The main school building was a shadow of its former self. The second floor was demolished, a gaping hole in the concrete floor exposed the main lobby below. The crumbling ceiling shed tittering hailstones of cement every now and again, the sound waves briefly shooting down the hall before reflecting off of the walls a hundred billion times and dissipating into nothingness. The air crunched and undulated as shockwaves from a mighty battle in the distance shook the foundation of the edifice.
A solitary light bulb was burning in Mrs. Allen’s room, layering the faces of the sullen English department in ghastly shadow. They sat in silence, their intangible masks of darkness betraying their fear by highlighting the worried creases on their faces. Finally someone spoke.
“What are we going to do?” a shivering Mr. Morlas asked.
The crackle of a distant sonic boom punctuated his question.
“We keep waiting,” Mrs. Allen grumbled through deadpan lips.
“But what are we waiting for?” Morlas quivered.
“We’re waiting for the fighting to stop,” Mr. Guillory replied, staring blankly out of the window. It was raining. Crystalline beads formed on the glass.
“But… what’s our plan?”
“We wait here until everyone is eliminated,” Mrs. Schmitt snapped, “Then we fight each other once it’s just us.”
Mr. Morlas jumped out of his seat and hit the light switch.
“This is daffy!” he proclaimed to the blinking, squinting English department, “Dickens is eliminating people left and right, and Brother Rich is looking for stragglers in the tunnels. They’ve got the right idea! We shouldn’t even be in the same room with one another, let alone working together to survive!”
Mr. Guillory perked his ears in realization. “Wait… What did you just say?”
“This is daffy–”
“No, after that. At the end!”
“We shouldn’t be working together–”
“That’s against the rules! Does this count?” Mrs. D wondered nervously.
“I don’t know…” Mrs. Schmitt replied.
“But how do we know for sure?”
The creak of door hinges answered Mr. Guillory’s question. The English Department cranked its heads toward the doorway in unison, their mouths propped open in horror and awe at what they beheld.
Burnt flesh. Spinning servos. Deep red eyes. A deadpan scowl. As the unholy mass of twisted metal and damaged tissue stood before the teachers, a rare smile crept across its face. It raised the object in its right hand — an airhorn — and pressed its thumb on the top, blowing it twice. He brought it back down to his side.
“Time to pick up the trash,” The Teachernator said.
A cannon emerged from his bionic shoulder and fired, hurtling a thousand flaming brown jugs at his opponents.
The English Department scattered, dodging the jugs and ducking for cover. A stray projectile caught Mrs. Case on the side of the head, exploding her into a cloud of code.
Robo-Sears swung his cannon, scattering molten porcelain all over the room. Mr. Guillory jumped out the window attempting to escape, but Sears-tron extended his cybertronic Long Arm of the Law™ and yanked him back into the room. Mr. Guillory clawed at the ground as Sears dragged him closer. His hands ripped up tiles as he clawed the ground. Before he knew it, he was face-to-face with the horrifying cyborg.
In a last moment of desperation, Guillory shot his hand out to the right, beckoning for his trusted weapon. The Sears-Borg had no time to react as a massive pencil pierced the wall next to him, knocking him to the ground and dislodging Guillory from his grip. Guillory landed gracefully, and in one swift motion he brought the pencil down and ran it through the Teachernator’s chest. The red light in the robot’s eyes faded and flickered out.
Mr. Guillory stepped back, satisfied with his handiwork.
Robo-Sears jumped back to his feet, his leg servos whirring with the effort. An unnatural smile graced his tattered face once again.
“Pain is mental, chief. Gotta fight through it,” it buzzed through its voice modulator.
With a swoop of its metal arm, the Sears-Borg whipped Mr. Guillory through the wall and out of the building.
“Hey, chrome dome!” a trembling voice taunted from across the room. Mr. Morlas stood there uneasily, grasping a small black object.
He pressed a button on the top of the object. With a SNAP it emitted a blinding flash that sent Sears lurching back in horror.
“It’s picture day, CHIEF!” Morlas shrieked triumphantly as he snapped another photo.
The Cyborg rattled a metallic screech as it reared back in disgust. It jumped out of the window scampered away, whimpering like a wounded dog.
Morlas gasped in anguished relief, grasping his chest to ensure that he was still alive. He was. His shoulders slumped in relief–
–and burst into smithereens as a heavily sharpened five foot writing utensil drove itself through his skull.
“Forget all this waiting, man!” Mr. Guillory mused to himself, sheathing his trusty pencil, “I’m gonna go kick some butt!”
He charged into the hallway, hooting, hollering and swinging his pencil.
• • •
“The Teachernator has been momentarily defeated.”
“How is that possible? It’s supposed to be invincible.”
“Well, everything has a weakness, sir. Somebody was bound to find one sooner or later.”
“Fix it. We can’t let our greatest asset go to waste.”
“Oh, and Watkins?”
“Prepare my battle armor. Just in case.”
TO BE CONTINUED…
• • •