by Rob Vlock
I didn’t have a password. I didn’t even know my own name. How the heck would I know a password?
“Uh . . . ,” I said.
“ ‘Uh’ is not the correct password,” the man said. “You have two tries remaining before total system shutdown.”
That didn’t sound good. I tried to think of something that old dude would choose for a password. What could it be?
“Hey, you kids, get off my lawn,” I tried.
“ ‘Hey, you kids, get off my lawn’ is not the correct password,” the man said. “You have one try remaining before total system shutdown.”
Guessing a password is tough enough when you have a memory. Guessing one when your mind is completely blank is pretty much impossible. “Prunes,” I guessed.
“ ‘Prunes’ is not the correct password,” the man said. “Total system shutdown commencing in five seconds . . . four seconds . . . three seconds . . . two seconds . . .”
Oh, no! Out of sheer desperation, I pointed to the sky and screamed, “Look up there!”
The man stopped counting and looked up. That was when I kicked him right where it counts.
He grabbed his crotch and fell to his knees.
“Security vulnerability exploited,” he groaned. “Initiating memory reboot.”
Then he and the entire scene dissolved into a collection of glowing blue 1s and 0s, and disappeared.
CHAPTER 48.0:
< value= [Road Trip!] >
A WHOLE LIFETIME OF MEMORIES flooded back, cascading over one another in a jumble.
My first taste of cold, sweet ice cream. I was a year old. It was vanilla.
Riding my bike in a wobbly circle the day dad took off my training wheels when I was five.
The painful wedgies Brandon Marks used to give me in fourth grade.
The horror of my mom’s anchovy peanut butter cupcakes.
It all came back to me.
Along with a powerful sense of recognition when I looked back at the goofy boy and the pretty, dark-haired girl peering down at me.
“WILL! ALICIA!” I cried, sitting up and suddenly recognizing the faces peering at me.
“Sven!” Will shouted, wiping away a tear. “I thought—we thought—we didn’t think you were coming back!”
He wrapped me in his arms and squeezed until my ribs ached.
I looked at Junkman Sam. “What happened? Did I . . . ?”
He scratched his eyebrow. “Welcome back. How was it?”
“It was . . . unusual,” I answered.
“Did you give the code to the CPU?” he asked.
“I tricked him into eating the eraser.”
Junkman Sam furrowed his brow. “Eraser?”
“Never mind,” I said. “Yeah, I gave him the code. It said something about ‘weapon disarmed.’ ”
He looked satisfied.
Alicia was smiling at me. “We did it! You did it, Sven!”
I looked at Junkman Sam. “So . . . so . . . I’m not going to destroy the human race anymore?”
“Well, I can’t say that. You might grow up to make a doomsday machine or something.” He laughed. “But at least you won’t be able to sneeze anybody to death.”
I whooped out loud and got unsteadily to my feet. I had never felt so happy about being unable to do something before.
“Hey.” Alicia grinned. “We had Sam write something special into that code he gave you. Now you have the strength of ten men.”
“Seriously?”
She nodded.
Whoa. Now, that was cool.
“Here, bend this,” she said, handing me a thick steel bar.
I grasped the bar in both hands, strained my muscles, and . . .
Nothing happened.
Well, that’s not true. Something did happen. What happened was Alicia started cracking up so hard she fell down.
“You should have seen your face,” she screamed, pointing at me. “You were like . . .” She scrunched up her face like she was trying futilely to bend a metal bar.
When she caught her breath, she stood up and said, “Sorry. I couldn’t resist.”
“Hey, guys?” Will asked. “Can I make a suggestion?”
We looked at him.
“Can we please go home?”
I laughed. “Yeah. Let’s do that. Let’s go home.”
When we got to the top of the stairs, we pushed the door open and climbed out into the bright artificial light bathing Sam’s compound. I took a deep breath and held it in my lungs. Even the foul air coming out of Flushosaurus Rex smelled better when you weren’t an unwilling instrument of death and destruction.
“I think this calls for a celebration. Who’s hungry?” Junkman Sam asked us.
None of us had eaten since the bus station vending machine. We all nodded hungrily.
Sam led us to the back of a building, where a rusty old motor home was parked. Inside was a small couch and table, and a mini fridge filled with bottles of water and assorted food items, most of which, I was disappointed to see, were some variation on pickled things—pickled herring, pickled eggs, pickled pigs’ feet, pickled mushrooms, and even plain, ordinary pickles.
After we had finished choking down our pickled meal, Will slumped onto the couch and let out a long sigh. “So, now that we’ve saved the world and all, are you guys ready to go home?” he said with a tired smile.
I cleared my throat. “Yeah, um, so about that . . . there’s something I need to tell you.”
• • •
An hour later, the engine of Junkman Sam’s motor home spluttered to life. Somewhere out there, six other Ticks would be ready to wipe out the entire population of Earth any day now.
Unless we could stop them.
We rolled out of the compound in silence, unable to put words to what we had just shared.
By the time we reached the interstate, Alicia was perched up front, next to Sam, barking orders in Russian at the rumpled scientist. Will opened and closed a cabinet door compulsively forty-seven times. And me? At the first opportunity, I found myself giving the bathroom door handle a lick.
I guess some things will never change.
But I had a feeling nothing was ever going to be the same again.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: How’s it goin’?
Hey , Weird Sven,
How’s it goin’? (Butt Face says, “What’s up, my peeps?”)
I hope you had fun in Niagara Falls. Lots has happened since you left. First, I won the school talent show. First prize was $200! It was pretty awesome. Then I tried out for the football team and now I’m the new starting quarterback. Dad says he doesn’t know why I’m not so sucky anymore. He says it’s like I’m a different Sven.
Mom’s going to Tokyo next week. Her salmon-and-brown-sugar chocolate cake recipe was discovered by some Japanese engineers, who found that it’s perfect for plugging up leaks in nuclear power plants, so they’re flying her over there to help them make a giant batch of it.
Oh, one more thing. You know that kid Brandon Marks? Well, he was being kind of mean, so Butt Face and I pantsed him in front of the whole school at a big assembly. He had the biggest poop stains on his underwear ever! Even the kids in the back row could see them. So now everyone calls him Skid Marks. Get it? Skid marks? He pretty much leaves us alone now.
Anyway, we’re having a great time here. Don’t hurry back.
Sincerely,
Sven
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
A Play in One Act
ROB VLOCK, author of Sven Carter & the Trashmouth Effect, enters stage left. He crosses half the stage with a purposeful stride before he notices the audience, totally forgets what he was supposed to be doing, and stops. He waves at the audience.
BRANDON MARKS, reigning bully at Chester A. Arthur Middle School, enters stage right. Rob is too busy waving to notice Brandon creeping up behind him. With a sudden lunge, Brandon grabs the band of Rob’s underw
ear and executes a vicious wedgie.
ROB: Alas! I’ve been wedgied! O, cruel hand of fate that hath yanked my undies unto that celestial realm! Pray tell, vile scoundrel, what ill deed hath wrought such villainy upon mine nethers?
BRANDON: Huh?
ROB: Sorry. It’s a play, so I figured we were supposed to be talking like that.
BRANDON: Yeah, no. I’m not talking like that.
ROB: Fine. What I was trying to say was, why did you give me a wedgie?
BRANDON: Like you don’t know! It’s because you made me look like a big jerk in your stupid book!
ROB: Wait a minute. I wasn’t trying to make you look like a jerk. You just . . . well, do jerky things sometimes. Or a lot, as the case may be. Anyway, it’s not like I didn’t have help making this book. There are a ton of people I have to thank for standing behind me when I was writing this. So if you’re going to blame me, you have to blame them, too.
BRANDON: Yeah? Well then, it looks like I’ve got a ton of wedgies to give out. So who’s first?
ROB: Well, there’s John Rudolph. He’s my awesome agent and just a great guy in general. He did a ton to help me make this book better, and he found you and Sven and everyone a great home with an amazing publisher.
BRANDON: John Rudolph, huh? Well, I hope you like wedgies, John. I have a Super Spiral Tighty Whitey with a Half Twist that’s got your name all over it.
ROB: And I have to give a whole boatload of thanks to my superstar editor, Amy Cloud, at Aladdin. She’s the best! I feel so lucky to be working with her!
BRANDON: A boatload of thanks? I hope she’s ready for a buttload of wedgie! I’ll put her down for an Atomic Peach Pit. Who else?
ROB: There’s all the people who read early drafts of my manuscript and give me so much smart, creative feedback along the way. Erin Cashman, Pat Gabridge, Greg Lewis, Diana Renn, Ted Rooney, Julie Wu, Deb Vlock, and Jenny Bent. Thanks, guys!
BRANDON: One Octowedgie coming right up!
ROB: I have to give credit to my parents for making me. And for teaching me to love books and giving me their unconditional support my whole life. I love you, Mom and Dad!
BRANDON: Tell ’em to wear some reinforced underwear. ’Cause there just might be a Boxer Rebellion in their immediate future.
ROB: Thanks to Steve Scott, whose amazing illustration graces the cover of this book!
BRANDON: Steve better be ready to get his drawer’s drawers wedged where the sun don’t shine. Get it? He’s a drawer because he draws things. And drawers is another word for underwear. Get it?
ROB: Uh . . . yeah. Funny. So, moving on. Thanks to my wonderful kids, Max and Immy, for making me fall in love with children’s literature and for inspiring me to write a book that will, I hope, make you laugh so hard milk shoots out of your noses.
BRANDON: Max sounds like the perfect kid to try out my latest invention on—the Maximus Gluteus Wedgeus. And Immy? How about a Double Flying Wedge-O-Matic Butter Cutter?
ROB: And an extra-special thanks to Joey, my super-talented wife and best friend in the whole world, who makes me feel incredibly lucky every single day. This book never would have happened without you! I love you!
BRANDON: I was going to give her a Spicy Mango Chutney. But you know what? I’d say being married to you is more than punishment enough.
ROB: And, finally, thanks to you. Yes, you—the person who’s reading this right now. I hope you’ve had as much fun reading this book as I’ve had writing it. You rock!
BRANDON: Ah, yes. You. I haven’t forgotten about you. Mark my words, dear reader, one of these days, when you least expect it—like when maybe you’re eating a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich or studying for a big spelling test or playing your favorite video game or just sitting with a finger jammed up your nostril, digging for green gold—BAM! You’ll find yourself on the receiving end of a wedgie you’ll never forget! And who will you have to thank for it? Me, that’s who! Bwahahahaha! Bwahahahahahaha!
Brandon points right at you and laughs evilly, an icy, bone-chilling cackle that makes your hair stand on end and your butt cheeks clench up in terror. The sound of his laughter echoes through your head as the curtain slowly falls.
THE END
READ ON
for a sneak peek at Sven's next adventure.
WHO KNEW THAT THE TOUGHEST girl I’d ever met would melt into a pile of goo three words into a Dixon Watts song?
Actually, that’s not exactly true. She hadn’t entirely melted into a pile of goo. Because a pile of goo didn’t have a right fist that felt like a five-hundred-pound anvil slamming into your face.
I reached this insight—about the anvil, not the goo—the moment Alicia Toth’s right fist slammed into my face and felled me as efficiently as Godzilla kicking over a miniature Eiffel Tower made entirely from toothpicks.
I should probably explain. Let me rewind a bit.
• • •
Junkman Sam’s ancient motorhome creaked and groaned as it lurched along I-90. Niagara Falls was two hours behind us. Schenectady was two hours ahead.
I stared out the window, even though there was nothing to look at. It wasn’t light yet, so the only view I had was the reflection of my own face in the glass. When the occasional car would blow by our slow-moving rust bucket, its headlights washed me out of existence for a moment or two until my face reappeared in the darkened window.
“You’re sure he said that, Sven?” Alicia asked for fifth time, her bright green eyes searing into me like a pair of branding irons. “Those were his exact words?”
For the fifth time, I gave her the same answer. “Yes. I’m sure. He asked if I ever wondered why I was called Seven. Then he laughed and said, ‘a little something for you to ponder when you think of me.’ Only with more stuttering and gurgling because his head was hanging from a gigantic electromagnet.”
“You’re sure?” Alicia repeated.
I sighed and went back to looking out the window. Dr. Shallix, the cybernetic mastermind behind the plot to extinguish every human life on Earth, had been dead for hours. Yet, he still managed to make my life miserable. It wasn’t easy coming to terms with the fact that I’d been the intended weapon for Shallix’s evil plan.
“Maybe he didn’t mean there are other Ticks out there waiting to kill everyone on the planet,” Will suggested hopefully. “Maybe he just meant they screwed up the first six Ticks they tried to build. You know, like it took them seven tries to get it right.” He ran an oversize hand through his tousled red hair in a way that suggested he didn’t believe it himself.
Alicia rounded on him. “And are you willing to bet six billion lives on that?” she snapped.
Before Will could answer, Junkman Sam cleared his throat and called back to us from the driver’s seat. “I think it’s reasonable to assume that since Sven was designated Seven Omicron, there are other Synthetics like him in the Omicron line.”
The color drained out of Will’s face. “Wait! You’re saying there are six more Ticks like Sven out there waiting to exterminate all humans?”
Junkman Sam shrugged. “No, I’m not saying that.”
A long, relieved sigh escaped Will’s lips.
Sam continued. “Could be six more. Could be six hundred. Who knows?”
Will’s sigh turned into a kind of strangled moan. He started compulsively flipping an old ashtray open and closed forty-seven times. It was filled with dried up pieces of gum that looked almost as ancient as the RV itself.
That was kind of Will’s thing. He had OCD. Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. So when he was scared or stressed or upset, he’d do these little rituals. You know, like turning light switches on and off. Or opening and closing doors. Stuff like that.
Of course, compared to my thing, Will’s thing was nothing. I ate stuff. Gross stuff. Like, for example, a wad of that old gum stuck in the ashtray Will was messing with. Which, I realized after I popped it in my mouth, tasted a lot like earwax.
“You think they’re all programmed to do
the same thing as Sven?” Alicia asked, watching me nearly break my teeth on the decades-old gum. “Incubate super viruses that’ll wipe out humanity?”
Sam scratched his stubbly chin. “Maybe. They may have mass produced that model and designed each one to function as a disease vector.”
Alicia bit her lip nervously. “If there are that many of those things running around, we’re in big trouble.”
Things. That’s what I was. A thing that was made, not born. A weapon. A Synthetic human-like object. Thinking about it made my stomach turn.
I walked to the front of the motorhome and turned on the radio. I just wanted something to listen to other than the present subject of conversation. I didn’t care what was on. Anything was better than hearing my friends talk about me like I was a thing.
Okay, I take that back.
Because Dixon Watts was singing.
As usual, it sounded just like a cat that had gotten its tail caught in the door.
Girl, you’re as fine as some really smooth sandpaper.
I want to kiss your face more than a lightsaber.
I reached out to turn to another station.
Junkman Sam’s right hand flew off the steering wheel and slapped my arm away from the radio. “Hey, don’t change that! I love this song.”
I stared at him like he had just told me his father was an onion bagel. “What? You love this song? Seriously?”
He didn’t answer me. Instead, he bobbed his head to the beat and sang along with the train wreck that was coming out of the speakers. “I saw you walking home from the food store! And I knew right then and there you were nude more!”
He was slightly less off-key than Dix Watts.
“You’re just joking with me, right?” I asked, somehow knowing he wasn’t joking. “I mean, you have to understand just how much this song sucks.”
“Dude, shut up!” Will barked. “This tune is awesome!”
Girl, I love you like a dog loves its kibble.
Why can’t you love me back just a libble?
“Come on!” I protested. “Listen to it! ‘Libble’ isn’t even a word! He’s terrible!”
