Kid Normal

by Greg James

  “Debs, get the HALO unit, we’ve got to warn the Alliance!” he shouted as he sprinted with superhuman speed across the field toward his friend. He glanced back over his shoulder to check the position of the attack drones. Two were following him. As he reached the edge of the woods, he looked around: “Debs!”

  “You will be a servant of Lord Nektar,” droned the voice of Deborah Lamington, and before Dirk could move, a rope had been thrown around him, pinning his arms to his sides.

  Deborah walked around to face him. She wore a yellow helmet fixed over her dark hair; her eyes were wide and staring, their whites an eerie yellow with a jet-black center.

  “Embrace your destiny,” she hissed at him. “Join us.”

  Dirk was powerless. An attack wasp lowered a helmet over his head and he, too, became a helpless servant.

  With Mr. Flash and the Posse on his side, Nektar had rapidly gained the upper hand. He had two fully operational Heroes, backed up by four huge, heavily armed drones. Mr. Souperman’s super-strength could have presented a problem, but Deborah’s first action after trapping Dirk was to grab a large stone lying on the ground and throw it. It rose in an elegant arc above The School, then curved back on itself like a boomerang until it landed with a nasty-sounding crack on the side of the headmaster’s head. He collapsed like a sack of onions dropped by a clumsy onion-sack-carrier.

  Hemmed in by the huge attack drones, and up against such powerful foes, the rest of The School didn’t have much time to plan a counterattack. A few tried to run but were quickly headed off by Dirk or Mr. Flash, who were easily able to overtake them and shove them back. Within five terrifying minutes it was over—students and teachers herded together at gunpoint, like apprehensive sheep, in front of the shed.

  “Just in case anyone gets any more clever ideas, watch carefully . . . ,” threatened Nektar, pointing to the row of dummies at the front of the assault course. “Attack drones, eliminate!”

  The noise of the drones’ engines changed pitch as they wheeled around in the air, and with a deafening clatter they opened fire. Straw flew in all directions as bullets ripped the figures apart. A huge roar followed as one of the drones fired a huge jet of flame across the whole scene, reducing the dummies to a row of blackened, charred poles.

  Everyone decided at the same moment that it might not be the right time to be a Hero.

  As the last bits of straw fluttered to the ground, Nektar shouted peevishly, “I know, I know. You don’t have to keep nagging me.”

  Several people turned to look at him quizzically.

  “I wasn’t talking to you, prisoners!” he snapped at them.

  In fact, he’d been talking to Nicholas Knox, who kept reminding him in his ear that he needed to select the best candidates to mind-control, then clear out with the rest of his prisoners before the police arrived.

  But Nektar was reluctant to rush home. If we’re honest, he was enjoying having some independence for once; it was surprisingly nice to be out and about capturing people and burning stuff instead of being cooped up in his lair with Knox trying to upstage him all the time.

  Ah well, he thought to himself, no rest for the wicked. I HATE PICNICS.

  “You!” he snapped at Mr. Flash. “Bald human drone!”

  “I am ready to serve, master,” intoned Mr. Flash.

  “Identify the strongest and most powerful candidates for mind control,” ordered Nektar. “The rest will be imprisoned until we can build more mind-control helmets and add them to the army.”

  “These students show potential,” replied Mr. Flash, indicating Gangly Fuzz Face and his four misshapen cohorts.

  Before they could protest, the Posse cornered them as mind-control helmets were lowered onto their heads.

  “This teacher is a former Hero known as the Weasel,” revealed Mr. Flash. Mr. Drench was hauled out of the crowd and his eyes too became staring yellow-and-black orbs.

  “Police have left their station house to respond to reports of explosions, mighty Nektar,” Mr. Drench-drone informed his new master. “They will arrive here in approximately four minutes. No, wait . . .” He cocked his head and listened intently: “Four minutes and forty-eight seconds. I just heard a traffic light go red.”

  “Right,” fussed Nektar. “Knox, how many mind-control helmets do we have left?”

  “Four, sir,” crackled Knox in his ear. “And I do suggest you hurry.”

  Why does he insist on patronizing me? thought Nektar. I HATE PICNICS.

  “Um, okay, attack drones, mind-control the following people,” he ordered, beginning to feel slightly panicky, like when you’re late for a train or something and the tops of your legs go all weird. He scanned the crowd for victims and his insect eyes rested on four figures conveniently huddled together over to one side.

  “Those four. Take them,” instructed Nektar, flailing a finger in the direction of Mary, Billy, Nellie, and Hilda. Billy whimpered in panic, inadvertently inflating his left elbow.

  Pork Belly, who was closest to them, chimed in. “They are of no operational use, mighty Lord Nektar. These children are referred to as the Super Zeroes because of their weakness and lack of potential.”

  “All right, all right,” said a panicked Nektar: What is the point of a mind-controlled army—I HATE PICNICS—he thought to himself, if they start arguing back? “That large boy over there, then. He looks hefty,” he continued, now picking people out almost at random. “And, oh, I don’t know . . . those three,” indicating some muscly-looking final year students.

  And with that, four final pairs of eyes morphed into glazed yellow-and-black pools, and Nektar’s attack was complete. His servants began herding everyone around to the front of The School, and Mr. Flash brought up the rear, carrying the still-unconscious Mr. Souperman over his shoulder.

  The trucks were standing ready with their back doors open and their engines running.

  “All prisoners into the vehicles at once,” ordered Nektar sharply. “Attack drones, prepare to destroy on sight anyone who tries to run or fight back. Oooh, look at the tiny horses!”

  Everyone immediately turned to look at the two small white horses that were cantering across the schoolyard, tossing their miniature manes and clopping their delicate hooves in an impressive display of small-scale dressage. The prisoners watched out of simple curiosity; Nektar’s human servants and even his robotic attack and spy drones all looked because he had just ordered them to.

  After a final canter, the horses disappeared with a tiny neigh. Everyone went “Awwww!” in a disappointed way.

  “Right, into the vehicles then, come on!” Nektar ordered, and the prisoners were pushed and pulled and threatened into the back of the trucks. The attack drones locked themselves onto their specially adapted racks on the top of each of the four vehicles. The spy drones whirred into the sky and headed back to base.

  Doors slammed, tires screeched, and within moments the schoolyard was empty. There were no witnesses around to read the words “Ribbon Robotics” on the trucks that roared away down the road.

  Nor was there anyone around to see the four small figures who floated back down to earth a few seconds later, all clinging tightly to the handle of a single yellow umbrella.

  19

  Murph Alone

  A mile away, oblivious to the dramatic events unfolding at his soon-to-be ex-school, Murph was grumpy. Really grumpy. In fact, if you saw him, you’d go as far as to say he was full-on Grumpelstiltskin. Everything was annoying him. Fed up doesn’t even start to cover it. He’d arrived back home, slung his bag down on the floor, and flopped onto the sofa.

  To add to his annoyance, a wasp was buzzing around. Eventually Murph succeeded in batting it out of the window. This reminded him of Carl, which in turn made him feel bad for avoiding him today. But Murph was simply in one of those unavoidable funks.

  It wouldn’t have improved Murph’s mood to know that, not far away, Nicholas Knox had been watching him via the spy drone that Murph had just dealt with
. Knox didn’t want any witnesses to his plans—and he couldn’t be sure that Murph hadn’t seen the words “Ribbon Robotics” on the trucks that had passed him on their way into The School. He was a loose end, and Knox hated loose ends.

  He leaned forward and spoke quietly into his microphone. “Attack drone 4, this is an emergency override, code 24. Proceed to the location of Spy Drone 260 and obliterate the human target. Activate.”

  On the top of the trucks now speeding toward the factory, one of the large attack drones buzzed into life. It detached itself from its special rack and flew off on its deadly mission.

  Back at his house, Murph was following the rules of dealing with a bad mood. If you’re not aware of these rules, here’s a handy guide for the next time you’re feeling rotten:

  Things to Do When You’re in a Funk:

  1.First of all, it’s important to embrace it. BE the grump. As long as you’re not rude to people, it can be quite fun. Enjoy the feeling of being a moody old so-and-so for a bit.

  2.Eat. You must eat plenty of treats to fill up the happiness tank.

  3.Drink. Fill up your belly with soda.

  4.Listen to sad music. If possible use headphones, go for a walk in the rain, and pretend that you’re in a sad movie about your own life and this is the soundtrack.

  Murph had made himself a bowl of the sugariest cereal he could find (Rule 2) and settled down on the sofa, reaching for the remote control for the music system. Time for Rule 4. Mournful piano music began. He was ready to immerse himself in Wronged Murph—The Movie.

  “Hello—” the singer began.

  BANG!

  “It’s me—”

  SMASH!

  Murph jerked his head toward the staircase. The almighty noise had come from upstairs.

  He jumped off the sofa, milk and sugary flakes leaping out of the bowl and onto the floor as he did so. His heart was racing.

  “What on earth was that?” he said out loud to try and calm himself down. It didn’t work.

  Maybe he was imagining things, he thought, though more out of hope than anything else. He just wanted a quiet afternoon listening to music and feeling sorry for himself.

  His hope was dashed as soon as he heard another BANG! followed by the tinkling of glass.

  Murph crept over to the staircase and slowly started to climb. He had never noticed the stairs creaking before, but now that he was on full alert they seem ed to have become the world’s loudest steps. What was up there?

  As he reached the middle of the staircase, he heard a distant buzzing sound. He stopped dead in his tracks, frozen to the stairs like someone doing a lame impression of Spider-Man.

  There was silence. An eerie silence. Time stood still for a moment . . .

  And then there was a sudden roar that seemed to tear the air around him to shreds. With a cold splash of shock, Murph realized that the staircase actually was being torn to shreds. He was being shot at!

  He threw himself blindly to one side as something flew at him with incredible speed, firing as it went. Trinkets and figurines downstairs dinged and clattered as they were shot to pieces.

  Murph rushed up the stairs and at the top hopped behind the laundry basket on the landing. He peered cautiously over the top. Hovering just above the floor down by the front door was a giant wasp. Wisps of smoke rose from the gun barrels mounted on either side.

  The drone seemed to be collecting itself, ready for another attack run. Before it had a chance to move, Murph left the safe haven of the basket, dashed to his bedroom, and shut the door. He needed a plan.

  On the plus side, this was a home game for Murph. He figured that he had a slight advantage because he knew the layout of his house. You may argue that the fire-breathing attack wasp with powerful mounted machine guns also had a fair shot at this battle, but the years of moving and making and losing friends had made Murph Cooper pretty unflappable.

  He could now hear the drone outside his bedroom door, hovering, thinking about what to do next. A couple of times it let off a salvo of gunfire, as if this would encourage Murph to come out. The door shook as bullets thudded into it.

  What it did encourage Murph to do was open his window and prepare to escape. But before he could figure out his next move, the drone lost patience and began burning his bedroom door down. Smoke billowed in. He knew he had seconds to get out.

  He grabbed the baseball bat he’d been given for Christmas, climbed onto the window ledge, and began to shimmy down the bathroom drainpipe. He started slowly, inching down with his hands and trying to cling on with his feet, until he realized he was losing his grip and couldn’t proceed at this rate. He had no choice but to freefall. Luckily it wasn’t that far off the ground when his fingers decided to give up, and he landed neatly in one of his mom’s shrubs, squashing a large purple plant.

  She’ll shout at me for that, he thought, then remembered that his bedroom door was on fire and that maybe shrubs wouldn’t be a priority. Even purple ones.

  Murph picked himself up and darted around to the front door of the house. Slowly and silently, he opened it.

  The house was starting to fill with smoke; Murph could hear the crackle of burning wood upstairs, but he couldn’t see or hear his enemy. He needed to make it to the kitchen, which had two different doors to the outside, so if things went wrong he would be able to escape through one of them. He assumed the drone was upstairs, still trying to burst into his bedroom.

  He assumed wrongly.

  The drone had burst into his bedroom, but what Murph didn’t realize was that it had quietly tracked him all the way outside and was now hovering behind his head, the buzz of its rotors covered by the crackle of the spreading flames now visible at the top of the stairs.

  As he started to creep across the living room, Murph froze.

  He knew something was wrong—and suddenly he registered the tickle of a light breeze on his neck. His fingers flexed on the handle of the baseball bat, and in one quick, sharp movement he raised the bat up and over his head as if he were using an ax in reverse, smacking the drone off target seconds before it opened fire.

  Machine guns roared as the giant attack wasp flailed across the room, rotors whining frantically as it tried to correct its spin. Bullets sprayed every where—pinging off the mirror, thunking into the sofa, and smashing the stereo.

  Murph’s eyes fell on the jumble of rain boots just inside the front door, and he remembered he’d hidden the Grapple Gun in one of them. As the drone tried to get itself back under control, he rummaged frantically inside the boots, ending up with quite a smelly left hand but also, eventually, the gun. Just as the drone took aim at him for its final, deadly assault, Murph pulled the trigger. The hook exploded out across the room and into the kitchen, smashing into the oven door and wrapping itself around the handle. Murph pressed the button on the butt of the gun and was catapulted into the kitchen as the grappling line reeled itself in at speed.

  He impressed himself by landing safely by the oven, silently thanking Carl as he did. Murph dropped the Grapple Gun and started to look around for a weapon. As the drone appeared in the doorway, he threw everything he could get his hands on at it. Rolling pin, BOOM! Pot, CLATTER! Saucepans, TING! SPLANG! DONG!

  His mom’s favorite wok, PANG! (That was the biggest one.)

  A small part of him was actually enjoying this, but another, much larger part was panicking: he was running out of utensils.

  Suddenly a thought occurred to his frantic, battle-sharpened brain. If he could stop this thing flying around, surely he’d have a chance at nailing it . . .

  He went to the windowsill, where his mom kept a classic mom item: a bowl of interesting stones that she’d brought back from a day at the beach the previous summer. (Scientists have tried, but failed, to explain why some moms do this; stones are among the many items you can put under the umbrella of “Mom Things,” along with Native American dream catchers, delicate porcelain swans, and 37 percent more tissues than could ever realistically be requ
ired by a human.)

  Anyway, back to the action.

  Murph grabbed a handful of beach stones.

  “Come and get me!” he taunted.

  Guns blazing, the machine flew fast at his head, but Murph was ready. He flung himself onto the tiled kitchen floor. As the drone’s momentum carried it above his head, Murph hurled the stones upward—and with a clang, a splutter, and a ping, its blades shattered.

  The drone fell from the air and smashed into the ground behind the metal kitchen trash can. Sparks, debris, and five-day-old tea bags went everywhere. Then, blissful silence.

  Murph had managed to restore order. He was very pleased with his action-packed last half an hour on earth.

  “Phew,” he breathed.

  He wandered dazedly out of the kitchen and began staggering around the place. It didn’t look like his house anymore. All the pictures were askew, the TV was smashed, and there were bullet holes and broken glass strewn everywhere. Smoke billowed down the stairs, blocking off the hallway completely.

  What in the blue heck is going on? thought Murph to himself, finally. What WAS that thing? One thing was certain: the boring house had just become the venue for one of the least boring episodes in Murph’s life.

  He decided to take a few moments to compose himself and work out what he’d tell his mom. But before he could begin to start thinking of an excuse, a noise started that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up—and, in fact, the hairs on the front of his neck too, which he hadn’t even realized were there. It was a sinister, high-pitched whine, as the damaged drone rose slowly out from behind the trash can, supported by a set of reserve blades that had emerged from a hatch on its back.

  The drone had a plan B. Murph did not.

  Helplessly he watched as the guns, which had been knocked out of position, swiveled around until the barrels were pointing right at him.

  This was the end.

  At least Murph thought it was, right up until he saw a figure holding what looked like an unopened umbrella creep through the back door of the kitchen.