The startled prisoner leapt from the bed, tripped in surprise, and came to rest on her knees not three feet away. Her thin face upturned, she stared through the bars.
It was Leslie Sharmelle!
Spencer’s breath caught when he recognized her.
Leslie Sharmelle!
She was a BEM worker who had substituted for Mrs. Natcher at the beginning of the year. Leslie was the one who had teamed up with Garth Hadley to get Spencer involved with the BEM. She had survived the Vortex, but the classroom had collapsed on her. Walter had framed her for the accident, and once she was released from the hospital she had gone to jail.
Now she knelt before the mysterious warlock. And with fear and respect in her eyes, she muttered his name.
“Mr. Clean.”
“Aren’t you going to invite me in?”
Leslie swallowed hard. “You . . . you have the key?”
“Why would I need a key,” Mr. Clean asked, “when I have this?”
His fingers turned the dial on the battery pack, and the Filth bellowed. Leslie jumped away from the bars, but it was too late. The creature had already caught sight of her.
Mr. Clean stepped aside as the Filth sprang at the cell bars. Its jaws snapped through the metal. Clawed toes scraped, bending and twisting the bars aside. In less than a heartbeat, the Filth was inside the cell.
In panicked shock, Leslie collapsed against the back wall, shielding her face as fragments of metal fell around her. Her hands reached out and she screamed as the slavering jowls of the beast opened to destroy her.
But the Filth did not bite. It bowed its head in relaxation as a surge of electricity flowed down the Glopified extension cord. Mr. Clean stepped through the twisted bars and approached the cowering woman.
“I see you’ve met the Bureau’s newest weapon,” the warlock said, one hand scratching the creature behind the ears. “An Extension Filth.”
Leslie did not move from her place against the wall, the Filth’s face inches from hers. Mr. Clean reached out for her. Leslie put her thin hand into his, carefully sliding away from the huge Filth as he hoisted her up.
The warlock drew a strip of gray cloth from his white lab coat. “Do you know what this is?” he asked. “It is the cuff of a shirtsleeve, ripped from the arm of a very elusive man.” He held up the scrap. “But I’m about to make sure that he never escapes again.”
Mr. Clean paused. For a moment, Spencer was afraid that the man had somehow detected his spying eyes. Then the warlock continued, his voice metered and steady. “You’re going to bring me Alan Zumbro—dead or alive.”
Spencer almost lost contact, his hand slipping on the bronze medal in his pocket. He forced himself to linger in the vision a moment longer, to face Mr. Clean’s terrible pronouncement.
Leslie wrinkled her forehead. “I thought Alan was—”
“The Rebels rescued him,” the warlock cut her off. “But he doesn’t have the package. He’s out there now, looking for it.”
“Where?” Leslie asked.
Mr. Clean approached the Extension Filth. He adjusted the dial on the battery pack just enough to cause the creature’s head to perk up. Then he lowered the scrap of cloth to the beast’s nose.
The Toxite inhaled sharply, its slit nostrils opening wide to take in the scent. Then the warlock dropped his hand lower. The Filth’s coarse tongue emerged and the razor teeth snapped together, Mr. Clean barely pulling away his hand in time. The creature chewed noisily on the scrap of cloth and then swallowed.
“All is ready now,” said the warlock. “The Extension Filth has been baited.”
“So your beast will lead me to Alan?”
Mr. Clean laughed. “It’s not
my
beast.” He unclipped the belt and battery pack. “It’s
yours.
” He held the items out. “On its own, an Extension Toxite is reckless. Plug it in, wear the battery pack, and you have the power to control it. Saddle up, Leslie. Become a Plugger.”
With shaking hands, Leslie Sharmelle accepted the pack. She turned to the huge Filth, and Spencer could see her reluctance to climb onto its back.
“I have a gang of Pluggers waiting to meet you at the edge of town,” Mr. Clean said. “They will teach you to control your beast and prepare you for the manhunt.”
The big warlock stepped away, passing through the wrecked bars. “I’m trusting you to prove yourself,” he said. “To do better than your previous assignment.” Mr. Clean turned away from the cell. “If you fail me again, Leslie, there will be no forgiveness. I’ll have no choice but to deal with you . . . the
Clean
way.”
S
pencer’s head slammed against his desk. His hand slipped from his pocket, releasing his clutch on the bronze medallion. He snapped his head back, gasping for air as he sat bolt upright in his desk.
“Spencer Zumbro!” Mrs. Natcher’s voice cut through the stillness of the math-enveloped classroom. “It seems you would like to share your answer with the class.”
Answer? What answer? Mr. Clean had just broken into prison and put a death sentence on Alan Zumbro! How could Spencer possibly think about math?
“Uh . . .” Spencer glanced down at his notebook, but he couldn’t focus on the page. He had to get home and call his dad immediately. He had to warn Alan that a giant Filth was out to hunt him!
“My socks are warm and fuzzy,” Spencer said. His face flushed with embarrassment, his eyes darting over to Daisy’s desk. But his classmate was somehow the only person in the room who still appeared to be working on the math problem.
“Excuse me?” Mrs. Natcher’s gray eyebrows rose, further wrinkling her forehead and pushing back her impossibly tight hairline.
“My socks are warm and fuzzy!” Spencer said it loud and clear this time, wondering why Daisy hadn’t come up with a less conspicuous code phrase.
They had decided that they needed something to shout out in case of an emergency Toxite infestation. Spencer had suggested several phrases that might not seem out of place in a classroom: “I’m downright confused,” or, “I don’t understand this concept.” But Daisy was too afraid that she’d forget. Or worse, that she’d use the phrase in a nonemergency situation. So Daisy insisted on the Gates family emergency code phrase.
“Your socks are warm and fuzzy?” Mrs. Natcher said.
Daisy sprang into action, slamming her math notebook closed and jumping to her feet. Mrs. Natcher spun to face Daisy, giving Spencer a moment to gather some Glopified supplies from his desk: a Ziploc bag of vacuum dust, a latex glove, and a chalkboard eraser. He most likely wouldn’t return to the classroom today, and he didn’t want Mrs. Natcher to find anything if she went snooping.
“I’ve got to go,” Daisy said.
“You need a note for an early checkout,” answered Mrs. Natcher.
Daisy shook her head. “To the bathroom!” she whispered.
“Take the hall pass,” came the usual answer. Without delay, Daisy crossed the room, grabbed the doll pass, Baybee, and ducked out the door.
Okay, that was
not
the plan. When the code phrase was spoken, Spencer and Daisy were supposed to help each other leave the classroom. They had rehearsed a number of scenarios that would do the trick. Now Daisy had skipped out the easy way, leaving Spencer to fend for himself. And Baybee, the only real ticket out of the classroom, was gone too.
Mrs. Natcher swept down the aisle between desks, a piece of chalk still gripped between her fingers. Spencer sat stunned, partly from Daisy’s retreat, and partly from Mrs. Natcher’s advance. He didn’t even realize that he was clutching his Glopified chalkboard eraser until the teacher pointed it out.
“So that’s what happened to my missing eraser!” She reached for the object, but Spencer pulled away.
“What? No,” he said. “This one’s mine.” He couldn’t let Mrs. Natcher get her hands on a Glopified weapon. “I brought it from home!”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Mrs. Natcher turned up her nose at him. She held out her hand, palm as flat and stiff as a ruler. She wasn’t going to wrestle him for it. “Mine, Spencer.”
What could he do? Gently, like he was placing the winning block in a game of Jenga, Spencer laid the Glopified eraser on the teacher’s outstretched hand. She closed her fingers around it and returned to the front of the room.
Even on the best of days, Mrs. Natcher wasn’t the most delicate flower. When upset, Spencer knew she was especially heavy-handed at erasing the chalkboard. All she’d have to do was erase her pie chart, and the whole classroom would fill with paralyzing white dust! Unless he could somehow contain the explosion . . .
“The correct answer is: 23 more apples than bananas,” Mrs. Natcher said. Without even asking who got it right, the teacher swiveled on her hard heel and slammed the eraser against the chalkboard.
As soon as the Glopified weapon made contact, Mrs. Natcher disappeared in a puff of white chalk dust. It swirled up her arm, overtaking her face and gray hair bun faster than anyone could react.
Anyone except Spencer, of course. He had been expecting the worst from the moment he handed over the eraser. As the teacher coughed from within the quickly expanding cloud, Spencer sprinted toward the front of the room, weaving between desks.
The classroom was a mix of emotions now. The students began talking all at once, some conversations laced with subdued chuckles. Chalkboard erasers were known to puff if not properly cleaned. And so far, the Glopified cloud hadn’t spread enough to look too unnatural.
Having previously been a victim of chalk dust, Spencer wisely held his breath. He dove into the puff of whiteness at the front of the room, finding Mrs. Natcher’s arm and ripping the eraser out of her grasp. The weapon fell to the floor, and Spencer pounced on it . . . with his lunch box.
He slammed the metal box closed, wondering what was happening to his sandwich and pudding pack as the eraser continued to detonate inside. The cloud in the classroom was already thinning, Mrs. Natcher leaning against the board. The dust on her face and hands made her look somewhat like a zombie, all pale and creepy.
Spencer staggered to his feet, gripping his lunch box in both hands. The thing was shaking as pressure built to a dangerous level. He skirted around the edge of the classroom until he reached the window. Ripping aside the thick paisley curtains, he pulled open the glass, pushed out the screen, and threw his lunch box as far as he possibly could.
Spencer yanked the curtains closed, not even waiting to see if the lunch box exploded. His classmates were crowding around Mrs. Natcher as she coughed and wheezed. They had no idea that Spencer had just saved them from temporary paralysis. And Spencer had a feeling that
thank you
would not be among the words he’d hear from Mrs. Natcher if he waited for her to make a full recovery.
Spencer quietly backed across the classroom and pushed open the door. He slipped into the hallway just as Daisy rounded the corner. They stopped, face-to-face—one with a baby-doll hall pass, the other with chalky white hands.
Finally, Spencer shrugged. “What happened to our escape plan?”
“Sorry,” Daisy shrugged back. “It was an emergency.” She hefted Baybee as proof.
“I know it was an emergency,” Spencer said. “That’s why I said
my socks are warm and fuzzy!
”
Daisy’s eyes widened. “You mean . . . there really is an emergency? I just had to go to the bathroom.”
Spencer rolled his eyes. “Come on!” He set off down the hallway, hoping Daisy would follow before Mrs. Natcher came looking. “We’ve got to call my dad!”
“From the front office?”
“No,” Spencer said. “It’s got to be more private. Maybe your dad can give us a ride to my house.”
“But,” Daisy stammered, “you heard Mrs. Natcher. We can’t check out early without a note!”
Spencer stopped to face her. She hadn’t seen Mr. Clean ride into that prison on a giant Extension Filth. Daisy didn’t understand the danger. “It’s a matter of life and death,” he said. “If you want to go back to class, then do it now and pretend like you never saw me out here!”
“But I did see you,” Daisy said. “So let’s go.”
As soon as they burst through the school’s front door, Spencer and Daisy felt the sting of winter on their skin. There hadn’t been time to grab coats—especially for Daisy, who had thought she was just going to the bathroom.
It was a deceptively bright day, with plenty of sunshine but no warmth from it. Spencer and Daisy ran across the parking lot, trying not to slip on patches of ice. Just outside Mrs. Natcher’s classroom was a cloud of white dust from the chalk eraser explosion. So his lunch box
had
blown up after all. Good thing he wasn’t hungry.
Spencer jumped off the sidewalk, his shoes breaking through the crunchy upper layer of snow. “This way!”
“That’s jaywalking!” Daisy said. “There’s no crosswalk there!”
Spencer paused in the road. “We’re running away from school and you’re worried about crosswalks?”
A silver Cadillac suddenly turned the corner, emerging from behind a snow-covered pine tree. Spencer spun around, making eye contact with the driver as the car slipped toward him on the icy road.
It was Principal Poach. And he had a mouthful of French fries.
The principal screamed, spraying fries onto the windshield. Spencer dove aside, landing safely in the crusty snowbank as the principal jerked on the wheel. The Cadillac crossed the road, skipped up the curb, and smashed into a streetlight.
Daisy was at Spencer’s side in a minute, Baybee tucked under her arm. “I’m fine,” Spencer said, rising to his feet. “That was Poach. We’ve got to check on him!”
The hood of the Cadillac was folded around the streetlight. Peering through the driver’s window, the kids saw a streak of red oozing from the corner of Principal Poach’s mustache. His eyes were closed.
“He’s bleeding!” Daisy said. She thrust Baybee into Spencer’s hand and jerked open the car door.
But Spencer shook his head, pointing to the McDonald’s bag on the seat and the spewed French fries on the dashboard. “It’s ketchup.”
The word
ketchup
seemed to bring Principal Poach around. His little tongue reached out, lapping at the red sauce in his mustache. He muttered something under his breath. Spencer thought it was
cheeseburger.
Then, suddenly, Principal Poach was completely revived and alert.