Unleashed

by Gordon Korman

  “… and that’s why I threw out my waffle iron,” Mr. Hartman finished. “So the government couldn’t use it to beam secret brainwashing messages at me.”

  “Guys, are we ever glad to see you!” Pitch breathed. “We were just — uh — hanging out with Mr. Hartman.”

  “Where’s Logan?” asked Ben.

  “Late,” Savannah replied nervously. “We thought he might be coming with you.”

  Pitch was impatient. “I say we go without him. It’s not like we need an actor to impersonate the secretary of defense if we get caught.”

  “He probably just got held up somehow,” Griffin decided. “We’ll swing by his house on the way.”

  Mr. Hartman left home so seldom that none of the team had ever seen his car. They watched in amazement as a gigantic Jeep Wagoneer from the 1970s backed out of the tiny garage, clearing the door frame by half an inch on either side. Waving their arms to disperse the cloud of blue exhaust, the team piled in, Griffin and Ben dragging the long duffel.

  The driver eyed it in the rearview mirror. “Is that —?”

  Griffin set the bag at their feet. “The special equipment,” he confirmed.

  A trip to Logan’s house turned out not to be necessary. They encountered the young actor running full tilt up Honeybee Street.

  “Sorry I’m late,” he panted as Griffin hauled him aboard the Wagoneer. “The DVD of my commercial came in, and we watched it twenty-seven times. My folks just got to sleep a few minutes ago.”

  “I’m surprised it didn’t put the whole family to sleep,” Pitch commented drily.

  “Are you kidding? My ‘yeow’ would wake the dead!”

  The streets were mostly empty. They encountered very few other vehicles as Mr. Hartman guided his ancient Wagoneer through the town of Cedarville. Route 31 was busier, but still relatively quiet. Even the Saigon Palace was dark and deserted at this hour. That was where they parked the Jeep — behind the building, next to the Dumpster that smelled of chili oil.

  “Don’t even think about it,” Ben advised Ferret Face, who was becoming agitated at the food odor.

  As they scampered across the four-lane road, the shadow of Facility 107-B came into focus, and the enormity of what they faced hit them with full force.

  “I wish we didn’t have to do this,” Savannah said in a small voice.

  Mr. Hartman was outraged. “Did the Sons of Liberty chicken out at the Boston Tea Party?”

  “Did the British have an electric fence?” Ben countered.

  They reached the opposite sidewalk and stared up at the chain-link barrier. It towered over them, twelve feet high. The sentry booth was unoccupied, but the main gate was chained and padlocked. The only other way in was a metal emergency door, wired into the rest of the fence.

  Logan, who had sensitive ears, was aware of a low power hum, and Ben was sure that a jittery Ferret Face could hear it, too.

  Pitch opened her water bottle and squeezed a splash at the fence. A few tiny sparks appeared around the wet links. “It’s live, all right,” she confirmed.

  Griffin set down his duffel and opened the zipper.

  Mr. Hartman stared. “A vacuum cleaner?”

  “Trust me, Mr. Hartman. This vacuum cleaner is the enemy of electricity everywhere.” He took a small tool kit from the duffel, knelt at the base of the nearest streetlight, and began to unscrew the access panel. Then he reached in with cutters, snipped two wires, and attached the open ends to the prongs of the vacuum cleaner’s plug. He took a deep breath. “Here goes nothing.”

  “It would be just our luck if this stupid thing worked properly for the first time ever,” Ben said nervously.

  Breathing a silent prayer, Griffin flicked the switch on the vacuum.

  The team and Mr. Hartman crowded around as the machine hummed to life — not the usual roar of the motor, but the pleasant whir of Griffin’s Invent-a-Palooza project. The SH-9 was even quieter than the previous SH models, with its three layers of theatrical curtain fabric. In a way, it was an amazing success. Every round of refinements had reduced the operating noise that much further.

  The one thing Griffin had been unable to do was to fix the sole side effect, that last little kink.

  Now he needed that kink more than he’d ever needed anything in his life….

  The streetlights winked out first, for at least a quarter mile in both directions along Route 31. The neon signs on the storefronts were next. The barber pole stopped turning. The temperature readout in front of the bank went dark. The clock stopped. Far beyond them, Long Island was still open for business. A plane passed overhead; somewhere, a train whistle blew. The sky reflected the glow of lights in the distance all around them. But they were surrounded by darkness — that and the gentle purr of the SH-9.

  “Whoa!” breathed Pitch. “This is your Invent-a-Palooza project?”

  “I was just trying to make the motor quiet,” Griffin admitted. “I don’t understand the power part. Nobody does.”

  “If I didn’t know you brought that thing here,” said Mr. Hartman with respect, “I’d swear it was a government conspiracy.”

  “Listen!” Logan rasped. “The fence — it’s not humming anymore!”

  Pitch hefted her water bottle. “Excuse me if I need a little more proof than your ears.” She lobbed another squirt at the chain link. No sign of sparks. The electric fence was dead.

  Leaving the quiet motor still running, Griffin arranged the duffel bag over the vacuum. In the darkness, it was unlikely that a passing motorist would spot it there against the base of the streetlight. Still, it paid to be careful.

  Climbing like a monkey, Pitch clambered over the high fence and let herself down the other side. In short order, she had the emergency door open from inside the compound. One by one, the team members and Mr. Hartman entered the grounds of Facility 107-B.

  Griffin already had the light from his phone trained on the map of the complex. “There’s an entrance around the side,” he whispered. “It’s the best way in and out.”

  They scampered around the corner of the building and entered a recessed area invisible from the road. Griffin tried the door. Locked.

  Mr. Hartman went to work with a set of lockpicks. Perspiration began to trickle down from his stocking cap as he probed and twisted.

  The team members exchanged nervous glances. This was taking a long time. What if they couldn’t get in?

  At that moment, there was a click and the door swung wide. Mr. Hartman flashed them a triumphant smile. “Score one for the good guys.”

  The team didn’t feel like good guys; they felt like burglars. If it hadn’t been so urgent to get back the Hover Handler, none of them would have attempted something so crazy.

  Six phone lights panned the darkened reception area. All found the placard above the main desk:

  UNITED STATES GOVERNMENT

  FACILITY 107-B

  NEW TECHNOLOGY ASSESSMENT

  AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY

  Ben’s eyes were drawn to a security camera pointed straight at them. “Oh, no!”

  “Calm down,” Griffin soothed. “See? No red light. Those things run on power and there is none.” He stepped up to a door that was protected by a badge scanner. It pushed open at his touch. “The electronic locks are off, too.”

  A large carpeted area partitioned into a maze of work cubicles stretched before them.

  “Man, this place is big,” observed Savannah in a worried tone.

  “And there are four floors,” Logan added. “How are we ever going to find the Hover Handler in all this?”

  “We’ll split up,” Griffin decided. “Half of us will start at the top and work our way down; the others will start from here and work up. Surely we’ll find it before we meet in the middle.”

  Ben, Savannah, and Mr. Hartman took the stairs to the fourth story. With no electricity, the elevator was out of service. The layout was identical to the main level — endless work stations created by a system of room dividers. S
earching all of them — times four — was going to be no small task.

  Mr. Hartman paused at the entrance to the first cubicle. “I hope you kids are prepared for what you’re about to see. It’s bound to be plenty disturbing, considering the government went to a lot of trouble to keep it secret.”

  They peered inside. A half-eaten cheese sandwich sat on the desk, next to an open thermos.

  “It looks like somebody’s lunch,” Savannah commented, stepping inside the office.

  “Don’t touch it!” Mr. Hartman rasped. “The cheese could be plastic explosive and the thermos could be filled with biological agents!”

  She sniffed. “Soup. Split pea.”

  Ben put a firm hand over the restless bump in his shirt. Why did it always have to be food? “We can’t waste time,” he urged. “We’re looking for one thing, and soup isn’t it.”

  Yet as they continued to investigate the rows of offices, they found nothing in this top secret government facility that might not have appeared on the desks of an accounting firm or a mail-order address-label business. There were family photos, handicrafts obviously made by kids, #1 Dad mugs, plus random paperweights, letter openers, and even a plaque for coming in second in the pie-eating contest at the CIA holiday party.

  When they finally stumbled across some technology, it turned out to be a chrome appliance that resembled a space-age sewing machine.

  “Stay back!” ordered Mr. Hartman. “It could be radioactive!”

  Ben shone his phone light at the paper on the desktop beside the device. “It says here it’s an automatic baseball stitcher. Guaranteed to put a hardball in your glove in three minutes.”

  Mr. Hartman’s brow furrowed. “What would the government want with a baseball stitcher?”

  “Maybe they’re fans,” Ben suggested.

  “There must be some other reason. But what?”

  They moved from cubicle to cubicle, finding examples of technology that were even more puzzling: a solar-powered salad spinner; a toothbrush with a built-in cell phone; an ergonomic bicycle-tire pump; a laser-operated bagel slicer with Toast-As-U-Cut™; self-propelling ice skates.

  With each discovery, Mr. Hartman grew more frustrated. “Where’s the spy equipment? Where’s the poison gas?”

  “We’re looking for an invention that keeps dogs from chasing cars,” Ben pointed out. “This stuff fits right in.”

  “If it’s going to protect the lives of beautiful animals like my Luthor,” Savannah said sharply, “then it’s a lot more important than anything as lame as poison gas.”

  “There’s nothing up here,” announced Mr. Hartman, his voice stiff with disappointment. “Let’s head down to three. That’s probably where they keep what they really don’t want us to see.” He headed for the stairwell.

  Savannah and Ben followed.

  Ben checked his watch. They’d been inside Facility 107-B for fourteen minutes already, and so far, no Hover Handler.

  “I hope Griffin’s having better luck than we are,” he whispered to Savannah.

  I hope the others are having better luck than we are,” murmured Griffin. “There’s nothing here but gadgets and junk.”

  Pitch peered into yet another cubicle. “Ha — looks like some kind of corn popper.”

  “Looks like?” Logan echoed. “Is it or isn’t it?”

  “Who cares?” she replied. “If it’s not a Hover Handler, it’s dead to me.”

  They headed to the second floor and started all over again, their flashlight apps probing into the darkened offices. No Hover Handler.

  “This has to happen soon,” Pitch warned. “My phone’s already under twenty percent. If our lights give out, we’ll never find the exit. We’ll be stuck here until the day shift shows up to arrest us.”

  “Let’s hope the others still have phone power,” Griffin said grimly. “It’s our only means of communication.”

  “Guys!” Logan hissed urgently. “Over here! Quick!”

  Griffin and Pitch raced in the direction of his voice, colliding not once but twice in the dark hallway. They came upon Logan crouched over a desk, his eyes luminous with discovery.

  “Where is it?” Griffin cried. “Where’s the Hover Handler?”

  “I don’t know,” Logan replied. “But look at the picture. This guy took his family to Universal Studios!”

  “The next time you get our hopes up like that, you’re going to Universal Studios,” Griffin growled. “Straight through that window.”

  Pitch reached over to the shelf and snatched the first thing she could get her hands on, with the intention of hurling it at Logan’s head.

  “Freeze!” Griffin ordered in a half-demented scream. He shone his light at the object Pitch was holding.

  It was a shallow metal box, topped with an X-shaped superstructure. At the tips of the X were four miniature rotors.

  “You found the Hover Handler!” Logan exclaimed.

  “Is the stand there, too?” Griffin croaked.

  “Got it!” Pitch pulled the base from the shelf, unplugged it, and tucked it under her arm. “Call the others and let’s get out of here!”

  Griffin began to punch at his phone.

  * * *

  “Aha!” Mr. Hartman pounced on the shiny black device and held it up triumphantly. “Now you’re going to see what the government doesn’t want you to know about!” He brandished the rifle-like apparatus by the front and rear grips, aimed it at a blank section of wall, and squeezed the trigger. A thick reddish-brown liquid shot out of the nozzle and put a fine coating on the paint.

  Instantly, Ferret Face was out of Ben’s shirt, scratching at the baseboard and licking at the drippings as they streamed down to the floor.

  “Kid, get your rat!” Mr. Hartman urged. “It’s probably toxic!”

  Savannah read the name from the paperwork on the desk. “Bar-B-Baster.” She sniffed “Barbecue sauce?”

  Ben scrambled after his ferret. “Cut it out, Ferret Face! You know spicy stuff gives you hiccups!” He scooped the little animal up and stuffed him back under his shirt, leaving dark stains on his collar.

  Mr. Hartman was red as a lobster. “Barbecue basters! Eyelash curlers with Wi-Fi! Wind-powered lawn mowers! What is this — a joke? There’s not a single piece of technology in this whole building that could hurt a fly!” Totally dejected, he sagged into an office chair, arms folded in front of him.

  Snap!

  A heavy belt shot from each side of the seat. The two halves whipped around his waist and met at his lap, clicking firmly together in what looked like a metal buckle. With a whirring sound, it cinched tight, pinning him in place.

  “What the —?” Mr. Hartman tried to pull the two pieces apart. The buckle seemed to be locked. Then he began to wriggle in an attempt to work himself free. The belt permitted him zero motion. “I’m stuck!”

  Savannah and Ben rushed to his side and tried to yank on the belt in order to loosen it. The mechanism began to whir again.

  “Stop it! Stop it!” Mr. Hartman howled. “You’re only making it tighter!”

  “But how are you going to get out?” asked Savannah breathlessly.

  At that moment, Ben’s phone rang. He let go of the belt and answered it. “Griffin?”

  “We’ve got the Hover Handler,” came his friend’s voice. “Meet us at the exit right now.”

  “We have a little problem —” Ben started to say. But a click told him that Griffin had already hung up. He turned to face Mr. Hartman and Savannah. “They’ve got it.”

  Savannah sighed with relief. “Luthor will be so happy!”

  “I’m overcome with joy myself,” Mr. Hartman said sarcastically, “but I happen to be stuck in this chair.”

  Savannah produced a small nail file and began to saw at the fabric of the belt. “Don’t just stand there,” she told Ben. “Help me.”

  “But …” Ben protested. How could he possibly cut through the strap when he didn’t have anything sharp? He ransacked his pockets and came
up with a wad of plastic wrap. At the very center of this was his last piece of pepperoni. It dawned on him — he did have something sharp. He pulled out the meat and rubbed it on the seat belt. Then he removed Ferret Face from his shirt and pointed his long nose in that direction. “Smell that, buddy? Go to town.”

  Obligingly, the little ferret began to gnaw at the fabric with his needle-like teeth.

  “At this rate, I’ll be out by Christmas,” Mr. Hartman said nervously.

  “We’re working as fast as we can!” Savannah never looked up from her sawing.

  “Don’t panic, Mr. Hartman!” Ben exclaimed, struggling to control his own trepidation. Griffin, Pitch, and Logan were probably waiting for them at the entrance by now. The only comfort was that none of them could leave without Mr. Hartman, since he was their driver. “No rush —”

  At that moment, a loud electronic bleep sounded throughout the building, and a recorded voice announced:

  “Initiating backup power-generating system in five — four — three — two — one —”

  The lights flickered once and came on full. Facility 107-B hummed to life.

  Mr. Hartman reached under his stocking cap and pulled a full ski mask down over his face and head. “Quick!” he urged. “Hide yourselves! The cameras will be live again!”

  Ben could feel his cell phone vibrating in his pocket — Griffin, asking where they were and why they hadn’t shown up yet. There was no time to answer. And anyway, how could he even explain what was delaying them? Well, Ferret Face isn’t done chewing through the seat belt on the evil government chair that attacked Mr. Heartless. Yeah, that said it all.

  He pulled his T-shirt to his nose like a bandana and signaled to Savannah to do the same. “Hang on, Mr. Hartman!” He rolled the swivel chair out of the office and began to push his passenger down the hall. “The elevator!” he hissed. “With the backup power on, it should work now!”

  Savannah abandoned her sawing and ran alongside them. Ferret Face continued to gnaw at the pepperoni-flavored seat belt.