The Mad Scientists of New Jersey (Volume 1)

by Chris Sorensen

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Epilogue

  The Defenders of Ong's Hat

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  Copyright © 2016 by Chris Sorensen.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at:

  production@harmfulmonkeypress.com

  Cover Art by Doreen Mulryan

  www.doreenmulryan.com

  Ebook Formatting by Colleen Sheehan

  www.wdrbookdesign.com

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  Chris Sorensen — First Edition

  Printed in the United States of America

  FOR Mom & Dad

  Although he was already going fifteen miles over the speed limit, Bill Edison pressed his foot on the gas as lightning cracked overhead. The old clunker complained but gave him a bit more speed. Rain pelted the windshield, the only working wiper doing its best to give him a view of the road ahead.

  Lake Mohawk lay to his right, its choppy surface alive with whitecaps. Oh, if those dark waters could speak.

  A delivery truck blared its horn, and Bill swerved as it barreled past. Come on! Keep your eyes on the road!

  He thought about Linda asleep at home. He thought about Eddie. Sport, he called him. He’d be in bed as well, curled up with their dog Cooper. His family. He had to keep them safe, no matter the result of tonight’s meeting.

  A shrill electric shriek echoed from the trunk, and the car lurched. What was that thing in the bag? And what powers did it possess?

  Ever since it had come into his hands, Bill felt an unease he hadn’t experienced since he was a child listening to the stories Abel told him when his parents weren’t around. Stories about the old Edisons. Stories about the lake.

  The Turtle Cove Diner appeared up ahead. The halogen lights, swaying in the wind, illuminated an empty parking lot. But not quite empty. An outdated station wagon sat parked around the corner near the employees’ entrance.

  Bill pulled up and turned off the engine. This was it. No turning back now.

  He got out of his car and popped the trunk. Waves of rain assaulted him as he gathered up the thing in the canvas bag and headed for the diner.

  Martha Sparks sat across from her husband Abel in a booth. She glanced up as Bill entered. She looked tired, Bill thought. He shook the rain from his jacket and walked over.

  Abel was older than Martha. He sat bundled up in a flannel coat and scarf. He stared down at his plate of food, bewildered.

  “Meatloaf? Who ordered meatloaf?” he snapped.

  “You did, dear,” said Martha. His wife for more than forty years, she said this with no malice, no impatience, as if his confusion were routine.

  “Nonsense,” said Abel. He started rummaging through his pockets and placed their contents on the table. Crumpled receipts, sticks of gum, a stray key.

  Bill leaned in and kissed Martha on the cheek.

  “Thanks for bringing him,” he said.

  “Always a treat getting him out of the house.” Martha gave him a sad smile, letting him know that it was anything but.

  Abel pulled more items from his pockets. A chewed-up stub of a pencil, paperclips.

  The diner’s lone waitress walked up with a coffee pot.

  “Get you a menu?”

  “No thanks,” said Bill as he slid in next to Martha. The waitress yawned and headed back to the kitchen.

  “Is that it?” Martha asked, pointing at the sack in his lap.

  “It is,” said Bill. He placed the sack on the table. Martha reached for it and hesitated.

  “Where did you find it?”

  “At a garage sale in Upper Lake. It was in a pail under a bunch of fishing gear. I guess one of the old families must have lived there at one point. Quite a bargain at seventy-five cents.” Bill managed a smile.

  Martha ran her fingers over the fabric. Was that warmth coming from within? Maybe it was just her imagination.

  “Ah ha!” chortled Abel as he pulled an ancient electric razor from his pocket.

  “Not now, Abel,” moaned Martha. “You shaved this morning, remember?”

  “Bah!” said Abel and he flicked on the razor and pointed it at his plate.

  The razor hummed. Then it sparked. And then, the meatloaf on Abel’s plate started to shimmer. Bill and Martha marveled as the meatloaf began to change shape before their eyes into...

  “Pastrami on rye! Just like I ordered!” cried Abel. He was right. The meatloaf was gone, replaced by an overstuffed pastrami sandwich.

  “Give me that thing before you turn us all into chickens,” Martha said, grabbing the razor out of Abel’s hand. Abel was too busy digging into his sandwich to mind the loss of his razor.

  “May I?” asked Bill. Martha handed him the razor. Bill examined the seemingly innocuous item. “Runs on a destabilizing unit, I’d imagine. I wonder where he found it.”

  Martha sighed.

  “You know our Abel. He’s like a magpie. He picks up things here and there. On our morning walks around the lake, he’s forever filling his pockets with this and that. Every now and then, he actually finds something useful. Something from the old days.” She looked at her husband and reached over to tousle his hair. “Don’t you, hon?”

  “You’re not getting one bite of this sandwich. It’s mine.”

  “I know, hon,” she said.

  Thunder boomed in the heavens above the diner. The lights dimmed momentarily.

  “I guess it’s time you showed us,” Martha said.

  Bill slowly reached into the canvas sack and pulled out the device. It was roughly the size of a brick. And it was black. The entire surface of the thing was covered in interlocking gears.

  Abel dropped his sandwich.

  “What is it, Abel? Do you recognize it?” asked Bill.

  The old man picked up the device, grasping it in his greasy hands. He turned it over and over, a look of fearful fascination on his face.

  Finally, he set it back down on the table.

  “Sly...” he whispered.

  A chill tickled up Bill’s back. Even though he had suspected as much, hearing the old man say the name caught him off guard. There wasn’t much to know about the old days, about Sly. He had managed to cobble together only the briefest of histories, but one name came up again and again: Vernon Sly.

 
“This is one of his? You’re certain of it? This is one of Sly’s?” Bill asked.

  As if in response, the overhead lights flickered again. Only this time, no lightning preceded it...

  “What should we do with it?” Bill asked.

  Martha stared down at the thing, her eyes narrowing to slits.

  “Destroy it,” she said.

  “Destroy it now,” Abel concurred.

  The quiet was broken as a sound that was half train whistle, half roar erupted outside. Every light in the diner went out, plunging the place in darkness.

  “Too late,” Abel whispered.

  Bill froze. What was that? It was a metallic sound, like a suit of armor stumbling just outside the window. Clunk, clunk. No, not armor — heavier than armor. Something mechanical. Something big.

  Bill leaned in close to Martha.

  “Whatever’s out there is in the parking lot. Let’s slip out the back, through the kitchen.”

  “You grab the device, I’ll grab Abel,” Martha said.

  Bill reached for the thing on the table. It buzzed like an angry bee, and a flash of static electricity leapt up his hand. He dropped it onto the floor with a yelp.

  A dim light began to seep from the device. Low at first, then streaming out from its innards through the clockwork of gears. A whirring sound rose from the thing as it sparked to life.

  A pair of blazing red lights ignited outside the window, painting the diner red. The whistle shrieked again. Crash! A window shattered. Bill could hear the thing forcing its way into the diner.

  “Get down!” Bill whispered. He pulled Martha to the floor, and the two of them worked to get Abel down with them.

  “I can’t find my sandwich!” Abel bellowed.

  “Shh!” hissed Martha.

  The gears on the device were spinning rapidly now, the whole metal surface alive with moving parts. Angry sparks leapt from within.

  The door to the kitchen opened. A figure was silhouetted in emergency light. It was the waitress.

  “Everyone okay in here?” she called as she stepped from the kitchen, a flashlight in her hand.

  “Go back!” Bill yelled, but it was too late.

  The red eyes turned toward the waitress. Her mouth fell open. The bulb in her flashlight exploded and then... she disappeared. The broken flashlight clattered to the floor.

  Bill reached over and pulled the scarf from around Abel’s neck.

  “Hey!” squealed Abel.

  Ignoring the old man’s protests, Bill wrapped his hands in the scarf and reached out for the device. He could still feel the threat of electricity snapping from within, but he managed to get a good enough grip on it to raise it above his head and bring it down hard onto the linoleum floor.

  The last thing Bill heard was the deafening sound of the horrible whistle. And the last thing he thought of was Eddie.

  “Be strong, Sport,” he said. Then everything went red.

  “Eddie Edison! Wake up!”

  Eddie’s eyes flew open as he jerked to attention, tossing his pen into the air in the process. It landed on the floor with a plunk.

  “I... uh... what?” he stammered.

  Mr. Hubbard retrieved the pen and slapped it on Eddie’s desk. He leaned in, the smell of liverwurst sandwich on his breath.

  “You will not sleep in my classroom, do you hear?” his teacher growled.

  Eddie nodded quickly. He hadn’t meant to doze off, but the way Mr. Hubbard droned on and on about fractions and decimals and... and...

  “I said wake up!”

  Eddie snapped up straight. Darn it! He’d fallen asleep again. And this time with Mr. Hubbard standing right over him.

  “Sorry! Sorry!” Eddie cried. He glanced quickly to his left. Pudge was staring at his desk shaking his head. He was either laughing or trembling in sympathetic fear.

  Mr. Hubbard sniffed. “Sleep on your own time, not on mine,” he barked.

  ‘Barked’ wasn’t that far off. Mr. Hubbard had the look of an old shelter mutt that no one would ever adopt. Stubble from his grizzled face sprinkled down the front his polyester shirt. His saggy dog eyes glared at Eddie from behind thick glasses.

  Pudge snorted and quickly regretted it.

  Mr. Hubbard whirled on him. “Do you have something to add, Mr. Rizzotti?” Pudge shook his head, his double chin quivering.

  “Good. Let’s get back to this quadratic equation. Quadratic equations will be highly featured on this week’s exam, so pay attention.” Mr. Hubbard turned back to the chalkboard and began solving the problem with squeaking chalk, causing the entire front row of fifth graders to wince.

  A piece of paper landed on Eddie’s desk. He looked to Pudge who was pretending to examine the ceiling tiles. Smooth, Pudge. Real smooth.

  Eddie unfolded the paper...

  CHECK OUT THE NEW GIRL YET?

  WHAT’S UP WITH HER HAIR?

  Eddie looked around the room. He hadn’t noticed any new girl, and Mr. Hubbard had never taken time to announce new students. He always forced them to fend for themselves.

  And then he saw her. Or rather, he saw her hair.

  A great explosion of shocking red hair sat atop the body of the tall, skinny girl. Its effect was something like a fireworks display. Unlike the other girls in class who had just discovered primping and preening, this girl obviously couldn’t care less about her tangled mass.

  Eddie liked her immediately.

  As if she could read his mind, the girl turned and looked back at him. Eddie gulped.

  Her face was peppered with freckles, their rosy color setting off the ragged green sweater she wore. A sweater? In June? She curled her lip at him, an expression he couldn’t quite interpret. Then she quickly turned away.

  “And by taking the square root of both sides and isolating x, we come to our solution.”

  Mr. Hubbard picked up the eraser and stepped back. He turned to his dull-eyed class.

  “Any questions before we move on?” No one moved. Finally, Jimmy Ticks, a nervous twerp, raised his hand. “Mr. Ticks?”

  Jimmy looked at his own raised hand and went pale. Eddie could tell that, in his never-ending desire to please, Jimmy had raised his hand as a reflex, not because he had any question to ask.

  “Yes, Mr. Ticks?” Mr. Hubbard tapped the eraser into his palm, puffs of chalk rising.

  “Uhhh... what was... I mean, how did...” Jimmy stammered.

  “Speak up, speak up!”

  “Uhhh... what is x again?”

  The eraser flew across the room so fast that Eddie was only aware that Mr. Hubbard had thrown it when Jimmy let out a startled cry. A rectangle of chalk dust decorated his dark blue shirt.

  Tears welled up in Jimmy’s eyes. Eddie saw red.

  “Why don’t you pick on someone your own size,” Eddie blurted.

  The entire class went silent, and Eddie knew he was in for it.

  “What did you say?” Mr. Hubbard coughed.

  “I said...” Eddie didn’t know how to answer. He looked to Pudge. His friend was hiding behind his textbook.

  Mr. Hubbard stepped closer. “Yes?”

  “I said... why don’t you put x over one on the side?”

  His teacher stared at him, unsure of how to proceed. Eddie’s response had obviously thrown him.

  Not to be outmaneuvered, Mr. Hubbard grinned and held out a piece of chalk.

  “Show us what you mean.”

  Eddie’s mouth went dry. “To the board,” Mr. Hubbard insisted.

  Reluctantly, Eddie rose and made the trip to the chalkboard amidst the snickers of his classmates.

  Leave it to moldy old Hubbard to still use chalk. Most of the other teachers at Lakeview School had laptops, iPads, interactive projections screens, the works. Not Mr. Hubbard. He seemed to take a certain gr
uff pleasure in banning those items from his class.

  “Well, Mr. Edison?” Mr. Hubbard stood leaning against his desk, picking at his long nails.

  Eddie slowly looked up at the board. The scrawled numbers and letters floated before his face like so much gibberish. He was doomed.

  Eddie stalled. He pressed the chalk against the board. Too hard. The chalk snapped in two.

  “No? Nothing?” asked Mr. Hubbard. “Just as I thought.”

  “Excuse me, sir?”

  Mr. Hubbard looked around the room. “Yes? Who said that?”

  The girl with the red hair stood up. She was even taller than Eddie had imagined. In fact, she was taller than Mr. Hubbard himself.

  “Yes, Miss... Miss...”

  “Roxie Michaels. This is my first day.”

  Mr. Hubbard stalked to his desk and flipped through a stack of papers. “Yes, Roxanne Michael. I have you coming in tomorrow.”

  “It’s Michaels with an S. And it’s Roxie, never Roxanne. And I was always coming in today. Always.” The girl flashed Mr. Hubbard a smile that caught him off guard. Was she making fun of him?

  “Did you have a question, Ms. Michael?”

  Roxie twitched and said, “No, more of an observation, Mr. Cupboard.”

  “That’s Hubbard.”

  “Whatever. It seems to me that we’ve gone a long time without any sort of break.”

  “What?” Mr. Hubbard snorted.

  “I bet half the class could use a trip to the bathroom,” she said, her eyes landing on Jimmy who was squirming in his seat at the mere mention of the word bathroom. “At my other school...”

  Mr. Hubbard’s face went pink. This seemed to please Roxie to no end. Eddie was dumfounded. She was saving his bacon, deflecting Mr. Hubbard’s wrath.

  “You are no longer at your other school, Ms. Michael. And if you were, you would no doubt be frolicking about on the playground or having afternoon ice cream or watching cartoons until your eyes fell out of your head!”

  Eddie had never seen Mr. Hubbard this worked up. He had maybe come close that time the custodian had accidently thrown away his sack lunch, but this... this was definitely a new high.

  He was totally unaware of his hand working the chalk across the chalkboard.