Strike of the Sweepers

by Tyler Whitesides

  “Why have you not taken the Sweeper potion?” Clean bellowed. “Were my instructions unclear?”

  “They were very clear, sir.” Garcia’s eyes dropped to the floor. “The potion . . .” he stammered. “I may have lost the Sweeper potion.”

  “Lost the potion, lost the Rebels, lost your warlock hammer,” Mr. Clean said. “What more can you lose?”

  “Please, no,” Garcia said, his hands raised in pleading. “You still need me. What about the Academy?”

  “You think the Academy needs you?” said Mr. Clean. “You think I need you?” He laughed, a deep gurgling sound in his slime-choked throat. “Soon the Academy will have a new director.”

  Garcia took a staggering step backward as Mr. Clean reached into his white lab coat. When his strong hand withdrew, he was holding a dirty rag by one corner.

  “As a child, I enjoyed vexing my younger sister,” Mr. Clean said. “Of all my methods, she hated this the most.” As he spoke, he slowly wound the rag, twisting it from end to end. “A simple dishrag, when flicked just so, would leave a terrible mark—a bright welt that would have her whimpering for hours.”

  Director Garcia tried frantically to back up, but Clean’s Sweepers had ringed him in, hissing and crowing with unnatural sounds.

  “And so I thought,” Mr. Clean said, striding a step closer, “if a simple rag would leave a welt, what would a Glopified rag do?”

  “You cannot do this!” Garcia shouted. “You cannot do this to me! I’ve been your companion! Your friend from the beginning!”

  “You were never my friend, Carlos,” said Mr. Clean. “Only my puppet.” He lifted the twisted rag. “And now I must deal with you. But I can assure you, your death will be clean. Because if there’s one thing I hate—it’s a mess.”

  The Glopified rag whipped outward, glistening and rippling with magic. A scream escaped Director Garcia’s lips, and then the tip of the rag cracked against his chest with a sound like a gunshot.

  Then nothing.

  No fading vision into pinpricks of white. No change in perspective. Spencer was suddenly sitting in the garbage truck, seeing through his own eyes, with Holga still resting in his palm.

  “What happened?” Daisy asked.

  Spencer shook his head. He couldn’t form words. He tried to jump back into Director Garcia’s vision, but there was nothing there. So he did the next best thing, and when he focused on Mr. Clean, Spencer made the link, seeing through the Grimelike eyes of the tall warlock.

  Mr. Clean was still standing in the band room, just tucking his terrible Glopified rag back into his lab coat. Before him, in the space where Garcia had stood only seconds ago, was nothing but a wisp of vapor, clinging in the air like mist after a summer storm.

  Mr. Clean waved his hand dismissively, sending a current of air rippling through the immaterial remains of Director Carlos Garcia.

  “What now, sir?” rasped a Filth Sweeper at Clean’s side.

  “We must return to the laboratory,” Mr. Clean said. “The Rebels have taken Garcia’s hammer. We must assume they will be coming for mine. But first . . .”

  The warlock’s gaze searched across the room until he found two of Garcia’s Pluggers huddled against the back wall, their Extension Toxites lost after the fight with the Rebels.

  Mr. Clean turned to his gang of Sweepers. “No one must know what happened here,” he said. “Feast yourselves on those Pluggers. They are not worthy of the beasts they ride.”

  The Sweepers shrieked and croaked, their sounds of delight causing Spencer’s stomach to turn. He dropped Holga into his lap and returned to the cab of the garbage truck.

  “Well?” Alan asked. “Did you catch his plans?”

  But Spencer couldn’t talk about it yet. Director Garcia was dead. Spencer pressed his hands against his face and tried to forget what he had just seen.

  Chapter 14

  “Speaking of garbage . . .”

  Spencer didn’t like waiting in the parking lot of Viewmont Elementary School. Even though it was late and Big Bertha’s headlights were turned off, he still felt rather conspicuous.

  They were still waiting for the Rebel janitor whom Min had promised to contact. But if he didn’t arrive soon, they’d have to continue on. It wasn’t smart to linger out in the open for too long. Not with Mr. Clean and his group of Sweepers on the loose.

  Alan and Penny had slipped down the street to a gas station that they’d seen on the drive in. It was only a few blocks away, and if they were successful, they would return shortly with a bag full of corn dogs and chips.

  The moment they’d parked, Dez had crawled out of the trash in the back of the garbage truck. He’d grumbled a few angry words at Bernard before seating himself on Big Bertha’s front bumper to mope.

  Spencer and Daisy were leaning against the side of the big truck as Walter and Bernard made a few routine checks over the vehicle.

  “Whoa,” Daisy said, looking suddenly over at Spencer. “For a second I thought your head was the moon.”

  “Huh?” He raised an eyebrow. Daisy said a lot of strange things.

  “It’s your hair,” she explained, as though it made perfect sense. “Looked like a full moon for a second.”

  Spencer put a hand on his head. He would never get used to his new Auran look. Activating the Glop in his bloodstream to destroy the landfill pumphouse had given his body such a shock that his hair had turned stark white. He had tried dying it, like Rho had when she was at New Forest Academy, but it wasn’t worth the effort. The dye never seemed to take—it would wash out in a day, leaving his head shimmering like the moon.

  Bernard came around the side of the garbage truck. “She’s in good shape,” he said, patting Big Bertha’s side. “No harm done from a bit of wall-driving.”

  “Did Rho say you could keep her truck?” Spencer asked.

  The garbologist shrugged. “She didn’t say I couldn’t. Besides, she’s got more important things to worry about. I’m taking good care of Big Bertha.”

  “Good care?” Spencer said. “It’s full of garbage.”

  “You’re full of garbage,” replied Bernard. “Big Bertha’s full of treasures!”

  “Don’t tell me you’re actually going to sort through all that junk,” Spencer said, pointing to the truck.

  Bernard grinned. “I’ve got to rebuild my collections. Some of us see the true value in garbage. Isn’t that right, Daisy?” He clapped his hands together with a sudden thought. “Speaking of garbage . . . how’s the old Thingamajunk doing?”

  “Bookworm?” Daisy shook her head. “Not good.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I think he’s sick,” Daisy said. “I used to take him for walks, but he doesn’t even stand up anymore.”

  “What’re you feeding him?” Bernard asked.

  Daisy went wide-eyed and shrugged. “I didn’t think he needed food. He’s made of garbage.”

  “Just because he’s made of garbage doesn’t mean you should treat him like trash,” said Bernard. “He’s probably starving, poor thing.”

  Daisy’s bottom lip began to quiver. Spencer thought she might cry. “I’m a bad, bad owner. I can’t even be trusted to keep the garbage alive!” She buried her face in her hands.

  “It’ll be all right,” Spencer said. “I’m sure we can find something that Bookworm likes to eat. Remember the other Thingamajunks at the landfill? They loved eating nasty stuff. Like that stink bomb that Aryl threw at us.”

  “I don’t know,” Bernard said. “At this point, he might be hard to resuscitate. Bookworm may need a massive trashfusion.”

  “What’s a trashfusion?” Daisy asked.

  “You know,” Bernard said. “Like a transfusion, but with trash.”

  “Will we have to take him to the hospital?”

  “Nah,” Bernard said. “I’ve got a home remedy that might work for a trashfusion.”

  “What do you mean?” Daisy asked.

  “Rotting garbage,” answered Bernard,
pointing a thumb at Big Bertha. “Come with me. I’ll show you what I’ve got in mind.”

  Daisy followed the garbologist around the back of the garbage truck, but Spencer stayed where he was, taking a moment to breathe in the cool springtime air and digest everything that had happened in the last two nights. He’d seen some pretty frightening images that clung to his brain.

  “You look troubled.” Walter Jamison’s voice startled Spencer. He hadn’t seen the old warlock approach. “What’s on your mind?”

  “It’s nothing,” Spencer said.

  “You want to talk about it?”

  Spencer didn’t realize his emotions were so transparent. Since it was obvious that Walter wasn’t going to drop the matter, Spencer decided to let it out. “I was just thinking about Garcia. Mr. Clean just . . . vaporized him with that Glopified rag.” Spencer shook his head. “And they were supposed to be on the same side. Then, last night in the library. Professor DeFleur . . .” This time he didn’t finish the sentence.

  Walter leaned against Big Bertha and put a comforting hand on Spencer’s shoulder. The boy took a deep breath and went on. “I mean, the BEM is just getting stronger and stronger. And now they have Sweepers.” He looked at Walter’s face, wrinkled and weary. “Do you really think we can win?”

  Walter’s hand slipped from Spencer’s shoulder and the old warlock blinked slowly a few times. When he answered, it was with a question. “What do you think it means to win?”

  It seemed like an easy answer, and Spencer gave it right away. “It means that we beat the BEM. We get what we want, and we all go home safe.”

  “If that’s your definition of winning,” Walter said, “then I’m afraid my answer is no. We won’t win.”

  Spencer felt his heart sink, as though Walter’s pronouncement would seal the Rebels’ defeat. He looked down at the ground. “Don’t you have hope?” Spencer muttered to his old mentor.

  “I’m full of hope, Spencer,” said Walter. “If what we’re doing is right, then I believe we will win.”

  “But you just said . . .” Spencer began.

  “Winning doesn’t mean we all go home safe,” Walter cut him off. “That is a thing of fairy tales and bedtime stories. Real life will demand much more of us, and we have to stand ready to pay whatever price is needed to gain the victory.” Walter sighed heavily, as though trying to exhale some of the weight on his mind. “Because victory will come to those who fight for what is right. It won’t come without its fair share of pain and suffering. No victory comes without sacrifice. But it will come. We just have to stay the course.”

  Spencer nodded. “I just don’t want anyone else to get hurt.” He was thinking of Professor DeFleur, swallowed whole. That could have happened to any of them in the library.

  “I wish the same thing,” Walter said. “This isn’t a game. We’re fighting for the future of humanity. When our final goal is this important, the stakes go up. You’re young, Spencer. And I wish there were some way to shield you from the consequences of this conflict. But the truth is, we’ll all have to put our lives on the line to stop the BEM. That’s what it’s going to take if we really want to win.”

  Now it was Spencer’s turn to sigh. “I know,” he whispered. Then he looked back at Walter’s face. “But soon we’ll have the Witches on our side. They’ve got to count for something.”

  Walter smiled. “Indeed.”

  Headlights flashed as a pickup rambled into the elementary school parking lot. Walter clapped his hands together. “Looks like help has finally arrived.”

  Chapter 15

  “Did you say Port-a-Potty?”

  There was nothing special about Viewmont Elementary School. Except maybe the Rebel janitor, Earl Dodge.

  It was just after one o’clock in the morning when the Rebel team got settled inside the school. Earl was wearing blue plaid pajamas, black cowboy boots, and a ten-gallon hat. He flicked a toothpick back and forth under his bristly handlebar mustache.

  “Now, let me get this straight,” Earl drawled. They were all sitting, rather cramped, in the janitorial office. “You’re just gonna stroll on into a high-security laboratory and take down the most powerful man in the BEM?”

  Walter nodded. “Will you help us?”

  “Sheesh!” Earl said. “You fellers are daft. If I’da known we’d be raiding the Bureau, I wouldn’t have worn my pj’s.”

  “We don’t need you to come with us,” Alan said. “We need you to stay here and keep the portal open so we can get back.”

  “Phew,” Daisy said. “Glad it’s not me again. I didn’t do so good last time.”

  “You did fine,” Spencer said to her. “It wasn’t your fault we were working with a traitor.” He shot a venomous glance over his shoulder at Dez, who stood slouched against the door frame.

  “Not cool, Doofus!” Dez answered. “I’m not a traitor anymore. The BEM’s dumb. I hate those guys.”

  “You really expect us to believe you?” Spencer asked.

  “You know how much stuff they promised to do for me?” Dez said. He stood up straight, his lip curled in a sneer. “They lied and lied, like a million times. The BEM didn’t do jack for me! Garcia wanted to lock me up with a bunch of Rubbishes till my brain turned to mush. I’m glad he’s dead!”

  Walter stood up, his arm outstretched in a reassuring manner. “We understand that you’re upset, Dez. But you’re with us now, and we’ll protect you.”

  “Yeah, right.” Dez slumped against the door frame again. “You guys are no better.”

  “As you can see,” Bernard said to Earl, “our team is very united.”

  The cowboy janitor chuckled. “All right,” he said. “I’ll squeegee a portal for you. But don’t you gotta have somebody in Massachusetts with a squeegee too?”

  “We do,” Walter said. He unclipped a squeegee from his belt and handed it to Earl. Dez had lost the squeegee he’d used at New Forest Academy, and Daisy’s was useless without it. Spencer figured that this new squeegee Walter gave to Earl must belong to a new pair.

  “Agnes Maynard,” Walter continued.

  “And she’s inside the BEM laboratory?” Penny asked.

  The warlock shook his head. “No, but she’s as close as we can get. Agnes is a part-time janitor at a middle school only a few blocks from the entrance to the lab. She agreed to open a squeegee portal for us, but that’s all she’ll do. We’re on our own when we get there.”

  “What do we know about the entrance to the lab?” asked Penny.

  “All of our information comes from Agnes,” Alan answered. “She said it’s inside a construction site, fenced around with chain-link.”

  “That’s all they have for defenses?” Bernard said. “I’ve been climbing chain-link fences since I was knee-high to a Thingamajunk.”

  “The chain-link fence around the construction site isn’t the hard part,” Alan said, “although it may be rigged with traps, and there will probably be guards. Once inside the construction site, Agnes said the place is riddled with mines. One misstep can spring a trap loaded with Agitated Toxites. We need to make our way across the site and enter a Port-a-Potty.”

  Spencer shuddered and Daisy giggled.

  “I’m sorry,” Bernard said. “Did you say Port-a-Potty?”

  Alan nodded, like it was the most serious thing he’d ever said. “A portable outhouse. That’s the entrance to the BEM’s secret laboratory.”

  Spencer sighed. “We don’t have to flush ourselves down the toilet again, do we?” He’d had his fill of that when they were searching for the map to the Auran landfill.

  “Agnes doesn’t know what happens inside the Port-a-Potty,” his dad said. “BEM workers go in, and they don’t come out for days.”

  “Sounds like bowel trouble to me,” Bernard muttered.

  “It’ll be trouble, all right,” Alan said. “Agnes believes that we’ll need a Sweeper once we get into the Port-a-Potty. No one gets in or out without one of those hybrid monsters escorting them.”
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  “How are we going to get a Sweeper to help us?” Penny asked.

  “We know the Sweepers were invented in the BEM laboratory,” Walter said. “So we should expect the place to be swarming with them.”

  “What’s the best way to deal with them?” Bernard asked.

  “A fatal blow will knock the Glop out of them,” Walter explained. “With it goes their eyesight, leaving them blind and quite harmless.”

  “You’re sure they can’t transform again?” Daisy said.

  Walter shook his head. “It takes a potion to change them into Sweepers. As long as they don’t drink another, they shouldn’t be much of a threat. But they also won’t be much help to us, since we’ll probably need them in Sweeper form to get past the security features inside the Port-a-Potty.”

  The mention of Sweeper potions reminded Spencer of something. “There might be another way,” he said. “I stole the Sweeper potion that Director Garcia was supposed to drink. Maybe we can use it to trick the Port-a-Potty’s security and get into the lab without a Sweeper.”

  “Good thinking, kid!” Bernard said.

  Spencer turned around and grabbed his belt from the back of the chair where he’d draped it. “I put it in this back pouch,” Spencer said, digging his hand into the pocket. He rooted around, his heartbeat quickening as his fingers failed to find the small vial of Sweeper potion.

  “Wait,” he muttered. “Where . . .” Spencer swallowed hard. “It’s gone.”

  “Maybe it done fell out?” Earl said.

  “Impossible,” Spencer said. “These are spill-proof pouches. Stuff can’t fall out!” A sinking feeling started in his stomach, and he knew exactly what had happened. Spencer leapt to his feet, eyes darting around the cramped janitorial closet. “Oh, no,” he muttered, his gaze falling on the empty door frame. “Where’s Dez?”

  Chapter 16

  “I’ll take my chances.”

  Spencer was the first one into the hallway. He spotted Dez almost instantly, standing at the end of the hall, the green exit sign lending creepy illumination to the scene.

  Spencer took off at a sprint toward him, unclipping a mop from the janitorial belt in his hand. As Spencer’s footsteps slapped the hard floor, Dez turned.