping bag was tossed atop a filthy-looking bed that stood against the far wall.