The Genius Files #4

by Dan Gutman

  Teenagers. Who can figure ’em out?

  “Well, I think you’re really going to like our next stop,” Mrs. McDonald said optimistically.

  They had lunch at a Waco restaurant called Buzzard Billy’s, and then drove a few miles to the south side of town, the industrial district of Waco. Dr. McDonald pulled up to a huge, boxy building with an empty parking lot. A sign on the side of the building said . . .

  Coke and Pep were instantly intrigued. Chocolate cures all ills.

  “Mars?” Pep asked. “You mean like the candy bars?”

  “The company makes Skittles, Starburst, Milky Way, and Snickers here,” her mother replied, leafing through her guidebook. “In fact, it says that if you’re eating a Snickers bar anywhere in North America, there’s a ninety-six percent chance that it was made right here at this factory.”

  “Wow,” Coke said. “This is gonna be cool!”

  “Why do you think the parking lot is empty?” asked Dr. McDonald.

  “I guess we’re a little early for the tour,” Pep said.

  As they stepped out of the car, they could smell the chocolate—a wonderful smell.

  Coke pulled on the front door of the building, but it was locked. A small sign stated the obvious—CLOSED.

  “Closed?!” Mrs. McDonald took out her cell phone and dialed the number in her guidebook. After wading through several frustrating layers of computerized options, she finally punched in 0 and got a human being at the other end of the line.

  “We’re standing at the front door of your factory, and it’s locked,” she explained politely. “We’re here to take the two o’clock tour.”

  “I’m terribly sorry, ma’am,” said the voice at the other end of the line, “but we don’t have a tour.”

  “It says on the internet that you have a guided tour every day of the week at ten, noon, two, and four o’clock,” Mrs. McDonald said, her voice rising.

  “Calm down, Bridge,” said Dr. McDonald.

  “That must be a mistake, ma’am,” said the voice. “There is no tour. And the factory is closed today, anyway.”

  Now she was mad.

  “What do you mean, it’s closed?” Mrs. McDonald shouted. “We drove all the way across the country to come here. My kids were so excited. They’ve been sitting in the car for five hours.”

  “We have not, Mom,” Pep whispered.

  “Shhhhhh!”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am—”

  “Do you have any idea who I am?” Mrs. McDonald shouted into the phone.

  “No ma’am, I don’t.”

  “I am the creator of Amazing but True, one of the most popular reference sites on the web. ABT gets over a million hits each month. My readers are not going to be happy when I tell them about this. You don’t want a boycott on your hands.”

  “Bridge, let it go,” Dr. McDonald said.

  “I’m sure your website is very influential,” the voice on the phone said, “but we simply don’t offer a tour. We never did.”

  “Let me ask you a question,” Mrs. McDonald said, trying to remain calm. “What if the president of the United States came here today and asked for a tour of the factory? Do you think you might find a way to open up and show him around?”

  “I suppose we would, yes,” the voice said.

  “Well, I have news for you. The president isn’t gonna show up today. But we did. How about you give us the tour you would have given the president?”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am. I wish I could help you.”

  “Well, that’s the last pack of M&M’s I’ll ever buy,” Mrs. McDonald said indignantly as she hung up. “Come on, gang, let’s blow this pop stand.”

  Disappointed, the family climbed into the Ferrari. But as Dr. McDonald turned the key in the ignition, he got a gleam in his eye. He revved the engine, and instead of driving out of the parking lot, he drove slowly around to the back of the factory.

  “Ben, where are you going?” asked Mrs. McDonald.

  “If they won’t give us a tour,” he replied, “maybe we can take our own tour.”

  “Dad, you are such an outlaw!” Coke said with admiration. “It must be the Ferrari.”

  “I don’t have a good feeling about this,” Pep said.

  The rear of the Mars factory had multiple entrances. Dr. McDonald drove slowly, looking for a door or window that might be open. He stopped the car and got out.

  “Follow me,” he said.

  “This is insanity!” Mrs. McDonald complained, but she got out of the car anyway. “I’m sure they have security cameras, alarm systems, armed guards—”

  “Chill, Bridge,” Dr. McDonald said. “This is one of those unexpected pleasures of cross-country travel that you’re always talking about.”

  “No, it’s not,” she replied. “It’s breaking and entering.”

  “We’re not going to break anything,” Dr. McDonald said, looking around for security cameras, alarm systems, or armed guards. “We’re just going to enter. Look, this window isn’t locked.”

  “It’s probably a felony,” Mrs. McDonald fretted. “Or a misdemeanor. Or one of those crimes that criminals always commit.”

  “I can fit through that window,” Coke said, climbing up to push it all the way open.

  “Good job, son!” Dr. McDonald said.

  Coke squeezed through the opening and landed on his feet inside the building. No alarms went off. He reached his hand out the window to pull his sister up.

  “We’re going to get caught,” Pep said. “I don’t want to go to jail.”

  “You’re a minor,” her father told her. “You can’t go to jail.”

  “No, they’ll put you two in jail for bad parenting,” Pep said, “and then they’ll put Coke and me in an orphanage, or one of those homes for juvenile delinquents.”

  “Oh, don’t be such a baby,” Dr. McDonald said, hoisting her up. “This is going to be fun. Believe me, if this place was open today, you wouldn’t remember the experience. But because we’re sneaking in, you’ll remember it for the rest of your life.”

  Pep reluctantly squeezed through the window, and Coke helped her inside.

  “You’re next, Bridge,” Dr. McDonald said.

  “Oh, no. Not me,” she replied. “I’m staying out here. Somebody’s going to have to post bail for you three.”

  “Suit yourself,” Dr. McDonald said, hoisting himself up.

  Unfortunately, Dr. McDonald was more than a few pounds heavier than either of the twins. He could fit his head and shoulders through the narrow window, but his stomach stubbornly refused to squeeze through.

  “!@#$%,” he cursed. “Pardon my French.”

  “Dad, you need to go on a diet,” Coke teased.

  “All right,” Dr. McDonald said, pulling himself back outside. “You kids go ahead. Mom and I will wait in the car.”

  “Promise you’ll visit us when we’re in juvie,” Pep said.

  “You’re not going to juvie,” insisted Dr. McDonald. “Someday, you’ll appreciate how cool your parents were.”

  Coke took his sister by the hand and led her out of the little room, which was filled with janitorial supplies. A short hallway led to the main floor of the factory. The place was enormous, and it was filled with gigantic machines and aluminum vats. With no other people around and all the machines idle, it was eerily quiet.

  “This place is cool,” Coke marveled. “Can you imagine how many candy bars they can make from the chocolate in just one of those vats?”

  The twins walked around hesitantly, expecting an alarm to sound at any moment. When it didn’t, they grew bolder, examining the equipment and venturing farther inside the factory. They had just about lowered their guard entirely when they heard a noise behind them. Coke and Pep spun around to see a shadowy figure standing about fifteen yards away.

  “I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist breaking in here,” he said, stepping into the light. It was a familiar voice.

  “Dr. Warsaw!” the twins shouted simultaneo
usly.

  Chapter 23

  DEATH BY CHOCOLATE

  Coke and Pep’s first reaction was to make a run for it. They should have made a run for it. But there was something that stopped them. The figure looked just like Dr. Warsaw, but something was slightly different. It was hard to put a finger on it.

  “Are you . . . Dr. Warsaw’s clone?” Pep asked, trembling.

  “In a way, yes,” the man said in a voice that sounded vaguely like the voice on a car navigation system. He took a step forward. “I could be his twin. I look more like Dr. Warsaw than you two look alike. I’m a perfect clone, you might say. But I’m not a clone in the biological sense of the word. You see, I’m a robot.”

  It took a moment for that to sink in.

  “You gotta be kidding me,” Coke said.

  “Under my metal surface is a set of very complicated, sophisticated electronics,” the robot said. “Twelve miles of wiring. Thousands of microprocessors. I possess all the information Dr. Warsaw does, and much more. And I know everything there is to know about you.”

  “It’s a trick,” Coke said. “You’re no robot.”

  “Go ahead, Coke, touch me. I won’t bite.”

  Coke stepped forward and reached out to touch the robot’s hand. It was hard, not fleshy. It felt metallic. Coke made a mental note not to punch the robot. It would only break his own hand.

  “Cold, isn’t it?” the robot said.

  “You’re bluffing,” Pep said. “You don’t know about us. When is our birthday?”

  “June twenty-fifth,” the robot replied instantly. “Your home is in Point Reyes Station, California. You attend West Marin Middle School. Or you did, until it burned down under mysterious circumstances on the last day of school. And you each have a small birthmark on your right foot.”

  Pep gasped.

  Coke peered into the robot’s eyes. There was no way to tell it wasn’t a human.

  “You called me on the phone in our hotel room the other night,” Coke said, “and you delivered that cipher through our car radio, didn’t you?”

  “Guilty as charged.”

  “What do the ciphers mean?” Pep asked. “Llano Estacado, a piece of the Blarney Stone, Hub City. What ties them together?”

  “I’m just the messenger,” replied the robot, “and you ask too many questions.”

  “Well, maybe you can answer this one,” Coke said. “What are you doing here?”

  The robot wheeled around on its heel slowly, gesturing in an almost human but slightly jerky fashion.

  “Factories are special places,” it said. “They’re filled with robots, much like me. In fact, I was built right here. And you will die here.”

  “Ha!” Coke said. “You could never catch us. What prevents us from running away from you right now?”

  “This does,” the robot said.

  At that instant, its hands telescoped out from its arms, like two antennas.

  “Run, Pep!” Coke shouted, but it was too late. Each robot hand wrapped around a twin’s neck in a tight grip, leaving no doubt that the grip could be tightened further, crushing their necks. Coke tried unsuccessfully to reach for the cell phone in his back pocket. Pep let out a shriek.

  “Scream all you want,” the robot said as it dragged them across the floor. “Besides you two, there’s only one other human in the building.”

  At that, another figure stepped out from the shadows.

  “Mrs. Higgins!” Pep shouted when she saw her.

  “That’s right,” Mrs. Higgins said, taking a few steps closer. “I’m with him now. And we’re in love.”

  “What?!” Pep said. “You told us you were in love with Dr. Warsaw.”

  “I was,” Mrs. Higgins replied. “But Herman never returned my love. I’m not sure he’s capable of loving anyone. And if I can’t have him, I can have the next best thing. Isn’t that right, honey?”

  “That’s right, dear,” the robot said, and then it leaned over to kiss Mrs. Higgins.

  “That’s just sick!” Coke said. “You just kissed a robot.”

  “Who are you to judge our love?” Mrs. Higgins asked. “Soon you’ll be dead, anyway.”

  “Sad but true,” the robot said.

  “Dad! Mom! Help!” Coke choked.

  “Ha-ha!” Mrs. Higgins cackled. “I love to watch you work, darling. You’re even more cold-hearted than Herman was.”

  “Yes, Dr. Warsaw is distressed that he no longer possesses the ruthlessness necessary to kill you personally,” said the robot. “Fortunately, he spent years designing me—an almost perfect copy of himself, minus the burden of a conscience or feelings of remorse. The good doctor affectionately calls me . . . Doominator.”

  Doominator stopped in front of a room-sized machine consisting of an endless series of wheels, gears, belts, lights, compartments, and switches. There was a one-word sign in front of it—SNICKERS.

  “You’re insane!” Pep shouted.

  “Insane?” Doominator said. “The definition, according to my built-in dictionary, is ‘of, pertaining to, or characteristic of a person who is mentally deranged.’ No, I do not believe that I can be insane, as I am not—technically—a person.”

  With that, Doominator lifted Coke and Pep up by their necks and threw them roughly into two large metal boxes that were attached to a conveyor belt. Bars slammed down over the twins to prevent them from escaping.

  “Do you like chocolate?” Doominator asked.

  “Are you going to . . . drown us in it?” Pep asked, holding back her sobs.

  “Oh, no, that would be too easy,” said Doominator as it flipped a switch. The machine lurched into motion. “This is a candy-wrapping machine.”

  “You’re going to become rap stars!” cackled Mrs. Higgins. “I’m lovin’ it!”

  “Help!” Pep screamed. “I don’t want to get wrapped!”

  Peering through the bars, Pep could see a part of the machine with hundreds of unwrapped Snickers bars that were being fed into another part of the machine and other Snickers bars coming out the opposite end all wrapped up.

  “You’re going to be part of a long, proud tradition,” Doominator shouted over the loud machinery. “Snickers was introduced way back in 1930. It was named after a horse that the Mars family owned on their Tennessee farm. Fifteen million Snickers bars are produced every day. And now, some of them will have a little Coke and Pepsi inside each one.”

  “You’re going to . . . cut us up?” Coke asked.

  “Of course not,” Doominator said. “I share Dr. Warsaw’s distaste for blood. We have other robots to do that. And then a third robot comes in afterward and cleans up the mess. That’s the beauty of robotic technology. Division of labor. We hardly need any humans anymore. Except for you, of course, dear.”

  “Apology accepted, my darling,” said Mrs. Higgins.

  The machinery was moving and whirring. Coke and Pep struggled to break out of their metal boxes. It was useless.

  “Let us out!” Pep screamed.

  “That’s cute,” Doominator said. “But think of the joy you will bring to little children when they bite into that delicious nougat topped with caramel, peanuts, milk chocolate, and tiny chunks of Coke and Pepsi.”

  “That’s gross!” Pep screamed.

  “I’d love to stand here and debate this with you,” Doominator said, “but Mrs. Higgins and I have a busy day. You’re not the only geniuses that need to be eliminated, you know.”

  “No! We’ll do anything you want!” Coke shouted. “Don’t leave!”

  “I think it was Shakespeare who said ‘Parting is such sweet sorrow,’” said Doominator. “But perhaps you’ll be my chocolate treat tomorrow. Ha-ha-ha!”

  Doominator and Mrs. Higgins walked away holding hands, leaving the twins to struggle for their lives inside their steel cages.

  Clearly, this was the end. There was no escape. They would be sliced, diced, molded, injected, wrapped, boxed, and distributed in Snickers bars. Their metal cages lurched forward a
nd into the huge candy-wrapping machine.

  “I love you, Coke!” Pep shouted.

  “I love you too!”

  “What? Did you just say you love me?”

  Even in her perilous situation, Pep was stunned. Coke had never uttered those words before. He and she had fought like cats and dogs over the years. But in the past few weeks alone, they had been through so many hardships, and they had always stuck together. Tears flowed down her cheeks.

  “Do something!” Pep shouted desperately as they moved closer to the innards of the machine.

  “Like what?” Coke shouted back. “How about you come up with a brilliant idea for a change?”

  But in fact, at that moment, Coke himself came up with a brilliant idea.

  “Wait! I’ve got something!” he shouted.

  “What? What is it?”

  “The backscratcher!” Coke yelled. “The telescoping backscratcher that Mya and Bones gave us! I keep it inside my pants leg!”

  “Why would you keep a backscratcher inside your pants leg?” Pep asked.

  “Yeah, do complain!” Coke scolded her. “You never know when you might need to scratch your back.”

  He reached down to pull up the right leg of his jeans. The backscratcher was tucked inside his sock. He pulled it out and opened it up as far as it would go. Extended, it was eighteen inches long.

  As their metal cages moved along the conveyor belt, Coke poked the backscratcher through the bars and tried to disrupt the gears and wheels on the right side. The machinery was within reach, but Coke had to be careful not to drop the backscratcher or let it get snapped in two.

  They were now only a few feet away from the innards of the machine, where the unthinkable would happen. Sweat was pouring off Coke’s forehead as he manipulated the backscratcher with his fingertips.

  “Hurry!” Pep shouted.

  And then, seconds before their cages would have dropped into the guts of the machine, Coke found a vulnerable spot. He poked the backscratcher into the blades of a small fan. The blades stopped, which sent a signal to the computer controlling the machine, and the whole thing ground to a halt.

  Silence. Sweet silence. And then, a voice.