It was both.
The man standing in the window wreckage wore the standard tan coveralls of a BEM worker. The Bureau seal was embroidered on the chest beside a name tag—Ted. His body was indubitably human, but his hands and face called that into question. His fingers were sharp hooks, like the black talons of a Rubbish. Ted’s face was pinched, the skin an unnatural reddish hue around his yellow eyes.
But the worst feature rose from the man’s back, where the coveralls were ripped. A massive set of leathery black wings stretched wide and then tucked close.
Spencer stood rooted, mouth agape, as Ted’s talon fingers flexed. Next to the deformed man, another large window shattered. A second figure rolled through the wreckage and into view. This was a woman, or, at least, half of her was. She had somehow merged with a Filth, so her face was hairy and her eyes were feral slits. Her BEM coveralls were tattered, as countless spiky quills bristled across her back.
Spencer immediately felt a wave of the woman’s Filth breath reach him. His eyes fluttered and his legs felt weak. His dad caught him by the arm, and Walter released a spritz of vanilla air freshener to combat the Toxite breath.
Professor DeFleur was scrambling for his cane, sweeping the Manualis Custodem and the translated manuscript under his arm.
“The squeegee!” Alan shouted. Spencer saw it lying amidst the rubble from the shattered windows. He didn’t know what had happened on Daisy’s end, but their only chance of escape was using the squeegee to reopen the portal on the last remaining library window.
Walter drew a pushbroom from his belt. A razorblade glinted in Alan’s hand. Spencer felt his dad’s breath as he whispered in his ear. “Use the squeegee and get Professor DeFleur out of here.”
His instructions were interrupted by the Filth lady. She opened her mouth, exposing jagged animal teeth. When she spoke, her voice was inhumanly deep and raspy. “We are the Sweepers,” she said. “Give us the book!”
Walter leapt forward, thrusting his pushbroom at the Rubbish Sweeper. Ted instantly took flight, his leathery wings unfurling and lifting him above the attack. The woman dropped to all fours and charged like a beast, quills raised.
Spencer didn’t wait to see what would happen. He grabbed Professor DeFleur by the scrawny elbow and dragged him away from the action. The old man was muttering incoherently as Spencer led him alongside a library bookshelf. They crouched in the shadow, watching Walter and Alan stand against those horrifying Sweepers.
“Wait here,” Spencer whispered to the professor. “I’m going to use the squeegee on that far window. Once the portal is open, come as fast as you can.”
Without waiting for a response, Spencer sprinted away from the bookshelf, his shoes crunching over shards of glass. He stooped to pick up the squeegee, catching it on the run. He had just lifted the rubber end to the last window when the glass exploded.
Spencer staggered backward as a new figure stepped into view. This man wasn’t a Sweeper, but, in so many ways, he was worse.
It was Mr. Clean.
The huge warlock stood before Spencer, white lab coat hanging over his broad shoulders. In that moment, stricken with fear, Spencer realized that he had never stared into Mr. Clean’s face. Countless times, he had seen through the man’s eyes as Spencer clung to a bronze vision. He’d seen those gloved hands and familiar lab coat, and he would know the warlock’s voice if he spoke. But Spencer had never seen his face.
The warlock was nothing like his trademark namesake. Mr. Clean’s skin was dark, a detail that didn’t really surprise Spencer. He had assumed some kind of ethnicity from Clean’s deep, resonant voice. His black hair was trimmed short, though it looked like it might be curly if he allowed it to grow out. There was no earring, no good-natured wink. Just a square jaw and a maleficent smirk on his face.
As Spencer stood, rooted in fear, the BEM warlock reached a gloved hand into his lab coat and withdrew a tiny bottle. His thumb uncapped the vial, the little cork landing at his feet amidst the shattered glass.
“Behold,” Mr. Clean said. “I drink to the future.” He raised the small vial as though he were offering a toast. Then he lifted the bottle to his lips and threw back his head, draining the mixture in one swallow.
Chapter 3
“Like a potion?”
Mr. Clean’s body began to tremble. Pale goo began excreting from his skin, shimmering like the sweat on his forehead. His eyes shut and his hands stretched out, the gloves dissolving with an acidic hiss as his fingertips expanded into the bulbous grippers of a Grime.
His white lab coat was smeared in slimy Grime residue, and a serpentine tail flicked behind him. Mr. Clean’s eyes were open again, now lidless and bulging, glimmering like the eyes of a wild animal.
The warlock’s mouth opened, and Spencer thought the man might scream. But no sound rolled out of Mr. Clean’s mouth. Instead, a snakelike tongue flicked out, testing the air.
The deformed Mr. Clean stopped trembling. He took a step toward Spencer, his movements absolutely silent, like a stealthy Grime.
“What have you done?” Spencer muttered. A horrible transfiguration had just occurred before Spencer’s very eyes!
“It has come to this,” the big warlock said. His voice sounded deep within his throat, an almost serpentine quality to it. “A Glop formula capable of merging human and Toxite. Nothing can stop my Sweepers.” His reptilian eyes shifted their gaze onto something behind Spencer. “Give us the book!”
Spencer whirled to see what had drawn Clean’s attention. Professor DeFleur stood in the open, his cane rattling and his thin legs trembling.
What was he doing? Spencer had told him to stay behind the bookshelf until the squeegee portal opened! “Get back!” Spencer jumped, pushing the professor away as Mr. Clean sprang.
The Sweeper warlock landed on the side of a bookshelf, his sticky fingers holding him against the surface like a spider on the wall.
As Professor DeFleur retreated hastily, his cane slipped and the old man went down. The Manualis Custodem and the translated binder tumbled to the floor, sliding across shards of shattered glass.
Spencer dove onto the books, using his body to shield them from Mr. Clean. But the Sweeper warlock’s attention had fallen on a new victim.
Professor Dustin DeFleur was trying to lift himself up. There was blood on his linen shirt, and his face looked gaunt and pale. Mr. Clean leapt from the bookshelf, landing silently on all fours, his white lab coat spilling around his large, dark frame. Then his Grime tongue lashed out, wrapping around DeFleur’s bony ankle.
The retired professor let out a terrified shriek. Spencer reached out for him, but it all happened too quickly. Mr. Clean’s tongue withdrew, dragging Professor DeFleur across the floor at an alarming speed. Then, inexplicably, the warlock’s jaw seemed to unhinge. His mouth stretched to an unbelievable width as Professor DeFleur was pulled into it. He vanished, a wisp of mad-scientist hair sticking out until the last.
Spencer was too shocked to move. He’d seen a giant Grime eat Slick at New Forest Academy. But this was worse. So much worse.
Mr. Clean rose slowly to his feet. He looked larger than before, as if slightly bloated from his recent meal. His cold eyes turned on Spencer, but before either could move, Alan Zumbro was there.
Alan pulled his son to his feet, Spencer’s fingers grasping numbly at the binder and the Manualis Custodem. They could have made a retreat if Alan’s eyes had not fallen upon Mr. Clean.
Spencer saw his dad go rigid. All color drained from his face, and his hands, ever sure and steady, began to quake. “You . . .” Alan’s voice was barely audible. “No . . . not possible . . .”
“Hello, Alan.” Mr. Clean’s hand darted into the folds of his white lab coat. Spencer saw the nozzle of a spray bottle. He ducked as a stream of green liquid shot toward them. Alan, rigid with some indescribable fear, took the green solution directly to the face. The result was instantaneous, and Spencer saw his dad collapse into unconsciousness.
&nbs
p; “Spencer!” Walter’s voice pierced through the danger. The Rebel warlock had overturned a table and misted it with Glopified Windex. The surface was shimmering blue and already turning to glass. During the chaos of Professor DeFleur’s death, Walter must have retrieved the squeegee. He held it now, ready to swipe down the glass tabletop.
There was a moment, certainly enough time for Mr. Clean to strike. But he didn’t. He seemed to pause in introspection, the green spray bottle still in his outstretched hand.
Spencer wasted no time, tucking the books under his arm and unclipping a Glopified toilet plunger from his janitorial belt. He pulled up his dad’s shirt and slammed the rubber cup against Alan’s back. The Glopified plunger worked its magic, and Spencer easily hoisted his dad from the floor.
He sprinted across the library, Alan’s legs dragging despite Spencer’s effort to hold him aloft. He saw Ted, the Sweeper, facedown and motionless at Walter’s feet. There was something different about him now. In the urgency of the moment, Spencer managed to realize that the Rubbish wings were gone, leaving only tattered shreds across the back of his tan coveralls.
“Quickly!” Walter shouted. The squeegee portal was complete. Spencer could see Daisy standing only feet away, her eyes the size of dinner plates. Then Spencer leapt through the opening, his unconscious father clipping a shoulder on the edge of the portal as Spencer dragged him through.
“What happened?” Daisy asked. “Did I do something wrong?”
Spencer lowered Alan to the floor. “It wasn’t you, Daisy,” Spencer answered. “We were ambushed.”
Walter stepped through the portal, tossing the squeegee aside and dragging Ted’s motionless form.
“What are you doing?” Spencer cried. Bringing the enemy into a Rebel base didn’t seem like a good idea. Not only was Ted a BEM worker, he was also a Glopified Sweeper!
“Step back!” Walter shouted once Ted’s legs had cleared the portal doorway. In the Rebel janitorial closet, Spencer had a limited view of the library. But what he could see was not comforting.
Mr. Clean was racing forward with unbelievable speed. He was lowering his body, preparing to leap through the portal, when a Glopified razorblade flashed in Walter’s hand.
The Rebel warlock thrust his blade into the glass door, shattering the surface and closing the portal.
A heavy silence filled the Rebel closet. Spencer set the Manualis Custodem and translated manuscript on the table. Walter gave a deep sigh of relief when he saw them.
Daisy was treating Alan with a light mist of orange healing spray. He gasped and sat up, blinking hard.
“Looks like you got plunged,” Daisy said, plucking the toilet plunger from Alan’s back.
“Where are we?” Alan asked. “What happened back there?” He shook his head. Green spray had the power to erase a minute or two of recent memory, blocking any knowledge of the person who had used the spray. Spencer knew how disorienting it was to wake up with a gap in his memory. Now it was happening to Alan. And he clearly had no recollection of meeting Mr. Clean.
“Last thing I remember,” Alan said, “I was killing that Rubbish guy.”
“The Rubbish Sweeper isn’t dead,” Walter said, nudging Ted with his foot. “We should try to revive him and see what he can tell us.”
“Won’t it be dangerous?” Spencer said. “The guy was half Rubbish!”
“Was,” emphasized Walter. “He seems perfectly human now.” Walter rolled Ted onto his back. The talons were gone from his hands, and the man’s face looked pale but ordinary.
Daisy handed Walter the orange spray, and he misted it over Ted’s face. He revived, though not as quickly as Alan.
“Where am I?” Ted scrambled backward until he came against the wall. “What’s happening?” His eyes were wide, but the pupils seemed glazed over. He touched his face in panic. “Don’t hurt me, please! Who are you people?” Ted’s eyes darted around the room but failed to focus on the Rebels standing before him.
“We are members of the Rebel Underground,” Walter said. “We want answers about the Sweepers.”
Ted’s hands continued roving over his own face, an expression of fear growing as he seemed to realize that all his features were plainly human. “You can’t send me back, please!”
“What do you mean?” Walter asked.
“Clean shows no mercy to Sweepers who fail him,” Ted blabbed.
Alan crouched to look the man in the face. “I drove a razorblade through your chest,” he said. “How are you still alive?”
“It’s the Glop formula,” Ted explained, his unblinking eyes darting nervously around the room. “Mr. Clean developed it.”
“How does it work?” Walter asked.
“You have to drink it,” he answered.
“Like a potion?” Daisy said.
Ted nodded, but Alan looked skeptical. “You can’t drink Glop. Even the smallest amount would kill you.”
“Normally, yes,” Ted muttered. “But Clean developed a Sweeper Potion. According to the rules of Glopification, anything janitorial can be Glopified. There is nothing more janitorial than the janitor himself.”
Alan looked at Walter. The old warlock nodded. “In that context, it may be possible,” he confirmed.
“Sweepers take on Toxite characteristics,” Ted went on. “We have to be killed twice. The first death only takes the Toxite out of us. And Mr. Clean wanted to make sure we were useless without our Toxite parts.” He touched his eyes again.
“You’re blind?” Walter asked.
Ted nodded. “When the Toxite half dies, our eyesight goes with it. Some kind of cruel punishment.”
Alan stood up. He stepped over to Walter, his voice low. “What now?”
“Don’t take me back to the BEM!” Ted cried. “Please!”
“It’s all right,” Walter said. “We are not your enemy. We’ll put you somewhere safe. Somewhere Clean won’t find you.”
Spencer was surprised by Walter’s mercy. But Ted looked frightened and helpless. He was hardly a threat to them now that he’d failed as a Sweeper.
Alan glanced around the closet, seeming suddenly to notice something. “Where’s Professor DeFleur?”
It was silent for a moment, and Spencer knew he had to answer. “Clean got him.”
Alan reached out a hand to steady himself. “Mr. Clean? He was there?”
Spencer thought back to Alan’s petrified reaction when he had seen the Sweeper warlock. Spencer had seen something in his father’s eyes. Perhaps a glimmer of recognition? But that wasn’t possible. Mr. Clean had never shown himself before tonight.
“Clean hit you with the green spray,” Spencer explained. “Sure you don’t remember him?”
Alan shook his head. “What did he look like?”
Spencer shrugged. He didn’t know how to explain it. “Big black guy. When he first stepped into the library, he was human. But he drank a Sweeper Potion and turned half Grime right in front of me.” He shuddered at the memory of it.
“Did he say anything?” Alan asked.
“He just said your name. Then you were down,” Spencer said.
Alan’s eyes narrowed. “That coward. He still doesn’t have the courage to face me. We will meet again.”
“Do not wish that!” Ted said, trembling in the corner. “There is no man more ruthless than Mr. Reginald McClean.”
“Who?” Daisy asked. But Ted was done speaking. He lowered his head in shame and defeat.
“Reginald McClean,” Walter muttered. “So that’s his real name.”
“Ever heard it before tonight?” Alan asked.
Walter shook his head.
“Me neither.”
Walter glanced at Spencer and Daisy. “You need to take the kids home,” he said to Alan. “They’ve been through enough tonight. I’ll stay with Ted, but I want you to come back immediately.”
Alan nodded. He stared at the sightless Ted for a moment. Then he took Spencer softly by the shoulder and led him and Daisy up the sta
irs.
Chapter 4
“It will keep you safer.”
Mrs. Natcher had come to represent the irony in Spencer’s life. Last night, he was fighting evil Sweepers in some far-off library, watching Professor DeFleur get swallowed whole. Now he was taking a spelling test, writing down words like amphibious, hygienic, and malevolent.
Spencer was a good speller, and Mrs. Natcher gave enough time between words that he found his mind wandering all over the place. Spencer hadn’t seen his dad or Walter since being dropped off at home last night. He wondered what had become of Ted, the blind Sweeper. Was he still being held in the basement of Welcher Elementary?
But above all, Spencer’s mind was swimming with thoughts of what the translated Manualis Custodem might say.
He thought of Sach, Aryl, and Olin, the three boys who had been named Dark Aurans. They had saved him from the curse of the Broomstaff—of forever wandering the landfill with a bronze dustpan strapped around his neck. V and the other Auran girls would be angry about the Rebels’ escape. Spencer wanted to go back to the landfill and fulfill his promise. He could use his powers to de-Glopify the Pan around the Dark Aurans. He could set them free.
But Sach had said to wait for Rho.
The thought of Rho sent a shiver down Spencer’s neck. He had met her at New Forest Academy as Jenna, seemingly helpless and innocent. The truth had come out at the landfill when Rho had admitted to spying on Spencer and leading him to the Broomstaff to be Panned.
Spencer had come frighteningly close to wearing one of those cursed Pans, just like the three Dark Auran boys. The Pan suppressed their magical abilities, only allowing them to Glopify and de-Glopify at the bidding of the Auran girls. They’d been trapped for 198 years in that horrible landfill, and Spencer had almost joined them with a Pan of his own.
But Rho had helped him escape. In the midst of the conflict at the Broomstaff, she’d suddenly changed. Something about Spencer had sparked her to forgive the Dark Auran boys and put the feud behind her. Spencer had expected to hear from Rho by now. But 198 years’ worth of bad feelings weren’t likely to be resolved in two months.
Strike of the Sweepers Page 2
