“I’ll be in midair,” Spencer said. “What do I tap the broom against?”
“Your foot, your knee,” said Rho. “Anything to activate the magic.” She leveled the pushbroom toward Spencer. “Ready?”
He had barely finished cinching the janitorial belt around his waist when Rho slammed her pushbroom into his back as hard as she could. It knocked the wind out of him, and Spencer found himself gasping for breath as he soared out over the Glop lagoon. Just as Rho had predicted, he was about halfway across when his flight began to descend.
His fingers clutched at a broom handle and he pulled it from his janitorial belt. Angling the bristles, he tapped it against his foot. The magic activated and pulled him back upward, arching quickly toward the shore.
He sailed over the white heads of the Aurans, who waited at the edge of the lagoon in somber formation. Spencer couldn’t tell if they’d spotted him in flight, and he didn’t care to wait and find out.
Spencer touched down running, his shoes sloshing through the thick mud. With only a mist in the air, Spencer could see much better than before. Straight ahead was a mound of mud, the corner of the oversized soda can jutting out.
There was a flicker of lightning, an afterthought for the breaking storm. But in the flash, Spencer saw a glint of metal. It was the armored Filth, Leslie Sharmelle astride its prickly back. Rho was right about the trap. The creature was already in position to kill Alan Zumbro, crouched above the soda can’s opening like a cat waiting to pounce on an unsuspecting mouse.
Spencer was sprinting, his breath coming in desperate gasps. He knew he was probably too far away, but he refused to give up. In his anxiety, Spencer tripped and went down, sliding painfully in the mud. His broom tapped the ground and shot off in the wrong direction.
Spencer pushed himself up. A dark opening formed in the mud, and Alan was the first to slide out of the giant 7-Up can. Spencer’s dad stood up, scanning the dark landscape.
Spencer had just opened his mouth to shout when the Extension Filth pounced, Leslie Sharmelle twisting in the saddle to hurl a Palm Blast of vacuum dust at Alan. Spencer’s dad went down, helplessly pinned by the suction.
Leslie reached down and turned the dial on her battery pack, letting the angry Filth feed its hunger at last. Slavering jaws stretched wide as the Filth’s spiky tail whipped around, as fast as a striking snake.
But then, out of the darkness, a lone figure appeared. There was a glint of metal and a resounding clang, knocking the Filth’s bludgeoning tail away from Alan. The beast toppled, pulling Leslie under its bulk and pinning her with a grunt.
The Extension Filth snarled and righted itself. Leslie’s orange prison jumpsuit was caked in dark mud, her hair disheveled and as wild as the look in her eye. A razorblade flashed in her hand, and she urged the hungry Filth after Alan.
The mysterious figure acted fast. Mop strings whipped out from his hand, entangling the Filth’s armored legs. For the second time, the creature went down. This time Leslie was thrown from the saddle, still linked to her beast by the extension cord at her waist.
The stranger leapt forward, a razorblade gleaming in the damp night, and sliced through Leslie Sharmelle’s extension cord. There was a shower of sparks, and then the beast was free.
The Filth’s giant head perked up, nostrils flaring. Leslie was no longer in charge, no longer restraining its desire to feed on Alan Zumbro. The beast roared like a bear. It ducked into a quivering hunch and then released a shower of quills, blocking the Rebels from exiting the soda can.
Alan and the stranger threw themselves down as the sharp projectiles sank deep into the mud around them. Then the Filth charged, its body looking strange and frightening with the absence of its quills. Already, new spikes were rising through its mottled fur, pressing through the flesh and glinting sharply in the moonlight.
“Here!” the stranger cried as the beast came for Alan. The figure closed the razorblade and hurled the handle at Spencer’s dad. Alan dove for it just as the monster pounced, tackling him into the mud.
There was a sound of ringing metal as Alan’s thumb slid along the handle of the razorblade. The sword extended, deadly blade piercing through the Filth’s flesh and fur. The Filth grunted and rolled aside, its soft underbelly beginning to disintegrate.
Alan rose to his feet, jerking the blade out of the creature’s gut. With its remaining strength, the Filth snapped at him, buckteeth closing just short of Alan’s legs. Then the razorblade came down once more, severing head from body. Instantly, the Filth was gone, turned to dust and caught up on the wind.
Spencer pushed himself up from the mud, barely believing that his dad had just defeated the Filth that had tried so many times to eat him. In the still of the moment, Spencer had all but forgotten about Leslie Sharmelle.
Then he saw her, climbing atop the soda can to the place where she had first lain in wait to spring on Alan. This time she had no Toxite, but with her razorblade drawn, she was every bit as much of a threat.
Before Spencer could shout another warning, Leslie Sharmelle leapt from the top of the can, razorblade clutched in both hands above her head, ready to bring it down on her victim.
It was the stranger who reacted, swift and accurate. A blue spray bottle of Windex streamed from his hand, catching Leslie midflight in a cloud of mist.
The woman shimmered with an azure glow, a final scream escaping her lips. In less than a second, Leslie Sharmelle had turned to glass. Then, with a terrible sound, she hit the ground, shattering into countless pieces.
It was utterly silent. Only the drip-drip of the rainstorm dared make a sound. Then Bernard and Daisy stepped out of the can.
“What happened?” Bernard said. “Did we miss the fun?”
Daisy bent down and picked up a shard of glass that looked strangely like a finger. “Looks like something broke.”
S
pencer pulled himself up in the mud, scrambling the final distance to meet his friends. “Dad!” Spencer threw both arms around the man. Daisy touched his back, as if reminding him that she was also there, even though Spencer hadn’t said anything to her yet.
The quiet moment didn’t last long, as soft radio static filled the air. Spencer looked down, surprised to see that Leslie Sharmelle’s Glopified walkie-talkie had survived the Windex. It lay in the mud, half buried and forgotten as the voice of Mr. Clean drifted out.
“Leslie. Leslie, do you hear me?”
The stranger who had rescued Alan stooped down and retrieved the walkie-talkie. He took a step forward, pulling a baseball hat off his head to expose a shock of white hair.
“Who . . . ?” Walter started, but Spencer knew exactly who it was.
Spencer pushed past his dad and came face-to-face with the boy stranger. “You’re the third one,” he said. “You’re a Dark Auran.”
In response, the boy pulled down his collar to show Spencer the Pan. It meant more to Spencer now that he’d been within a second of wearing one of his own.
“Name’s Sach,” the boy said. “I heard you might be in a spot of trouble. Thought I’d stop by to help.” He glanced at the muddy walkie-talkie in his hand as Mr. Clean’s voice came through again.
“Leslie Sharmelle! Leslie, do you copy?”
Sach held the radio out to Alan. “I think it’s for you.”
Alan accepted the walkie-talkie. Pressing the button, he lifted it to his lips. “Hello, Mr. Clean.”
It was silent for a moment, and then the BEM warlock spoke.
“Alan.”
“Leslie’s dead, Clean. But I’m still here. Just goes to prove that if you want a job done right, you should do it yourself.”
“You can’t escape my wrath, Zumbro!”
“I’m not trying to,” Alan said with a smirk. “Come on, Mr. Clean. No more henchmen. No more bodyguards. No more hiding. Why don’t you come out and meet me faceto-face?”
The radio was silent for a moment. Then Mr. Clean’s answer was low and slow. “You should hope it never comes to that.”
Just then, the entire gang of Pluggers came careening over the edge of the slope in a vicious downward charge. They must have been waiting at the edge of the utensil forest, and when they saw that their leader’s surprise plan to take Alan had failed, they rode hard to finish the job.
Alan dropped the walkie-talkie into the mud and brought his heel down hard, smashing the device into ruined pieces.
“This way!” Sach shouted, racing back toward the Glop lagoon. Walter pulled Daisy away from the shattered form of Leslie Sharmelle as Bernard and Penny followed closely behind. Spencer stood beside his dad, who lingered for only a moment at the site where Leslie and her Filth had met their demise, a look of unmasked relief on his face. Then they were sprinting after the others, making a hasty retreat before the Pluggers reached them.
“Where are we going?” Spencer shouted at Sach. The Dark Auran appeared to be leading them right back to the Broomstaff. Spencer could see the group of Aurans gathered at the shore of the lagoon.
“We need to join forces,” Sach said.
“With the Aurans?” It didn’t seem like a good plan, but Sach was set on it.
The Aurans fanned out when they saw the Rebels coming in. Janitorial belts were at the ready and weapons were in hand. Spencer almost laughed at the astonished look on V’s face when she saw Sach leading the Rebels in. “You!” V shouted. “I should have known.”
“One of us had to interfere,” Sach said, “since none of you seemed interested in saving Spencer’s dad.”
“What about Aryl and Olin?” V said. “I assume they’re nearby.”
“Oh, we know you’d love to have all three of us together,” Sach said. “Which is why I’m here alone.” He held out his hand. “Lower your weapons. We’re not here to fight.”
“Speak for yourself,” V said. “I’m always ready for a fight.”
“Well, good,” Sach said. “Because we’re going to have one in less than a moment. But it’s going to be against them.” He pointed behind him to where the gang of Pluggers was closing fast.
“They’re after the Rebels,” V said. “They’re not our enemies.”
“Maybe not,” answered Sach. “But they’re too close now. You can’t hope to get away before the Toxite breath overpowers you. And when it does, you’ll be helpless against them.”
“What are you suggesting?” V tilted her head.
Sach reached over and unclipped the vanilla air freshener from Daisy’s janitorial belt. “This nullifies the effects of Toxite breath,” he said. “Stay close and we all have a chance of surviving.”
V hesitated for only a moment. “This doesn’t make us comrades,” she muttered, squaring her shoulders for battle.
Spencer didn’t know who to trust anymore. The Aurans had tried to Pan him, and Sach was supposedly evil. But bygones had to be bygones—at least for a while. The Rebels had a much better chance of survival by joining with ten more fighters. Then Spencer realized that there were only nine Aurans on the shore of the lagoon.
Spencer glanced back toward the towering Broomstaff. Rho was the only Auran worthy of trust, but she was trapped on the island with no way off while the Glop was being pumped into the earth.
Seeing the churning mixture caused Spencer another wave of despair. He had to tell his dad that this wasn’t the Glop source. He had to tell him that there was no way to destroy the Glop, and that everything they saw in the lagoon was being recycled to make more Toxites.
“This isn’t the source, Dad. They’re pumping the Glop . . .” He started to explain, but his dad suddenly pulled him into a tight hug.
“It doesn’t matter, Spence.” And for a moment, it didn’t. The impending attack of the Pluggers, the trickery and deception of the Aurans, the Glop lagoon . . . for a moment, as he was held in his dad’s arms, none of it mattered.
For the first time in his recent life, Spencer felt at peace with his dad. Here beside the gurgling lagoon, he realized that although the quest into the landfill had not brought them to the source, as they’d hoped, it had brought him and his father together. And that was more than either of them could have hoped for.
Then the illusion of safety was broken as Spencer saw the gang of Pluggers drawing into an offensive line. He pulled away from his dad, renewed to face the dangers ahead.
The riders twisted the dials on their battery packs, reining back their creatures at a distance of about forty yards. The monsters stamped and hissed, but they were far enough away that the Toxite breath did not reach the Rebels or Aurans yet.
Spencer tried to count them, thinking it might be a good idea to know how many Pluggers they were up against. Then he decided that counting was only cause for despair. There were maybe a dozen Extension Filths, and almost as many Grimes. Overhead, a handful of Extension Rubbishes went into a dive, landing heavily in the mud to form an impassable line.
“Ready!” shouted one of the Pluggers, who had obviously taken charge in Leslie Sharmelle’s absence. The rider reached down through his Filth’s bristling fur and lifted a bucket from the saddle. He ripped off the lid with one hand, and Spencer saw bristling wings, tails, and quills, confined in the bucket by an unseen force.
An Agitation Bucket.
Spencer hadn’t seen once since his time at New Forest Academy. The buckets held small Toxites against their will, causing them such anger that, once released, the Toxites would attack with unmatched fury.
Spencer didn’t know if the Aurans understood the danger. He didn’t even have time to shout a warning before the man on the Extension Filth upended his Agitation Bucket and let the creatures stream forward unbridled.
Spencer felt a wave of sleepiness hit him as the agitated Toxites came tearing across the dark earth, their bodies twitching with anger.
“Freshener!” Walter shouted, releasing a hiss of aerosol. The other Rebels joined the spray, instantly purifying the air around them and the Aurans.
The Plugger seemed dismayed by the defensive air freshener. “Release another bucket!” he shouted. The rider at his left popped open the lid of a second Agitation Bucket and heaved the contents forward. Then the gang of Pluggers charged in a line of beasts and Glopified weapons.