Codename Zero

by Chris Rylander

  Once I’d finally woken up enough to realize where I was, I looked up and saw Olek in the kitchen helping my mom make dinner. He was sitting at the table peeling potatoes. My mom was laughing almost uncontrollably at something.

  “What’s going on?” I asked, rubbing the crust from eyes.

  “Carson, you didn’t tell me your friend was so funny!” she said through her laughter.

  “I didn’t want to spoil the surprise,” I said, glad they were getting along.

  “Dude, your friend is hilarious,” my brother said from the chair across from me. I saw the Sunday Night Football game on TV.

  “You’re a hit!” I said to Olek.

  “Like Beatles song?” he asked.

  “Sure,” I said, again wondering where he came up with this stuff. “Like a Beatles song.”

  He grinned at me and kept working on the potatoes.

  “Mom, isn’t it kind of racist to make the Russian kid peel the potatoes?” I said.

  “Carson!” she said.

  Olek laughed. He laughed harder than I’d ever seen him laugh before. This only made my mom, brother, and me start laughing as well.

  “This not so bad,” he said, finally. “In some country, potatoes are peeled with dirty fingernail.”

  As my mom heard this, she had to stop chopping because it was unsafe to laugh that hard with a knife in your hand.

  After a loud, fun, and very funny dinner, Olek and I excused ourselves. Well, that was after Olek offered to help with the dishes. I’d nudged him with my elbow when he offered. He was making me look bad.

  But my mom refused to let him help anyway.

  “You’re our guest,” she’d said. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  And so we headed downstairs to my bedroom to relax and try to have some fun. It might be cool for Olek to have one full night with a friend that wasn’t filled with abduction attempts or hiding out in whatever safe house they had him at before he came to stay here.

  We played video games for a while. He was better than I’d expected. I’m not sure why I thought he might be terrible, but it either had something to do with my obviously ignorant assumption that they didn’t have Xbox in his home country or else just that being endlessly pursued by a rogue terrorist cell distracted him from practicing his video-game technique.

  He said he loved hockey and so that’s what we played for most of the night. But after a while, we switched it off and just talked and joked around until we fell asleep.

  The next morning was my first day at school with an official secret agent mission to accomplish. Once Olek and I were on the bus, I felt like I couldn’t talk to anybody. So for the first little bit I sat there and looked out the window. I had no idea what I was looking for, but I figured it didn’t hurt to be looking just the same.

  But whatever it was I was looking for, I didn’t see it. Or maybe I did and just didn’t know it. Either way, I soon realized that I was being ridiculous. My directive was to be friends with Olek, to try and make him look like a normal kid. Which I was doing a pretty miserable job at so far.

  “Hey, Carson,” Olek said, breaking my long and unintentional silence. “We sing today?”

  “No, I don’t think so. Not today.”

  “Yes, is strange thing, anyway,” he said. “Singing on bus. Who does this?”

  I laughed. I had no idea if he intended to be so hilarious or not, but it didn’t really matter either way. It was no surprise my family loved him so much. And it wasn’t just because his broken English was funny, which I was starting to think was intentional anyway. He was just so genuine. He said what was on his mind, and asked questions he wanted answers to. It never felt like he was pretending to act a certain way to fit in like pretty much every other kid did at least a little.

  It almost felt like he was immune to the boring North Dakota single-track mindset in some way. He simply did and said what he felt, without worrying about how odd it may be. That’s just not how most people in North Dakota acted. And I loved that about him.

  We rode in silence for a while. I kept looking out the window, watching for any sign of those ominous unmarked sedans. Then I realized I was doing it again, ignoring my directive, and instead just being paranoid.

  “So what kind of stuff were you into back home?” I asked.

  Olek thought about it for a second and then said, “Well, I like eating strawberry jam with spoon, hypnotizing elderly turtles, collecting old horse hooves to build fort with, um, oh yes, I also really like standing in middle of park pretending to be tree that suffers from serious tree disease, Comandra blister rust.”

  I stared at him with my mouth hanging open. I wasn’t sure what to say so I didn’t say anything. But then I caught a glimpse of a small smile twitch at the corner of his mouth. He was messing with me!

  “That was good, Olek, you really had me,” I said.

  He grinned. “Yes, your face was like that of corpse. I joke of course. Except for part with strawberry jam. I do love eat strawberry jam with spoon. In USA, why is eating jam with spoon not okay to do? People say this is gross to do, but is no different than eating gummy bear! It make no sense.”

  “I have no idea,” I said through a laugh.

  But I had to admit, he made a good point. Why did people think it’d be weird to eat jelly with a spoon? It’s just fruit and sugar, the exact same stuff that’s in fruit snacks.

  “No, but for real,” he said, “I like mostly same things kids here do. Like play video games, watch movie, play hockey and football. Not your game of throw oblong thingy and then give each other brain damage. I mean, futbol. Or, soccer is what you call it here. . . .”

  “Was it hard to leave all that behind? I mean, your country, your friends and family, everything?”

  His smile faded, but only for a few seconds and then it returned and he shrugged.

  “Yes. But is okay, because I make new friends, yeah?”

  “Yeah, definitely,” I said.

  He kept smiling and then nodded at me.

  “Is good,” he said.

  CHAPTER 27

  THE ONLY CLASS OLEK AND I HAD TOGETHER WAS FOURTH period. Which was perfect, because then we could walk to lunch together. I wanted to sort of warn him about Dillon before we got there.

  “So, I have this one friend who is kind of . . . weird,” I said. “He might say some strange things.”

  “Ha, is no problem. All Americans say strange things.”

  “Yeah, well, okay, but this one might say some really crazy things. He might even accuse you of being a communist or something.”

  “Me, a communist?” Olek said with a grin as if that was the funniest thought a person could ever have. “Why he think this?”

  “Because of your accent, likely. But don’t pay attention to any of that. He just watches too many old action movies.”

  “Okay, no need worry.”

  “Good. You’re a positive guy, Olek,” I said.

  “I know. I have to be. Is essential,” he said.

  I knew what he meant. He had to be because being torn away from your country and family and stuck someplace you don’t want to be (hey, nobody wants to go to North Dakota) sucks, despite what he said earlier. He would always brush things off as no big deal. If he didn’t, the crappiness of his situation would probably just drown him. That’s another thing I loved about him—he never complained. About anything. I mean, everybody complains. All the time. And it was always annoying to listen to unless you were the person doing the complaining. But Olek never did. He always saw the bright side of everything. I never knew how cool it could be to hang out with a person like that, because I’d never before met a person like that.

  By the time we got to the cafeteria and went through the lunch line, everybody was already at our usual table. There was one chair open, the one I usually sat in.

  “Hey, guys, this is my new friend, Olek. He’s going to sit with us today,” I said.

  A few of them nodded, but before anyone else could say
anything, Dillon said, “Well, there aren’t enough chairs. The table’s full, see?”

  I figured Dillon would be a jerk to Olek, but I didn’t expect it to start up the moment we got there. Dillon has always been a little tough until he gets to know you. Mostly because he’s always skeptical of people. He thinks everyone is hiding something.

  I walked over to the next table, grabbed one of the five empty chairs and slid it over next to mine.

  “Now there are enough,” I said.

  Olek and I sat down.

  “A little crowded now,” Dillon whined, but everyone ignored him.

  I shot Olek an apologetic glance, but he looked completely unfazed. He smiled and waved at everybody. I introduced them all, and Olek said “hi” aloud after every single name. It was hilarious. Danielle was barely keeping it together.

  “So why are you here?” Zack asked.

  “To eat lunch, of course. I am so hungry, I will eat like cow,” Olek said.

  Everyone laughed at this, and Olek smiled.

  “You’re supposed to say eat a cow,” Danielle corrected him.

  “Ah, yes, but why I want to eat whole cow?” Olek asked.

  We all laughed again.

  “No, I meant, like, why are you in America?” Zack asked. “Are you a foreign exchange student?”

  “Is long story,” Olek said. “I move here with my mom to live with my aunt’s third cousin. My dad contract insane goat disease back home. Very contagious. Was safer for me to move here for school year.”

  They kept peppering him with questions, which he gamely answered. Everyone seemed to be finding it pretty amusing, including Olek. Then Dillon tapped me on the shoulder.

  “Where were you all day yesterday?” he asked. “I thought we were going to hang out. You never answered any of my Skypes.”

  He had that suspicious gleam in his eyes that I used to find more funny back when I didn’t actually have anything to hide.

  “Family emergency,” I said.

  “What, did someone die?”

  “Actually, yeah,” I said, hoping that would encourage him to drop it.

  “Oh, oh, sorry,” he mumbled. I’d clearly succeeded. But now I felt bad.

  “It’s no big deal; it was my grandma’s cousin. I only met her like twice when I was really young. Plus she was like ninety-nine years old.”

  He nodded. He took a few bites of spaghetti and then finally asked what I knew he’d been dying to since we sat down.

  “So what’s with the commie?”

  “He’s not a communist, Dillon,” I said, rolling my eyes.

  “Fine, whatever, you know what I meant. Besides, it’s not like you could possibly know that. He could easily be a commie.”

  “He’s just a kid, Dillon. How could a kid have a fully formed political ideology? Besides, he’s really funny and nice. Plus, he never complains about anything. Can’t I make new friends?”

  “Of course you can,” Dillon said. “It’s just that . . . well, something weird is going on in this town. And it all kind of goes back to when he first showed up.”

  I looked at Dillon. He was as serious as ever. And it dawned on me that this was likely not the first time Dillon had been right about something. That he might have been right about a lot of things. There was something weird happening in this town. And now I was right in the middle of it.

  “You mean weirder than all the other stuff you claim is happening?” I said, trying to pretend like I didn’t know he was right. “Like weirder than how you think the town newspaper is really a front for an illegal exotic pet store?”

  “They are! Read the classifieds. It’s all code for what they have in stock!”

  I laughed and shook my head. “Look, just try giving Olek a chance. He’s really cool.”

  Dillon sighed and then nodded. “Okay, I will. But he better not try to turn any of us, or I swear . . .”

  “Dillon, he’s not a communist,” I said. But this time, I’d said it a little too loudly.

  Everyone at the table looked at me. Then slowly their heads turned toward Olek. He paused for a few seconds and then started laughing. Everyone else joined in, even Dillon.

  Relieved, I finally got a chance to start eating my spaghetti. After my first bite, I noticed something digging into my gums. I reached up and spit it out as casually as I could when I was sure nobody was looking at me. It was another tiny piece of paper.

  Meet me by the south cafeteria exit at exactly 12:37.

  CHAPTER 28

  NEAR THE END OF LUNCH, AT EXACTLY 12:37, I EXCUSED MYSELF and emptied my tray into the garbage. Then I left through the south cafeteria exit. I saw Agent Chum Bucket immediately, by the doors to the kitchen itself. He was a huge dude, the sort of guy you’d never expect to be a school lunch lady. Or lunch guy. Cafeteria worker. Whatever. He was pretty tall, had arms as thick as most people’s legs, and his forearms were covered in tattoos. But he’d worked in the cafeteria as long as I’d gone to school there and he was by far everyone’s favorite lunch worker. He’d always give us extra helpings of whatever he was serving if we asked, even though he wasn’t supposed to.

  He motioned toward a door across the hall with a nod of his head. Then he looked around and unlocked it and led me inside.

  Agent Chum Bucket flipped on the light and I saw that we were in a small pantry of sorts. It was a narrow, deep room with a small walkway surrounded on both sides by towering shelves filled with canned and boxed foods of all kinds. There was one shelf that contained at least seven drums of fruit cocktail as big as my mom’s car.

  “Zero,” he said. “Welcome to my lair.”

  I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to laugh or not, because his face remained totally serious. So I just nodded.

  “Agents Nineteen and Blue asked me to give you a few things that may come in handy at some point, in case you’re ever in a pinch.” He grabbed a small duffel bag sitting in between a massive box of individually wrapped saltine crackers and a ninety-gallon jar of pickles.

  “Cool!” I said, unable to help myself. I mean, I was getting some secret agent gadgets. How could I not be pretty excited about that?

  “Yeah,” Agent Chum Bucket said with a grin as he opened the bag. “It is pretty cool. Okay, first up is this.”

  He held up an ordinary-looking pen.

  “What does that do? Is it like a bomb, or a memory wiper?” I asked.

  “No, it’s going to be your best friend in personal defense in a desperate situation,” he said. He clicked the pen so that the ink part was exposed.

  It looked just like an ordinary pen at first glance. But then he beckoned me to look closer. At the tip there was the tiniest, thinnest needlepoint, only about a centimeter long.

  “Click again to release the toxin,” he said. “Your would-be attacker will be incapacitated in less than three seconds.”

  “It kills someone in less than three seconds?” I didn’t really even like the idea of having that kind of power in a simple pen.

  “No, this particular pen merely contains a tranquilizer. A very powerful one, though, so don’t experiment with it on any kids, right?”

  I nodded.

  He next showed me what looked like a patch of skin from someone’s palm. I thought it was gross, which made him laugh. Anyway, you stick that on your own palm and inside was a small pocket containing a simple lock-pick needle for handcuffs. There was also another one for my other hand that contained a small razor for other types of restraints, like tape or rope.

  Agent Chum Bucket spent the next few minutes showing me how to pick handcuff locks. At first it was sort of difficult, but once I got the hang of it, I realized that handcuff locks were surprisingly easy to pick.

  “The bad news,” he said, “is that more and more people, including law enforcement, are no longer using standard handcuffs. So you may find the razor palm more useful. Then again, if you ever get captured, you likely won’t live long enough to use either of them.”

  I swallowed an
d nodded. He merely shrugged.

  “This next one is pretty dangerous, so be careful with it,” he said, holding up a fruit roll-up.

  “Seriously?”

  “Yes,” he said solemnly.

  “What would I do with that, give somebody diabetes?”

  “That, or you could use it to incinerate their guts,” he said.

  “Eww,” I said.

  Agent Chum Bucket laughed. Then he explained how inside the wrapper was not an ordinary fruit roll-up. This fruit roll-up was really a plastic explosive that could be remote detonated with a tiny transponder also inside the package. He showed me how it worked by unrolling one of them. It smelled and looked and felt like a real fruit roll-up. But then he stuck it to a giant plastic jug of mayo. Inside the fruit roll-up wrapper, tucked in the corner, was a small square of paper, barely the size of my pinky fingernail.

  “That’s the detonator?” I asked.

  He grinned and nodded. “Watch closely.”

  He held the paper on the tip of one finger. Then he delicately peeled one layer of it off like a sticker. Inside the peeled paper square was the smallest-looking computer chip I think I’d ever seen. He held it really close up to my face so I could see a small red light illuminate.

  “Peeling the paper arms it,” he said. “Now press down and . . .”

  He pressed his thumb over the chip as he said this, and suddenly there was a very muted bang just as a small spray of mayo splattered against a box next to the jug. The explosive had only left a small hole about the size of a golf ball in the jug of mayo.

  “Cool,” I said.

  “It’s not all that powerful by design. It’s intended to be used for doors that have electronic locks or other such situations. Not to be used to try and demolish a car or anything.” He threw the package away. “Anyway, this next one is my personal favorite,” he said, reaching back toward the table.

  It was a small tube with skin-colored straps. He attached it to the underside of his wrist. Then he grabbed what looked like a miniature clip of bullets and clicked it into the tube.