The Hadley Academy for the Improbably Gifted

by Conor Grennan

  Jack froze. “You trust me,” he repeated.

  “Yeah?”

  “Wyeth . . .” Jack lowered his voice, even though there was nobody else in the dining hall. “He has this Rogue Team, right? This team of operatives?” He leaned forward. “How did he recruit them?”

  Claire started to answer, then stopped. “I don’t know.”

  “My mom used to say the same thing that you just did,” Jack said. “That trusting someone is more important than believing them. But what about Wyeth? How did he get an entire team to come to his side and betray Hadley? He was here so long ago; nobody actually knows him now. And they sure don’t trust him.”

  Claire was beginning to follow. “You’re saying somebody else recruited the team.”

  “Somebody they knew. Somebody they trusted.”

  “Who? Superior Blue? Darius?”

  Jack shook his head. “Whoever recruited them had to have contact with Wyeth, right?”

  “Which isn’t possible,” Claire pointed out. “Everyone here is on the grid. Somebody of that stature couldn’t just sneak off the radar of everyone. The Dome would have picked it up.”

  “But there’s one person who wasn’t on the grid,” Jack said. “Somebody the operatives would have trusted.”

  “The Bulgarian.” Claire stared at him. “Except the Bulgarian killed Wyeth. Or he thought he did. The Bulgarian was on our side.”

  “Freddy said that people don’t change. But he meant that what they want deep down doesn’t change. They might change allegiances if they think it’s a better way to get what they want.”

  “You think Wyeth and the Bulgarian wanted the same thing?”

  “I don’t know,” Jack admitted. “But think about it—the Bulgarian would be pretty terrifying if he had joined Wyeth. The guy was a technical genius. He had that animation spade, where he could make monsters out of stuff.”

  “He also died two months ago. You think he secretly recruited for Wyeth, then he just let himself be killed like that? It’s strange.” Claire squinted at Jack. “I know that look. You have an idea, but you’re afraid to say it.”

  Jack hesitated. “You’ll think I sound like Freddy.”

  “Try me.”

  “Maybe the Bulgarian wanted people to think he was dead.”

  “He was reported dead, remember?” Claire asked.

  “By who? Who found his body? Is it possible it was the wrong body?”

  Claire stared at him for a moment, then took the two carts and pulled them past Jack, toward the kitchen. Jack kept up with her. They reached the yellow vacuum next to the kitchen and offloaded the dishes and silverware onto the counter, letting the vacuum suck them up a few at a time.

  “So the Bulgarian’s been in hiding this whole time pretending to be dead?” Claire asked, methodically loading plates into the vacuum. “Why?”

  “So he could be off the grid to serve Wyeth. Wyeth must have convinced the Bulgarian that he was on the right side and Hadley was on the wrong side. Or—” Jack snapped his fingers. “Now you’re really going to think I sound like Freddy. What if Wyeth convinced the Bulgarian that he, Wyeth, really was the Guardian? The Bulgarian was obsessed with the Gray mythology, remember?”

  “You’re right. You sound like Freddy.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “So, Wyeth recruits the Bulgarian,” Claire said. “The Bulgarian recruits a team of operatives to Wyeth’s side. The only problem with all this is if the Bulgarian really is dead.”

  “Right.” Jack loaded in the last of the plates and grabbed a fresh kitchen towel hanging from a bar to wipe his hands. He tossed it to Claire. “It’s a lot easier if he is dead. I doubt we’d live very long if he was trying to keep us quiet.”

  Claire caught it and slowly wiped her hands. “You’re freaking me out, Jack.”

  “I’m freaking myself out. I think we need to tell Superior Blue about this.”

  “No, we need to check the archives again first,” Claire said. She tossed the towel onto the counter. “Rufus won’t even remember we were there earlier tonight. Come on.”

  Jack followed her to the side door. At the last minute he reached around her to open the door for her. Except it didn’t open.

  “Locked. Come on, we’ll go out the kitchen.” Jack walked ahead of her, holding open the swinging door for Claire. They walked through the industrial kitchen toward the exit.

  But at the back exit, they found a long-handled metal spatula tied around the handles of the double doors, impossibly twisted like string.

  Claire furrowed her eyebrows. “How did . . . ?”

  She was interrupted by metal clattering and hinges groaning. Everything that was not attached to the floor was flying together, as if magnetized. The ovens were wrenched from the floor. Cutlery and cutting boards, knives and plates, everything gathered and assembled into a humanlike shape. The kitchen was coming to life.

  Not coming to life. Jack felt a cold stab of fear pierce his chest. Animating.

  “Run!” Claire yelled.

  They sprinted in different directions. The monstrosity charged Jack, and he leapt away just in time. It had legs made of ovens, ranges for feet, a rippling stream of plates for arms, and long metal skewers for fingers. Its hands spun steak-sawing butcher knives. Cups crunched and forks screeched against the floor.

  The creature groaned and lunged for Claire, who slipped trying to get out of the way. Jack ran at an oven, drawing his blade and swinging wildly through the monster’s leg. Several plates shattered, and the thing stumbled just long enough for Claire to roll to safety.

  The monster reconstituted as it turned back to Jack. It cornered him, sharpened knives glinting in the half-lit kitchen. Jack ran at full speed and slid through the creature’s legs as it struggled to turn around. Its head clanged against a now-empty pot rack on the ceiling. Jack raced out the door that led into the main hall.

  The doors cracked behind him as the thing tore them from their hinges. The monster contorted its body and angled through the doorway. The knives slashed against the old oak walls. The creature’s feet scarred the floorboards.

  Jack dove under a table. The monstrosity flung it aside and raised a colossal fist. Jack held up his blade, helpless. But the fist didn’t come down—it was wrenched away, torn right off the monster in a hail of sparks. Claire was standing behind it, hands outstretched. The monster roared and tilted its head. Then it kicked a table at Claire, sending her flying back against the wall.

  Jack ran at the locked door, throwing himself at it. The door groaned but Jack fell back on the floor. He pulled out his blade to try to blaze through it, but he wasn’t fast enough. He had to throw himself out of the way as the monster swung at him. The breeze created by the flying industrial dishwasher lifted his hair. The punch blasted the double door off its hinges and left a hole. Jack leapt for it, scraping and forcing himself through the jagged wood.

  Behind him the monster swung his other fist at Claire. She jumped out of the way, and he missed her. This time, the rest of the door exploded off its frame. They ran.

  A few strides out of Prophecy Hall, Claire’s foot caught a root, and she tumbled so hard that her hands didn’t even catch her fall. Jack skidded back to her, his blade held over his head.

  The realization that they would not survive engulfed him. The Bulgarian was alive. He was working with Wyeth. And that secret would die with Claire and Jack. Their mangled bodies would be found outside Prophecy Hall.

  The monster raised a massive fist, a hideous mess of blades and steel. The small bottle caps that formed his mouth swept into a crazed grin.

  In the dim light of the lamppost behind the monster, a large pine tree uprooted itself with a tremendous noise of dirt and rocks falling from the huge roots. The tree lifted itself straight up in the air. It was twirling slightly, almost, it occurred to Jack, like a baseball bat in the hands of a slugger.

  The upper body of the monster exploded as the tree made contact. Pine needles and bra
nches, plate shards and silverware bits flew through the air.

  Jack and Claire huddled near each other as the shrapnel rained down. Then there, walking toward them through the settling dust, holding his cane on his shoulder like an old-time ballplayer, was the portly silhouette of Instructor Rufus.

  He stopped a few feet away and looked around, surveying the Long Woods. His eyes shone clear and intelligent.

  The old instructor leaned on his cane and gazed down at the recruits. “Jack. Claire.” He sighed. “It’s time we had a talk.”

  “You’re lucky it was me out there.” Rufus handed Jack and Claire cups of foul-smelling tea and settled into a chair in his living room. “Some instructors’ skills would have been a poor match for that junk giant. Drink that up, young ones—it does wonders.”

  Jack ignored the tea. “You’ve pretended to be a senile old man this whole time.”

  “Interesting choice of words, Jack.” Rufus blew on the surface of his tea, sending ripples out to the edges. “You may want to reserve judgment on how senile I am until you get to know me better.”

  “You’ve been lying about who you are,” Claire insisted.

  “We all put forth a set of traits to best serve our interests,” Rufus corrected. “You saw in me an old instructor nobody took seriously. You assumed I have no real power. That was useful to me. Assumptions discourage exploration.”

  “How did you know we would be attacked?” Jack demanded. “You were ready for it—you must have known the Bulgarian was still alive!”

  Rufus sighed. “I knew he was alive, yes. I was the one who reported him killed in the first place.”

  “What? Why did you do that?” Jack asked.

  “Because he asked me to.”

  “He asked you to?” Jack felt his blood boiling. “You’re on his side?”

  “I was,” Rufus admitted. “Or, rather, I gave him the benefit of the doubt when everyone wanted to destroy him, from the moment he stepped through the Threshold as a thirteen-year-old boy.”

  “Why did everyone want to destroy him?” Claire asked.

  The answer came to Jack suddenly. “Because when the Bulgarian stepped through the Threshold, the runes turned black. Didn’t they, Instructor?”

  Rufus nodded. “The Bulgarian has a shadow spade. He’s a Creator, like Wyeth. That may be what bonded them.”

  “Why was he allowed to stay, if he had a shadow spade?” Jack asked. “Why didn’t they send him to the Asylum?”

  “Superior Blue—Petkov’s teammate—convinced the Council not to. The first time in history a shadow spade was allowed to stay.”

  “Why would anyone listen to a thirteen-year-old recruit?” Claire asked, her voice shaking a little.

  “William Blue was no ordinary recruit. He claimed Vladimir would fulfill the twelfth prophecy of the Order of the Grays. You have to understand that very few recruits in history have ever been able to even discern the carvings, let alone interpret them,” Rufus told them. “William was one of them. He saw it in the carvings: two men with black hearts, facing each other. Two improbables with shadow spades. He calculated that they were the Bulgarian and Wyeth. The prophecy predicted the showdown between them, and the Bulgarian did supposedly kill Wyeth.”

  Rufus carefully set down his tea. “It was William Blue that gave Vladimir the name ‘The Bulgarian,’ you know. The Threshold does not convey spade names on those with a shadow spade. That is why Miles Watt did not have a spade name.”

  “Just like I have no spade name,” Jack pointed out, feeling suddenly cold.

  Rufus shook his head. “You do not have a shadow spade, Jack. The runes did not turn black when you walked through the Threshold. You may not be an improbable the way we think of them, but you do not belong with those who possess the shadow spades,” he said. “I thought the Bulgarian was a hero when he killed Wyeth. Now I see he was like a pet tiger cub. It was only a matter of time before he turned against us.”

  “Do you think the Bulgarian recruited the Rogue Team of operatives?” Claire asked.

  “I do, yes,” Rufus said. “The Bulgarian was a mythic figure for the operatives. Many would follow him anywhere. I believe he joined the Shadow because Wyeth convinced him that he, Wyeth, was the Guardian who could save the world. Remember, the Bulgarian saw Wyeth die. To see him come back to life must have had a profound impact on him. And they were bonded by the shadow spade. It was, perhaps, inevitable . . . Ah, good evening, William.”

  “Hello, Alistair. Thank you for calling me.” Superior Blue filled the doorway. “Jack. Claire.”

  Rufus was lifting his cup of tea to his lips, when he paused and pointed it at Claire and Jack. “These two must be important if the Bulgarian risked breaking into Hadley to kill them.”

  “These two are the only living people at Hadley who’ve had meaningful interactions with Wyeth himself, don’t forget,” Blue said.

  “How could we?” Claire asked with a shiver.

  “We don’t know who the Rogue Team is, if that’s what you’re getting at,” Jack said quickly.

  “You’ll have a chance to discover their identity when Wyeth strikes again, assuming the Dome calls you in again,” Blue told them.

  “Why us?” Jack asked. “Why not a team of operatives? Why not anyone else?”

  Superior Blue shook his head. “The Dome must know something we don’t. But be prepared. Wyeth’s Dark Virus has already worked. He knows our operatives are struggling to contain the darkened in Belgium,” Superior Blue told them. “He will not wait to strike us again. Our next chance is almost certainly our last.”

  CHAPTER 22

  A blast knocked Jack off his feet. Then everything went black.

  OUTBREAK

  Team Thirteen jogged down the amphitheater steps. Their wristbands vibrated and glowed yellow.

  “Is this a normal simulation or another mirrored engagement?” Darius demanded of Bakari. Asha had alerted Blue, Darius, and Bakari as soon as their bands went off. Blue, who hadn’t arrived yet, had been right. Wyeth wouldn’t wait.

  “We’ll know soon,” said Bakari, squinting into the noon sun. “The Dome still has no way of predicting the dead zone. Our only indication that Wyeth may be active is that the Dome is calling them in.”

  “But we need to know where it’s taking place. We need our operatives there,” Darius said.

  “If it is a mirrored engagement, Team Thirteen will witness Wyeth’s attack and bring back intel,” Bakari said. “But we won’t know where the event is taking place until they go inside.”

  Darius stared at Thirteen, fuming in frustration. She spun back to face Bakari. “Don’t let Thirteen in. Let’s send in a team of operatives instead. They’ll be able to gather reliable information quickly.”

  “That’s impossible, Iliana.” The Superior came up behind them. “The door is Team Thirteen’s door. You can’t trick the Dome. It has selected Team Thirteen.”

  Darius turned back to a half dozen men and women from the Office of Reaper Engagement. “Report back to the Bunker. Have all operatives on standby at the portal courtyard.” Darius pointed at Team Thirteen. “Get us something useful, recruits: a face, a spade, anything to identify the traitors. Understood?”

  The world inside the Dome went dark. Then sunlight hit a large stage. They were in a field packed with people lolling against each other in temporary suspension of the laws of personal space. The place smelled of sunscreen and sweat. A voice echoed through the crowd from gigantic speakers mounted above the stage. Jack stood next to Claire, both of them in jeans and T-shirts.

  “Washington, DC,” she said, nodding toward the White House in the distance.

  “Okay, Jack, we need you to identify Wyeth.” Asha’s voice came over the monitor. “The rest of us will draw out the Rogue Team. Their spades will identify them. Get them to use their gifts. Got it?”

  “Awesome,” Freddy mumbled.

  “Okay, hoods up,” Asha said.

  “And don’t get killed,” Vos
s added. “You’re useless if you get killed in a simulation, remember.”

  Jack gulped, then pulled his thin hood over his head. The others did the same.

  “I’m heading to the stage,” Claire said.

  “Be careful,” Jack urged.

  “I’m an improbable, remember? You’re the one needing that blast suit Alexander gave you. You be careful.”

  “The woman onstage,” Freddy called over the monitor. “It’s what’s-her-name from the cube.”

  Jack peered through the heads of the taller men standing in front of him. Dr. Cynthia Thayer was taller than she appeared on TV. Dressed in an elegant gray suit, she reminded Jack of a presidential candidate. The look was even made complete by the large navy-blue banner hanging behind her.

  The Pacifica Institute, it read. Three white stars underlined the words. Thayer, freed from the confines of a news studio, was animated up onstage.

  “. . . Which is what they want you to think,” Thayer bellowed into the microphone. “But our government—the United States federal government—they created the Dark Virus! They claim to protect you, but they want to cull the poor and the weak and the powerless. They are creating a new nation, one that will serve them. Our civilization is on the brink!”

  “This woman is a nut bar,” Freddy muttered.

  “Jack, you picking anything up?” Asha asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “. . . I have been challenged to produce evidence that the government knows about the Dark Virus,” Thayer said. “And that they have special forces to control the infected.” Thayer’s voice dropped dramatically. “I will let you decide for yourselves.”

  Two large screens on either side of the stage glowed to life. Security camera footage of the Belgian Riots rolled. A river of darkened flooded the street, smashing through windows. Glass shards shrieked as they scraped against their hardened skin. The security camera panned up. Four figures, their faces in shadow, stood, bracing for the mob.

  “Operatives,” Voss said.

  There was no sound to the video, and the crowd of hundreds went silent. The operatives, thankfully, were subtle with any spades they had—that was protocol when operating in heavily populated areas. One operative gave a slight hand motion as a group of darkened suddenly had difficulty lifting their feet. The other three pulled Hadley blades.