My Life as a Computer Cockroach by Bill Myers Page A

sounds of screaming, chaos, and crashing cars.
    â€œYou’ve fulfilled Coach’s prediction. You’ve ‘wiped everything clean.’”
    A fire engine roared past with its siren blasting, and I had to shout. “What?”
    â€œI said, you’ve wiped everything clean!” she yelled.
    â€œHow?”
    â€œYou and Ol’ Betsy have just cleared every bit of memory from every computer in the world!”
    â€œThat’s impossible!” I shouted.
    She pointed to all of the chaos going on in front of us. “See for yourself.” By now, dozens of cars were piled up and more were flying past. Fire hydrants were sheared off, spewing water high into the sky. Across the street, people were breaking into a local grocery store, stealing food. And there was no longer any light except for the cascading sparks from the exploding transformers.
    â€œI don’t get it!” I shouted. “What’s going on?”
    By now, Coach was beside us. As he surveyed the scene, he answered quietly, “It’s only the beginning.”
    â€œThe beginning of what?” I yelled.
    â€œThe beginning of the end of the world.”

Chapter 8
The United States of Wally
    The good news was my house was only a few blocks away. The bad news was a few blocks was like a few light-years—at least with all the craziness going on around us. Still, I had to get home. I had to see if my family was okay.
    Convincing Opera to leave with me wasn’t too hard.
    â€œYour folks got BURP chips?” he asked.
    â€œYou bet,” I said.
    He glanced at the empty bag of cucumber chips in his hands. “Nothing weird like spinach chips or broccoli chips or some sicko health thing like that?”
    â€œNo way,” I said. “We’ve got the real thing—complete with grease, salt and . . . and . . . and more grease!”
    â€œAll right!” He gave me a high-five. “So, what are we BELCH waiting for?”
    Wall Street wasn’t quite so easy to convince. “I don’t know,” she said. “What about Coach?”
    â€œYeah,” Coach agreed. “It’s gonna get lonesome spending twenty-four hours a day doing sit-ups, push-ups, pull-ups, chin-ups, fifty-yard sprints, and squat-thrusts all by myself.”
    Suddenly, Wall Street was a little more sure about leaving.
    â€œBesides,” Coach continued, “who am I going to yell at and chew out if you’re all gone?”
    Suddenly, Wall Street was a lot more sure about leaving. So was I.
    After bidding a fond farewell to Coach (and promising he could call up and yell any time he got too lonely), we hopped over the fence and started running down the street through the chaos to my house.
    Things were getting worse by the minute. By now, nearly every store had been broken into. Everywhere people were stealing and looting. Men were fighting over kerosene lanterns. Women were fighting over bread. Children were fighting over old Barney toys! (I told you it was bad.)
    I wanted to shout to them and explain that it was all a mistake, just another McDoogle Mishap. But after Wall Street pointed out that it might lead to an uncomfortable situation (like my death), I decided it was best to keep my mouth shut and my feet moving.
    When we finally got to my place, I was glad to see my family staying cool and calm. The generator was working, and Dad was pouring what water had been left in the pipes into jugs to be placed with the rest of our supplies; and little sister Carrie was helping Mom gather candles. The only people having major panic attacks were Burt and Brock, my twin superjock brothers:
    â€œWe’re going to miss tomorrow’s bowl games,” they kept screaming. “We’re going to miss the bowl games!” I was clueless about which bowl games they were talking about (Rose Bowl, Orange Bowl, Tidy Bowl—They’re all the same to me). The point is: everyone else in my family was