The Villain Virus

by Michael Buckley

  “Our nest?” Brand asked Ms. Holiday, still trying to squirm out of the woman’s iron embrace.

  The woman turned to Holiday. “You must be our new librarian. No one told me we were getting a peacock. What a beauty. I have no idea how our boys are going to concentrate with you checking out their books! Well, we’ve got a lot of reluctant readers flying around these halls, so you have your work cut out for you! We’ll have to do lunch and you can tell me all about your favorite reads! How is Wednesday?”

  “Well, I just—”

  “Wednesday it is!” the woman cried, clapping her hands like a happy baby. She turned back to Brand. “And you must be our plover.”

  “Plover?”

  “It’s a bird that cleans the teeth of alligators,” Ms. Holiday told him.

  “Our Ms. Holiday is beautiful and bright!” the woman cried. “You are correct. A plover cleans up messes, swooping in to snatch the debris and take it off to who-knows-where. Just like you! I like this place to be spic-and-span, Mr. Plover.”

  “It’s actually Mr. Brand.”

  The woman waved a hand in the air as if his contradiction was a swarm of pesky gnats. “You’ll have to get started right away. One of the bad birdies has played a little prank and clogged all the toilets on the first floor. A couple were so backed up, they exploded, and now there’s water everywhere. Naughty, naughty birdies! You’re going to have to have lunch with me and we can talk about ideas to keep things clean. I’ll pencil you in for Thursday.”

  “Um, and you are?” Brand asked.

  The lady clapped her hands and giggled. “Oh, I’m a silly bird. I didn’t introduce myself. I’m Principal Dove. Get it? Dove! Like the bird!”

  The spies stared at the woman for a long time until they realized she expected an answer. “Yes, we get it,” Ms. Holiday said.

  If Ms. Dove’s smile could have gotten bigger it would have required surgery. She gestured to the students. “And all these children are my little birdies.”

  Brand glanced around the hallway. A girl was shoving a smaller boy’s face into the drinking fountain, soaking his hair and shirt, while other kids cheered and laughed. Two boys were tossing balloons filled with shaving cream at each other. A young girl was wiping dog poo off her shoes and onto the wall.

  “I think some of these birdies need to be in a cage.”

  “Oh, you scamp!” Principal Dove said. “They only act like this because they are so eager to fly, and it’s our jobs to get them up into the sky and let them soar! So, can I count on you to help me teach them to fly? Peacock? Plover? Are you ready to join our flock? You know, we should all have lunch together, too—the three of us! I’ll pencil it in for Friday. No, let’s commit. It’s going down in ink.”

  Just then a bell rang.

  “Well, I’d better get my chicks to their coops,” Ms. Dove said. “We can’t stand around chirping all day. The two of you need to get to work. We’re so excited to have you here!”

  Dove walked down the hallway, flapping her arms like an excited hen. “Let’s fly off to class, now, birdies,” she called out to the students. “Your teachers are going to lay some eggs of learning and you want to be there when they hatch!”

  When the hallway was clear, the two spies stood, stunned.

  “Can’t we just flunk the team and send them back to the fifth grade?” Brand asked.

  “Let’s take a look at the Playground,” Ms. Holiday said. She removed a small, metallic orb covered in blinking blue lights from her handbag. It floated into the air, spinning and clicking with the sounds of internal electronics. Then it spoke in a dignified, old-fashioned accent. Its creators had programmed it with the personality of one of America’s most famous spies, Founding Father Benjamin Franklin.

  “Good afternoon, team,” it chirped as it hovered in front of them. “Welcome to Thomas Knowlton Middle School, named after the father of military intelligence. I suppose the two of you are excited to get started. If you’ll step into Locker 41, I can take you to the new HQ.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” Agent Brand said. “We have to take the same entrance as the kids?”

  “I’m afraid so. I’ve taken the liberty of filing a requisition form for a new entrance, but until it is approved, there is only one way in and out,” Benjamin said. “Locker 41.”

  Ms. Holiday opened the locker door and peered inside. “This won’t be so bad.” She squeezed into the tiny compartment and closed the door. When Brand opened it a moment later, she was gone.

  Now it was his turn. But he was larger than Holiday and had an injured leg. He cursed quietly during the entire humiliating experience, praying some child would not walk out of a classroom and see the new janitor struggling to fit into a box half his size. When he was completely inside, Benjamin darted in with him, filling the tiny amount of space left over. Brand closed the door, plunging them into darkness.

  “Cozy,” Benjamin chirped.

  Brand grumbled. “File another request, Benjamin. Pronto.”

  “Will do, boss.”

  The locker was suddenly illuminated in green light, and a computerized voice said, “Identity scan. One moment, please. Identity confirmed. Director Alexander Brand. Prepare for delivery to the Playground.”

  The floor beneath Brand vanished, and he tumbled down a narrow tube like some kind of secret agent Alice in Wonderland. He was right side up, then sideways, then diagonal, then upside down. There were blasts of bright light and frosty air, but they were brief and he was in the dark more often than not. He braced himself for an ugly crash, but then gusts of air as powerful as those of jet engines roared from below. Now he was no longer falling to his death but floating gently down, as delicately as a flower petal. He fluttered through a hole at the top of a huge glass dome and marveled at what he saw.

  The dome’s walls acted as one enormous television screen, airing thousands of images from all over the world. Desks and tables, each covered with strange inventions and space-age weaponry, filled the floor of the dome. An army of lab coat–wearing scientists hovered over their projects like worker bees. Ms. Holiday watched as Brand floated down to join her. She was no longer wearing the pretty pink cardigan and gray skirt of a librarian but rather a formfitting black bodysuit with boots and a belt. It was then that Brand realized his own janitor’s uniform was gone, replaced with a sleek black tuxedo complete with a bow tie and cuff links.

  When his feet touched ground, the wind stopped. “Well, that was different.”

  “Welcome to the new Playground, agents,” Benjamin said, appearing from above. “Maintenance crews have kept the place quite tidy as we waited for our team to arrive in middle school, and our scientists have outfitted it with all the latest technology. My recent diagnostics have shown every system is fully operational and online, ready to be put to use saving the world.”

  “And the head?” Brand didn’t care about gizmos and gadgets. He had one worry and it was a gigantic head—Heathcliff Hodges.

  Benjamin twittered. “Heathcliff’s transfer to this facility went as planned two weeks ago. He is heavily sedated and safely secured in holding cell 4A. He is under constant medical and security surveillance to keep him from waking up and will remain that way until his condition can be reversed.”

  Benjamin’s assurances did little to ease Brand’s mind. Heathcliff was dangerous and had been since the day Brand met the boy, who back then was known as Agent Choppers because of his enormous front teeth. He had the unique ability to draw attention to his teeth, and with the help of some hallucinogenic toothpaste, could bring any person or animal under his complete control.

  But being a hero in secret was hard for the boy. Like most nerds, he was picked on and humiliated, and one day he decided he wanted revenge. He spiraled into a power-hungry maniac, with an endless stream of plans to take over the world, and soon he turned his back on the team and started a new life as a supervillain. Choppers became Simon, then Screwball, then Brainstorm—his identity changed with each n
ew plan to conquer the world, which were all foiled by his former teammates. During a violent confrontation with the NERDS, his teeth were knocked out of his mouth, and he became obsessed with getting them back. What he got instead was a million times more dangerous—a brain with unlimited potential and a skull to match. His new mental strength had proved to be nearly impossible to stop, and it was only by luck that he had been captured and sedated. Heaven help the world if he woke up again.

  “Keep me posted on his status at all times, Benjamin. He’s too dangerous and too clever to underestimate—even if he is asleep.”

  “Will do, sir,” Benjamin clicked.

  “Now, where is my team?” Brand asked. “I thought the kids would be down here first thing, exploring the place.”

  “The children are on a mission,” Benjamin twittered.

  “A mission?” Brand cried. “By whose authorization?”

  “I have General Savage with an incoming message,” Benjamin said. “May I transfer it to the dome screen?”

  Brand nodded, and in a flash the giant, meaty head of General Savage looked down on the spies. There were stories about the General’s toughness that would have made a professional wrestler wet his pants. Savage was even more intimidating as a hologram with a noggin over thirty feet tall.

  “Hello, sir,” Brand said.

  “Brand, Holiday. I trust you are settling in at your new headquarters.”

  Just then, there was a huge explosion, and a team of security guards raced across the massive room with fire extinguishers. Smoke was drifting from flames that engulfed a workstation. One of the scientists was dancing around in a panic.

  “It’s just like home, sir,” Brand said.

  Savage had one eyebrow that spanned his forehead, and his eyes were sunk deep into his face. It often made him look as if he had no eyes at all, especially when he was concerned about something, as he was now. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to work out the kinks later, agents. We have a situation under way in Paris.”

  Savage’s head was replaced by the image of a man dressed in a black trench coat. Attached to his coat were probably fifty ticking alarm clocks, and he had a smile that you didn’t need a psychiatric degree to call crazy.

  “This joker is calling himself Captain Kapow.”

  Brand rolled his eyes. It always seemed as if the bad guys they encountered had goofy names: the Savage Scooter, Monkey in the Middle, the Ant Queen, Mrs. Jeopardy, Oilslick, Commander Canine, Heat Miser. And who could forget Dr. Wind and his toxic fart-making machine? (Detroit would never be the same.) These fools spent so much time on their costumes and weird names that they neglected their master plans—which made stopping them a lot easier.

  “But his plan is not so funny. He’s about to blow up half of Paris,” Savage growled. “I went there on my honeymoon. That would really ruin the photo album. So I scrambled your team, and the lunch lady has already delivered them to the scene. There was no time to wait.”

  “The children are in Paris? Right now?” Ms. Holiday said.

  Agent Brand was stunned. “General Savage, with all due respect, I direct this team. I know their strengths and weaknesses. The children need to be prepped and equipped with—”

  “I didn’t intend to step on your toes, Brand, but this was an emergency. Our intel says that if the bombs aren’t deactivated in the next half hour, half of Paris will be in ruins.”

  “Understood, sir. Who’s leading this mission?” Brand asked.

  “The hyper one. What’s his name? The one who can lift a car over his head.”

  “Flinch is on point?” Brand cried. He had never put Flinch in charge of anything. The boy was so high-strung and jumpy. Most of the time Brand couldn’t understand a word the kid said. Young Julio Escala had as much leadership experience as a roomful of excited puppies.

  “Yes—Flinch. He and the team have located the bombs and are working on dismantling them as we speak,” the General said. “I’m turning the mission over to you now. I have the fullest confidence in your team.”

  The dome went black, leaving Brand and Holiday alone, and stunned again.

  “He put the hyper one in charge,” Brand said. “Heaven help Paris.”

  Julio “Flinch” Escala was freaking out. Ten bombs were planted beneath the streets of Paris, set to go off at any minute. The destruction they would cause would be cataclysmic—hundreds of thousands of people would die, and one of the world’s most beautiful cities would be rubble. It was his job to prevent it, but at that moment he was too busy with his freak-out mentioned above. He screamed and kicked and struggled and screamed some more. And then he did it again.

  It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. The NERDS had easily located Captain Kapow’s bombs stashed in the Paris catacombs, a series of intertwining mazes that made the French city’s underground resemble Swiss cheese. All the team had to do was go into the tunnels, find the bombs, and deactivate them. Easy, right? Well, it probably would have been if General Savage hadn’t put Flinch in charge.

  The General must have thought having the fastest and strongest member of the NERDS in charge made sense, but Flinch was hyperactive and he had a hard time concentrating, especially when he was full of sugar, which was most of the time. Put on the spot, Flinch had flashed through hundreds of plans, all competing for center stage in his mind. It gave him a headache trying to untangle them. So he did what came naturally—he plunged into the tunnels headfirst, all by himself, and was promptly surrounded by a gang of thugs. He fought most of them with ease but one clocked him in the back of the noggin, and then it was lights-out, Flinch!

  And when he came to and discovered he was tied up, the freak-out began.

  He wasn’t sure how long he had been out, but figured it wasn’t long. After all, the bombs hadn’t exploded and he was still alive—though he had no idea how much time was left before they sent Paris, and himself, sky-high.

  Suddenly, Flinch felt a powerful tickle in his nose and he let out one of the loudest sneezes of his life. Aside from the outrageous noise, the sneeze had one other peculiar feature. It activated a tiny communication device buried deep inside his nose. There was a crackle in his ear as a com-link came to life, and soon he could hear a familiar voice inside his head.

  “Agent Pufferfish to Agent Flinch, can you hear me? Please respond.”

  “I’m here,” Flinch said.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Having a nervous breakdown!” he cried. “I’m tied up in a tunnel surrounded by bombs!”

  “Flinch!” Pufferfish said. “Stay calm. You can’t freak out. Take some deep breaths. Are you breathing?”

  “I think so,” Flinch said.

  “Good, now use your superstrength to snap the ropes,” Pufferfish told him.

  Flinch tried and failed. The more he pulled, the more the ropes dug into his wrists, which meant he had an even bigger problem. His hyperactivity was channeled through a harness he wore at all times. It gave him superhuman strength and speed. If he couldn’t break the ropes, there was only one conclusion—the harness was malfunctioning, which meant he was just an ordinary boy, albeit a very hyperactive ordinary boy.

  “No can do, Pufferfish,” he said. “My upgrades are offline.”

  He heard the sounds of scratching and itching through his com-link.

  “What’s that noise?” he asked.

  “It’s me. I’m freaking out,” Pufferfish said. “And I’m allergic to freaking out. You’ve only got fifteen minutes before Paris goes bye-bye.”

  The two of them screamed and shrieked—freaking out together—until another voice came on the line. This one belonged to Agent Wheezer. From the sound of the wind breaking up her voice, Flinch guessed she was soaring over the City of Lights, using her inhalers to propel her through the sky. “This is Agent Wheezer, your eye in the sky. Captain Kapow is making his way toward the river Seine, where he has a getaway boat waiting for him. I’ll do what I can to slow him down, but I could really use a hy
peractive strongman with superspeed to help out.”

  “I’m a little tied up at the moment,” Flinch said as he pulled at the ropes once more. He wished he could see what was bound around his hands. If only it wasn’t so dark. Wait! Hadn’t the scientists given him something special for just this situation? Yes, the contact lenses! But how did they work? If only he had paid attention during the briefing, but there were bear claws in the briefing room and they weren’t going to eat themselves.

  “Uh, Gluestick, how do the contacts work again?” he said.

  Duncan came on the com-link with a sigh. “I knew you weren’t listening!”

  “Bear claws!” Flinch cried.

  “The T-477 Contact Bulbs have a nuclear core that—”

  “Just tell me how they work!”

  “Geez! OK, blink your eyes three times fast and say ‘spotlight,’” Gluestick said.

  Flinch did what he was told and suddenly his eyes lit up like the high beams on a Gran Torino. He immediately wished he could go back to not knowing where he was. He was in a narrow tunnel with walls lined from floor to ceiling with bones—hundreds and thousands of bones. Hips, legs, feet, fingers, ribs: all different sizes of bones stacked on top of one another in neat rows. Suddenly it seemed as if the tunnel was getting smaller and the bones were getting closer. The skulls were turning their lifeless gaze on him, and their cackling jaws unhinged to eat his soul.

  “MUERTO!” he cried.

  “Here comes the freak-out again,” another voice said. This one belonged to Agent Braceface. “I don’t know why Savage didn’t just send me. My braces could have gotten this done fifteen minutes ago and we’d have time to see the Eiffel Tower.”

  “Flinch, you must calm down,” Pufferfish said. “There’s nothing to be afraid of. This was all explained in the briefing. You’re in the Parisian catacombs, also known as the City of the Dead.”

  “City of the Dead!!” Flinch cried.

  “Shut up and listen! It’s a big underground cemetery. Nearly six million people were moved there in the late eighteenth century from a place called the Cemetery of the Innocents. The original tunnels were carved out by limestone miners and are centuries old—”