The Villain Virus

by Michael Buckley

  Ms. Holiday laughed as if what he had said was the silliest thing she had ever heard. Then she dove into the artery and disappeared. Flinch went in after her and was quickly pulled through the bloodstream.

  “Where am I, guys?” Flinch shouted.

  “You’re in something called the superior vena cava. It’s a vein that’s going to send you back toward the heart—that is, if you take the wrong path,” Hooper said. “Or it might take you to the mouth. I can’t tell. This chart has so many branches, it looks like a willow tree. Take the tunnel to the left, I think!”

  Flinch did as he was told and spotted Ms. Holiday around the turn. She was swimming with the current, and so Flinch did the same. When he got close to her, he reached out and snatched her foot. She tried to kick him off, but he held on tight, clawing his way up until he had his hands on the transmitter box. She refused to release it, and the two of them fought as they plummeted through the bloodstream.

  “You can’t have this, Julio!” she cried. “This is my destiny. I was meant to rule the world.”

  “That’s not true! You’re infected with the virus, Ms. Holiday. You’re not evil. You’re my friend. You make me cupcakes. That’s your destiny!”

  “You’re really the dumbest one of the bunch, Flinch,” Ms. Holiday said. “With you in charge, it’s no wonder the world fell apart. You can’t stop me. You can’t even control yourself!”

  With a burst of her foot rockets she torpedoed toward him, but even with his limited supply of sugar he was still faster than her. He stepped out of the way and used her momentum to wrench the transmitter from her grasp. She flailed uncontrollably, slamming against the vein wall before she was swept away into the blood flow. All Flinch could do was watch.

  “Which way does that tunnel go?” he asked.

  “That’s a direct path to the heart,” Hooper replied. “Sorry, man.”

  Flinch watched the tunnel entrance Ms. Holiday had disappeared into for a few more minutes, hoping his friend would find a way to climb back up, but she didn’t. She was gone.

  “Buddy, you got two minutes!” Wyatt said. “You’re close to the mouth. Fight your way there and you can get out!” Flinch activated his laser and cut a hole in the vein wall, which he fell through clumsily. A moment later he was standing on a large, spongy mass, staring into a blinding light.

  “Bro, you’re on the tongue. You are almost out,” Wyatt cheered, but the celebration came to a sudden stop. “Whoa! Dude, look out!”

  All of a sudden, the Antagonist was on him. He aimed a powerful punch at Flinch’s helmet and knocked the boy loopy. Flinch struggled to fight off unconsciousness. He had never been hit so hard by anything or anyone. In his pain, he dropped the transmitter.

  The Antagonist picked it up and caressed it gingerly, as if it were a precious treasure.

  “The world is mine!” he laughed as he hefted Flinch into the air. The boy hung there helplessly, unable to free himself. “All mine!”

  But his hands were still free. Flinch accessed the panel in his chest and reached in to get Hooper’s present—the can of spray paint. He held it up and sprayed it onto the Antagonist’s visor, blinding him. Flinch snatched the transmitter. While the Antagonist struggled to see, Flinch pushed a button on the front of the machine. The red light faded to black.

  The transmitter was dead.

  Flinch dropped it onto the tongue and stomped on it until it was nothing but rubbish.

  The Antagonist pulled his helmet and mask off. Flinch recognized him at once. He was Heathcliff’s goon, the one they called Dumb Vinci. The former goon looked around, confused and disoriented.

  “Where am I?”

  Before Flinch could answer, there was a pop and a stretching sound, and suddenly they were big. Not their normal size, but big.

  “What’s da big idea?” Dumb Vinci asked.

  “Run!” Flinch shouted, and the two sprinted as fast as they could toward the light from Heathcliff’s huge open mouth. When the next wave of growth hit them, they were leaping through Heathcliff’s jaws and landing on the boy’s big stretched-out face. Another wave caused them to grow to the size of small children. They jumped again so that they were back in the holding cell as the final surge hit them. Flinch and the goon were normal size again.

  The goon was so disoriented that it was easy for Flinch to put him in cuffs. While he did so, and much to Flinch’s surprise, an odd transformation was occurring in Heathcliff. His enormous head was shrinking and shrinking. His facial features shifted back to their normal size, and soon, he was just a little boy lying on a hospital gurney. A moment later he woke up and looked around.

  “Where am I?” he asked.

  “You’re in the Playground—or, rather, the new Playground,” Flinch said, eyeing him warily. Heathcliff was still dangerous, even without the giant head. “When you went to sleep, we were in the fifth grade. We’ve moved to the middle school now.”

  “And who are you?”

  Flinch took his containment helmet off and set it down. “Now do you recognize me?”

  “No,” the boy said. “I’ve never seen you before in my life.”

  “I’m a friend. Do you know who you are?” Flinch asked.

  The boy sat for a long moment. “No, I don’t.”

  “Your name is Heathcliff.”

  • • •

  Agent Brand did not come to work the next day. The team went on with the business of cleaning up the school and the Playground, and, luckily, there were no major incidents that required their help. The world was peaceful for a moment as people struggled with the universal phenomenon of not being able to remember what they had been doing recently. It was a blessing in disguise, as most would have never been able to get over what they had done while under the influence of the villain virus.

  The Antagonist—a.k.a. Dumb Vinci—was behind bars. Sherman Stoop got his job back on the security team. Mr. Miniature returned to his job at the supermarket. Justin Maines resumed his life as a dead body on television shows. Even Ms. Dove came to her senses, but not before she was transferred to a middle school in the darkest, coldest reaches of Siberia. Mama Rosa returned to her sweet, lovable self—and even apologized to Mrs. Valencia for years of bitterness.

  And slowly the world returned to normal.

  But Brand could not return to normal. When he finally did get back to the Playground, he was changed. The soft edges Ms. Holiday had been sculpting on him were sharp once more. His ability to see his agents as more than children was gone.

  In one final act as director of the NERDS, he hired Wyatt, Hooper, Toad, and Jessie to be part of a new team called the Troublemakers, which had only one other member, a former assassin turned spy named the Hyena. Then he quit. He didn’t say good-bye to the children or to Dr. Kim or to the lunch lady. He was just gone, and no one, not even General Savage, knew where he went.

  YOU DID IT! NOT ONLY ARE YOU A SUPERIOR PHYSICAL SPECIMEN, YOU HAVE LITTLE REGARD FOR YOUR OWN PERSONAL SAFETY AND HEALTH. THUS, YOU MAKE A FINE CANDIDATE TO BE A SECRET AGENT.

  JUST BETWEEN YOU AND ME … WAS THE BEAR SCARY? I MEAN, I JUST MADE THAT UP OFF THE TOP OF MY HEAD AND TOSSED IT INTO THIS BOOK. I NEVER THOUGHT YOU’D ACTUALLY DO IT. I BET IT HURT WHEN HE BIT YOU ON THE BUTT AND THOSE BIG CLAWS RIPPED YOUR FACE OFF. WELL, DON’T WORRY. MOST PEOPLE WILL HARDLY NOTICE THAT YOU DON’T HAVE A FACE. BESIDES, WHO NEEDS A FACE WHEN YOU ARE BUBBLING OVER WITH COURAGE?

  Heathcliff lay in his bed, drifting off to sleep. It was nice to be around such friendly people who all seemed very concerned about him. Maybe one day soon he would get his memory back and remember them, but until then he would take it easy, just the way that nice Dr. Kim had suggested.

  He was starting to dream when he felt something odd in his nose. On the table next to his bed was a box of tissues, and he snatched one. Even blowing as hard as he could, he couldn’t dislodge whatever it was, and worse, it seemed to be getting bigger.

  He crawled out of bed and walked over to the washbas
in at the far end of the room. There was a mirror hanging on the wall, so he flipped on the light and gave his nostrils a scan. Whatever was stuck up there was moving on its own, and it was starting to hurt. He could see it was pushing under the skin like a big round ball. Desperate, he blew his nose once more and this time something popped out.

  With watery eyes he tried to focus on the thing, but he couldn’t get a clear glimpse. He could only tell one thing: It was getting bigger—much bigger. In a matter of seconds it was as big as a dog, and then as big as a little boy. Finally, it rose to its full height and Heathcliff realized what it was—a woman. Or least he thought it was a woman. She was wearing some kind of suit—like for traveling in space—complete with a huge helmet. The figure removed the helmet to reveal a black mask covering her face. The mask had a big white skull painted on the front of it.

  The woman glanced around the room as if getting her bearings. “I’m back! How long have I been gone?”

  “Who are you?” Heathcliff stammered.

  The woman chuckled. “Why, sweetie, I’m the lady who’s going to take over the world.”

  A supersecret thank-you to my nerds and the true heroes of this series: my two editors, Susan Van Metre and Maggie Lehrman, who help turn these funny, little story ideas into a real book; Jason Wells and his team, who market and publicize and help me get to the airport on time; Chad W. Beckerman, whose keen eye and brilliant designs make this series into something very special; my wife and agent, Alison Fargis, and everyone at Stonesong—thank you, Alison, for keeping me grounded and reminding me that I, too, am a great big nerd; Nick Herman, Mariah Molina, Na-Quanda Chavis, Eileen Schorr, Bonoki-Oscar, Kari Smith, and the staff at Starbucks #11807 in Brooklyn, N.Y.; friends; family; and of course, my favorite little nerd, Finn.

  About the Author

  Michael Buckley, a former member of NERDS, now spends his time writing. In addition to the top-secret file you are holding, Michael has written the New York Times bestselling Sisters Grimm series, which has been published in more than twenty languages. He has also created shows for Discovery Channel, Cartoon Network, Warner Bros., TLC, and Nickelodeon. He lives somewhere (if he told you where exactly, he’d have to kill you).

  This book was art directed and designed by Agent Chad W. Beckerman. The illustrations were created by Agent Ethen Beavers.

  The principal of Thomas Knowlton Middle School was working at his desk when the ninjas attacked. They wore black masks and held sharp swords over their heads. One crashed through the door with a high-pitched wail, his deadly weapon slicing the air, but he was stopped in his tracks when the principal karate-chopped him in the Adam’s apple. Ouch! Another ninja climbed through the window, but his head was crushed when the principal slammed it shut. Oof! A third ninja dropped from an air duct in the ceiling. His nunchucks swirled in deadly arcs, wrapping around the principal’s beefy forearm. But that was a mistake the ninja would forever regret, because the principal used the nunchucks to yank the ninja forward for a skull-splitting head butt. Lights out!

  When it looked like the attack was over, two more ninjas popped out of the drawers of a steel file cabinet and attacked using their fists and feet, knocking the principal backward onto his desk. They held him down and, chuckling arrogantly, removed gleaming daggers from the folds of their clothes. But the principal was trained in several martial arts and highly proficient in the monkey, snake, and crane fighting styles. Plus, he was Irish, so he knew his way around a street fight. He snatched a stapler off his desk and slammed it into one ninja’s forehead and then the other’s. Both men cried out in agony and stumbled backward, onto the bodies of their fallen brothers.

  The principal stood over the pile of broken villains. Then he started to applaud. “Thanks, guys,” he said.

  “Yeah, yeah . . . ,” the men groaned as they staggered to their feet.

  One of the ninjas took off his mask, revealing a chubby face and a large bald spot in the center of his curly brown hair. He didn’t look like a ninja. He looked like an accountant.

  “Did we at least surprise you this time?” he groused.

  The principal nodded. “Absolutely, Randy. I was completely taken off guard. I didn’t see the file cabinet thing coming at all. That was a nice touch.”

  “He’s just saying that because he doesn’t want to hurt our feelings,” another ninja groaned. Underneath his mask he had bright red hair and a face full of freckles.

  “No, Barry. I really was intimidated.”

  Randy shook his head. “I don’t know why you want us to do this, anyway. You’re the boss now. Your biggest fear should be getting a paper cut or someone parking in your designated space. Why keep training?”

  “You don’t actually miss your old job, do you?” Barry asked.

  “Miss my old job? No! That’s ridiculous. Why would I miss it?”

  “I have no idea,” Randy said. “It was humiliating. You’re a decorated war hero, and they put you in that stupid school kitchen with the hairnet and the Tater Tots. What a waste! This promotion was long overdue. You deserve to be director of the National Espionage, Rescue, and Defense Society, so take it easy.”

  “Thanks for the pep talk, guys, but I’m fine,” the principal said. “I’ve got to get back to work. See you next week?”

  “Not if we see you first,” Barry said as he slunk out the window.

  The others vanished through the air ducts and into the filing cabinet. In the blink of an eye they were gone.

  The principal put the upended coatrack back in its place, adjusted his portrait of the president of the United States on the wall, and gathered what was left of his office supplies.

  He looked at the stack of paperwork on his desk and sighed. Truth was, he didn’t know how to take it easy. He did miss the adventure of the field. There was nothing as satisfying as the sound of a bad guy’s nose breaking beneath his fist. But what he really missed was . . . well, if anyone found out, he would be the laughing stock of the espionage community. He crossed the room to a small file cabinet locked tight with fourteen different dead bolts. He fished seven of the keys out of his pockets, opened the hollow heel in his left shoe for another, found two in between his big toe and his second toe, and four more in a secret pocket at the base of his pant leg. When he had unlocked all the bolts, he opened the cabinet and pulled out his most prized possessions: a spatula, a pair of orthopedic sneakers, a hairnet, and a flowery smock.

  He caressed them lovingly. Why was it so hard to let go of his previous job as the school’s lunch lady? Why did he miss the heat lamps, corn nuggets, and fish surprise?

  Suddenly, the phone rang. It wasn’t the phone on his desk. It was the phone. He stuffed his kitchen tools back in the cabinet and raced to his desk. Underneath his coffee mug was a glowing red button. He slammed it hard with the palm of his hand and watched as his drab, poorly decorated office went through a dramatic transformation. The yellowing walls flipped over to reveal banks of computers and electronic maps of the world. His ancient, clunky desk sank into the floor and was replaced with a blinking, beeping control panel. The grimy ceiling fan collapsed in on itself, and a large television monitor took its place. The glossy black screen blinked to life and his boss, a tough-as-nails five-star general named Savage, appeared on it.

  Savage’s reputation as a fearless soldier made the principal’s record look downright cowardly. Rumors claimed the general once got out of a pit of quicksand just by threatening it.

  Now, however, Savage’s massive bullet-shaped head looked sweaty and his tiny eyes shifted nervously. “Hello, Director. I wish I had time for chitchat, but we have a crisis on our hands that needs your team’s attention.”

  “What is it, sir?”

  “We have it from good sources that the president’s daughter, Tessa Lipton, is about to be kidnapped.”

  The principal wasn’t the kind of man to gasp, but the news of such a brazen crime took his breath away. “When? How? Who?”

  Savage’s massive head
dissolved and was replaced with an image of the complete opposite: a sweet, cheerful-looking twelve-year-old girl with a grin as big as the midwestern sky. Her image morphed into a photo of an ultramodern building.

  “We don’t know the when or how, but we think we have a where—Sugarland Academy, a very prestigious prep school for the children of political bigwigs and power brokers. It’s here in Arlington.”

  “I know the lunch lady over there,” the principal said. “The security is top-notch.”

  “Did you say you know the . . . lunch lady there?” the general asked.

  “Um, we used to trade recipes.”

  “Okaaaaay,” Savage said slowly. “Anyway, Sugarland has its own twelve-officer police department that cooperates with Tessa’s four-man Secret Service detail.”

  “That’s a lot of eyeballs on one person,” the principal said. “Who would even try to kidnap her?”

  The image was replaced with a photo of a woman wearing a black mask with a white skull painted on it.

  The principal scowled. “Ms. Holiday!”

  “She’s calling herself ‘Miss Information’ now,” Savage said. “We managed to get a mole inside her organization. He called it chaotic, filled with hundreds of scientists working on thousands of schemes aimed at every corner of the world. It’s really breathtaking how quickly she’s put this thing together.”

  “And she’s had us running ragged ever since,” the principal growled. “I’ve had to split the team to handle it all. What else is this mole saying?”

  “Nothing. He’s dead. We found his remains in the belly of a beached great white shark this morning. We’ve alerted the president. He and the First Lady are beside themselves with worry. If the commander in chief’s own daughter can be kidnapped, what does it say about our national security?”

  The principal nodded. “This is not going to be easy for us, General. It will be tough to keep an eye on Tessa without her or the president knowing about it. The founders of this team were very concerned about staying out of the political maneuverings of whoever is running the country. If the politicians were to find out we had a superteam at their disposal, the kids’ lives would be turned upside down.”