Kid Normal and the Final Five

by Greg James

  ‘What people?’ said Murph, and if he had possessed that light on the top of his head it would now have been spinning extra-fast, accompanied by a loud siren.

  Hilda had finally finished her mouthful, and was able to gasp out just two words. They were more than enough to tell Murph what was going on.

  ‘Run,’ she said. ‘Now.’

  The doorway behind the head teacher was filling with people. For a moment, Murph’s overburdened brain couldn’t quite process the information his eyes were sending it. At the head of the crowd of people now pouring into the main hall were a squadron of Cleaners in their black uniforms. He recognised several of them as the ones who had been guarding the school gates every day. Behind them were the protestors from outside – but they all seemed to be working together.

  ‘Round them up,’ he heard one of the Cleaners say as the Super Zeroes scrambled up from their seats and sprinted towards the rear corner of the room.

  ‘Nicholas Knox will help them,’ said one of the protestors, helping a group of Cleaners corral some of the younger students.

  ‘They must be confined for their own safety,’ intoned another.

  At the back of the hall was a small, green-painted set of doors that acted as a fire escape. An illuminated sign above them read EXIT. The Zeroes weren’t the only ones making for this escape route, and they were carried along by a crowd surging towards the doors. Tables had been upended and the air was thick with the scent of freshly trodden ragu.

  The press of students reached the escape doors and shoved them open, spilling out into the cold afternoon, falling over each other in panic. Murph and his friends struggled through the crush, working their way to the right, aiming to get to the back of the school and the sanctuary of Carl’s huts and the playing fields beyond. As they did so, they heard a shout from away to their left: ‘Round them up! They must be confined for their own safety!’

  ‘That’s exactly what the woman inside said,’ said Hilda, puzzled. ‘Why are they all trotting out the same catchphrases?’

  ‘We just need to keep out of their way until we can work it out,’ panted Mary as they worked their way along the wall.

  ‘Look!’ said Billy, pointing ahead of them. ‘It’s Jasper!’ Sure enough, the old man was at the rear corner of the main school building, beckoning to them urgently.

  ‘Follow me, quickly!’ he instructed as they ran towards him. ‘I can make sure you’re safe.’ He turned his chair and began leading them along the rear wall.

  ‘Shouldn’t we be heading over there or something?’ asked Murph, gesturing towards the distant woodland that sloped away behind Carl’s ramshackle collection of outhouses. ‘The school’s crawling with people who want to capture us! And the Cleaners are helping them!’

  ‘There’s nothing to worry about,’ said Jasper, bowling along at a tremendous pace. They had to run to keep up with him.

  Murph felt an icy hand of anxiety brush his scalp as his overworked brain began to decode what was happening. ‘Jasper!’ he called urgently, trying to overtake the speeding wheelchair so he could see his friend’s face. ‘Jasper! Where are you taking us?’

  ‘I told you,’ the old man replied, not turning around. ‘Somewhere you’ll be safe.’

  By now they had rounded the corner near the old sports pavilion, and with horror Murph saw a crowd of people rushing towards them – black-clad Cleaners amongst them. ‘These people will take good care of you,’ added Sir Jasper, finally stopping his chair. ‘And they’re going to take care of me, too. Sort out this weird ability I have. It’s not natural.’

  ‘Oh no – they got to him too!’ realised Murph, a jolt of sickness tugging at his insides. ‘Come on, run! Hilda! Hilda, come on!’

  Hilda had stopped stock-still beside Jasper, staring in shock at the approaching crowd. ‘I don’t believe it …’ she said faintly. ‘It’s … it’s my mum and dad!’

  Murph, too, stopped dead. Sure enough, he could see Hilda’s kindly, plump parents racing towards them. ‘Hilda! Hilda!’ her mum was calling. ‘You need to be looked after! We need to get you away from this awful place! Go with these people!’ But it wasn’t just that which had frozen Murph to the spot. Alongside the Bakers was his own brother Andy, looking stony-faced.

  ‘Come on, Murphy,’ said Andy as the crowd closed around them – and this rare use of his full Christian name was somehow the most shocking thing of all – ‘Go with these people. They’ll look after you. Nicholas Knox wants to help you. He wants to help all of us.’

  Numb with shock, Murph hardly felt the strong hands that grabbed his upper arms and carried him bodily to the front of The School, where a series of black Cleaner vans were pulled up. He only dimly registered that lines of students were being herded into the vans by blank-faced Cleaners and groups of parents.

  He caught sight of Elsa, a girl from their year with freezing powers, being helped along by her parents (who for copyright purposes we should point out were not the King and Queen of Arendelle; they were both quantity surveyors). ‘Go with these people,’ Elsa’s mum was telling her, ‘it’ll be all right, they’ll help you. Nicholas Knox said so.’

  Murph was so dumbfounded he hardly noticed Sir Jasper leading a confused Monkey Malcolm into one of the vans, or heard the doors slam behind him as he and the other Super Zeroes were shut in the largest, most secure vehicle and swiftly driven away, sirens blaring into the uncaring leaden sky.

  FIVE

  MONTHS

  LATER ...

  5

  The Ghost Ship

  Under a stone-grey sky the surface of the sea was as sluggish as molten metal. The chilly air left wraiths of mist drifting amongst the huge bank of white wind turbines that stood motionless in the dead calm waters. Somewhere far away across the slate-coloured ocean came the distant drumming of an approaching thunderstorm.

  Very atmospheric this, isn’t it?

  The boat made hardly any sound as it drifted slowly along. There was only the slap of an occasional small wave against its hull, and the creak of the mast as it rocked gently from side to side. The wheel, with nobody behind it, spun silently one way and then the other. A cabin door swung open and then closed again as the boat listed to one side. But no hands pulled the ropes. No eyes scanned the waters from the crow’s nest. It was totally deserted. A ghost ship.

  Anyone else got chills yet?

  The wind turbines shrank and diminished in the haze as the boat drifted on and on out to sea, seemingly without direction or destination.

  But only seemingly.

  As the boat bobbed on, a new shape began to coalesce in the murky distance: a glowering, spiky silhouette beneath the cloud-bank; a series of rusting metal towers rising out of the water. They, too, appeared deserted. Seaweed clung to the lower reaches of their corroded legs, and no face looked out from the cracked windows that lined each of the structures on top.

  Slowly, slowly, the deserted boat drifted towards the abandoned sea fortress, until with a gentle thump it knocked up against a metal jetty at the bottom of one of the enormous, rusty supports. A spiral staircase led around and upwards from the dock, winding its way to a rusty, salt-caked hatch at the very top.

  Suddenly, with a soft grinding and creaking of underused machinery, the hatch was pushed open.

  ‘Gar! Stop shoving! I be going as fast as I can,’ growled a deep, male voice from inside. The voice was followed out of the hatch by a large black boot, which was followed in turn by the rest of a leg. The boot groped for purchase on the slippery metal staircase.

  ‘Hurry up, you idiot,’ urged a woman’s voice. ‘This is exactly what we’ve been warned about. “Investigate and neutralise any possible Hero incursion” – you heard the instructions from headquarters. Now get down there!’

  ‘This be no Hero incursion,’ argued the first voice. ‘You’ll know when them Heroes come a-knockin’. This be an abandoned ship. I had a good look through me spyglass – not a soul be on board. This be nothing to be a-worryin’ ab
out, or my name ain’t Skeleton Bob.’ And with that, the rest of the speaker followed his leg out of the hatch so we could all get a good look at him.

  We could waste yet more of this chapter on a long descriptive paragraph here, but really we can sum the whole thing up by saying he looked like a pirate, complete with hat, beard and eyepatch. Only, where your stereotypical pirate would have a wooden leg (and it’s always the right leg for some reason; why is that?), Skeleton Bob’s second leg was made of a large white bone. It made a creepy chinking noise against the metal staircase as he began to pick his way down towards the jetty.

  ‘Well, I hope you’re right,’ said his companion as she, too, clambered out of the hatch on to the staircase, looking down queasily at the iron-grey water far below. ‘I want to get on with remodelling the crew quarters. Taking out that wall is going to give such a sense of light and space.’ She was smartly dressed in a grey suit and her eyes, behind thick black-rimmed glasses, were cold and intelligent.

  ‘Taking out that wall be meaning everyone will be able to see I when I be in the bath,’ grumbled Skeleton Bob. ‘Darned architects.’

  ‘Oh, stop moaning,’ chided The Architect, following him down. ‘You have no appreciation for modernism.’

  ‘I just wants to have a bath in private,’ muttered the pirate.

  At the jetty, Skeleton Bob swung his bone-leg over the side of the boat, which was still happily bobbing up against the metal structure. ‘See?’ he said gruffly, peering down into the small cabin. ‘There be nobody aboard, ar.’

  ‘We’ll soon see about that,’ said The Architect, vaulting lightly over the rail to join him. From an inside pocket of her tailored jacket she produced a gunmetal box about the size of a paperback book. She placed it on the deck, pressed a small button on the top, and stepped back. At once, a horizontal beam of light raked around the boat, illuminating jumbled ropes and heaps of creased sailcloth as it circled. Then, with a small, pleasing beep, the beam of light vanished and a green screen on the top of the box lit up.

  ‘Anyone hiding on board, and the Dermograph will tell us,’ said The Architect smugly, picking up the box and frowning as she read the screen. ‘Wait a minute, that can’t be right. It says there are two people …’

  Her sentence was interrupted at that point, because she suddenly leaped into the air and flew backwards over the side of the boat and into the water. She dropped the Dermograph, which clattered to the deck and spun away into the bilges, its screen still flashing the same words:

  HEROES DETECTED –

  CLOSE PROXIMITY

  1.BLUE PHANTOM

  2.UNIDENTIFIED

  ‘Fish her out and tie her up, would you, Mum? And I’ll deal with Captain Birdseye here,’ said a new voice.

  ‘Will do, love,’ answered another.

  As if the cold air had somehow thickened into a pair of shimmering mirages, two figures appeared on deck. One was wearing battered, patched-up armour and a helmet, all of silvery blue. The second was clad in a similar costume, but her armour was much newer, and polished to a bright silver that reflected the scene around it like a mirror.

  ‘Who be you?’ quailed the pirate, backing away uncertainly.

  ‘It’s “Who are you?” actually. But I’m the Silver Angel,’ replied the younger Hero, adopting a heroic pose. ‘And that’s my mum.’ She pointed at the blue figure, who had leaned over the side to drag the unconscious Architect back on deck. ‘And you be? Sorry, are … ?’ she asked.

  ‘Skeleton Bob, I be,’ replied the pirate, rallying slightly. After all, his enemies were visible now, he thought to himself. They’d lost the element of surprise.

  ‘Isn’t that an event at the Winter Olympics?’ asked the Silver Angel, cocking her helmet to one side quizzically.

  ‘No!’ growled Skeleton Bob tetchily. ‘It be not be. It be the name o’ the most feared Rogue pirate on the high seas. Ar.’

  ‘No, it’s definitely an event at the Olympics, I remember watching it,’ said the Hero. ‘It’s where they slide down the mountain on a …’

  ‘AR!’ shouted Skeleton Bob furiously. He was sick to death of people pointing out that the dramatic-sounding pirate name he’d picked for himself was also the name of a winter sport. It had been too late to change it once he found out and he was incredibly touchy about it. Pirates hate having their names mocked. And he’d accidentally named himself after the silliest-named event in the world. He raised his hands threateningly. ‘Prepare to feel the power o’ me wind!’ he shouted.

  ‘Gross,’ replied the Silver Angel. ‘No wonder you don’t want anyone to see you in the bath.’

  ‘Gar!’ screamed the enraged pirate. ‘Splice me rowlocks!’

  Powerful jets of air streamed out from his palms, knocking the silver Hero backwards into the ship’s rail. She held on desperately, almost toppling into the sea.

  ‘Look out, Angel love!’ cried the Blue Phantom, rushing to her side.

  ‘Ar ha har,’ laughed the pirate. ‘Shiver me main-brace, I gots ye right where I be wanting ye.’

  ‘Your grammar is really appalling,’ complained Angel, scrambling back to her feet as the streams of wind subsided. ‘Plus, I’m fairly sure that your pirate catchphrases aren’t accurate.’

  ‘Codwallops! Belay me barnacles!’ blustered Skeleton Bob. ‘Cast off … me timbers. Ar. You asked for this, me hairy horn-swogglers. Get ready to pay a visit to David Jones!’

  ‘If you’re threatening to send us to the bottom of the sea, I think the expression is “Davy Jones”,’ corrected Angel. ‘“David Jones” sounds like a regional department store. Oh, and by the way …’ she added. ‘My turn!’

  Before the pirate could activate his wind power again, the Silver Angel unleashed her own version. Angel had a unique Capability: she could absorb and reuse anyone else’s power – but also magnify it. In her hands, Skeleton Bob’s wind-creation ability was truly awe-inspiring. The pirate was surrounded by a sudden whirlwind that picked him up bodily from the deck and spun him around dizzyingly in the air before flipping him horizontal and slamming him headfirst into the mast. He managed to let out a single strangled cry of ‘Splice me crabs!’ before he was knocked unconscious.

  Angel held out her hands like a conductor as the whirlwind laid the pirate gently back down on the deck, snoring heavily.

  ‘Well, that’s the search party dealt with,’ said Flora, tying him up and dumping him in the boat’s cabin next to The Architect. She pulled off her helmet to reveal a fluff of white candyfloss hair above a kindly, crinkled face. ‘Now comes the tricky bit.’

  Angel Walden removed her own brightly polished helmet. Her long hair was silvery-blonde, and her expression as she squinted up at the hulking tower above them was set and resolute.

  ‘Infiltrate the secure prison which is now controlled by Rogues and rescue the Super Zeroes?’ Angel quipped. ‘Nah, piece of cake.’

  Together, the Blue Phantom and the Silver Angel raced up the metal staircase.

  *

  Hilda Baker had wanted to be a Hero from the moment she found out they were a thing.

  It had been a few days before her tenth birthday when she had first discovered her own unique superpower. Now, sitting in her bare cell, she found herself recalling the moment it had happened.

  She had been having Sunday lunch with her parents, and her dad had just been gently explaining to her why she wouldn’t be getting the birthday present she’d asked for.

  The birthday present in question was a pony.

  ‘We know how much it means to you,’ he had been saying to her, reaching out and squeezing her hand, ‘and I know you’re an excellent rider. It’s just … the expense, Hilda. We just can’t afford it, I’m so sorry.’

  Even at nearly ten years old, Hilda was perfectly aware that she was incredibly lucky. She lived in a very nice house with loving parents. She wasn’t spoiled; in fact she was very grateful for everything she had. So, instead of crying or moaning, she forced a smile and fought down her d
isappointment. ‘I understand, Dad,’ she said, squeezing back the one little tear that was threatening to make itself known. ‘Of course I do.’

  And I do understand, she thought to herself, closing her eyes briefly to stop the tears. I have more than most. I mustn’t be ungrateful. It’s just … it’s just … my very own pony would have been the best thing ever.

  There was a strange noise, somewhere between a pop and a neigh.

  ‘Good heavens!’ exclaimed Hilda’s mother, upsetting the gravy jug.

  Hilda opened her eyes. There, standing proudly on the table between the carrots and the sprouts, were two perfect, tiny white horses.

  ‘What in blazes … ?’ added her father, reaching for his napkin as if to swat them away.

  ‘No, Dad!’ cried Hilda, gazing in rapture at the new arrivals. ‘Don’t hurt them. They’re … they’re mine.’ One of the horses tossed a tiny mane and trotted up to sniff her outstretched fingers. The other nibbled a carrot baton meditatively as her parents exchanged flabbergasted glances.

  ‘Horses?’ the doctor had asked the following morning, cleaning out her ear with a finger as if she’d misheard.

  ‘Yes,’ said Hilda’s mother uncertainly. ‘Small ones. Two of them.’ Hilda nodded in confirmation, smiling serenely. The doctor tapped at her keyboard in a bemused fashion. Medical school hadn’t prepared her for this. ‘They vanished after a few minutes,’ added Hilda’s mum.

  ‘Vanished … Right,’ said the doctor, adding that to her notes. ‘And … any fever? Bowels all right?’

  ‘What have those got to do with anything?’ retorted Hilda primly.

  ‘Well, an infection or high fever can bring on … hallucinations,’ hedged the doctor.

  ‘Hallucinations!’ Hilda had harrumphed as they sat in the car on the way home. ‘Come back and see me if there’s any recurrence! Recurrence! As if my horses were a rash or something! She obviously doesn’t have a clue what’s going on!’