by Paul Tobin
So I swam below the water’s surface, occasionally poking up my head in the hopes of finding either Nate or Bosper, but not having any luck finding either of them, and barely having any luck staying out of the sight of Maculte, who I could hear wading through the halls, searching for me, calling out my name.
I kept peeking up my head, making sure I wasn’t being spotted.
“She has to be around here somewhere,” I heard Luria say.
I ducked back down and kept swimming.
There was still no Bosper. Still no Nate.
I peeked above water, again, then almost gasped when I discovered I was no more than ten feet from Maculte. Luckily, he was faced the other direction. Unluckily, just before I sank back beneath the waters, I heard him say, “She won’t be too hard to find. Release the robot octopus.”
Now, I have to be honest about something: having heard what Maculte said, I was of conflicting emotions. First, I immediately decided that “Release the robot octopus” was something I would very much like to say at some point in my life. It’s a far more enjoyable sentence to say than, “Hey, what’s on television?” or “I suppose I should do my homework,” or “Yes, I know it’s on fire, but here’s why it’s not my fault,” which is something I’ve had to say on several different occasions, none of which need to be explained just now.
I swam fast, which was easy enough, since I was still wearing the jetbelt, meaning I was basically a torpedo whooshing through the hallway waters, which might sound awesome, but it’s much less awesome to be a torpedo in water that’s filled with debris. I had to avoid the furniture, the various teapots, and the cans of beans from the cafeteria, all of which seemed to be intent on colliding with my head.
I popped up out of the water, trying to gauge my position and make sure I was moving away from Maculte. I’d made progress, because now he was at least fifty feet down a long hallway, so that was good and all I had to do was—
My phone rang.
“What’s that noise?” Maculte said. His eyes snapped in my direction.
“Sounded like a phone,” Luria answered.
“Not one of ours,” Maculte said, which he would have known because the Red Death Tea Society all use a teapot’s whistle for their ringtone.
I ducked back beneath the water and sped off in the opposite direction, eventually reaching a hallway where the flood tapered off, with the water going from four feet deep, to three feet, and so on, so that soon enough I was on dry land. Or, dry hallway, I guess.
I looked to my phone and saw that I’d missed a call from Liz. I called her back.
“What’s up, Liz?” I asked.
“We’re docked,” she said.
“Docked?”
“We’re in some sort of hanger. We drove Betsy down under the lake. Did you know she’s a submarine?”
“I hadn’t, but I’m not surprised. I am surprised you’re here, though. It’s not safe. You should go back.”
“Nope,” she said, and then, “Look at that! I think we found the reason for all the flooding. Somebody punched a hole in the roof.”
“That was me.”
“You? You’re strong enough to punch a hole in a ceiling? Seriously? What else aren’t you telling me?”
“I’m not strong enough to punch through ceilings. I was wearing a robot.”
“Huh?” Liz said. Then I could hear her telling Wendy and Ventura and Stine that I’d been wearing a robot, and I could hear a discussion of what that could possibly mean, and also how they wanted to wear robots, but there was a weird clicking noise that was making their words difficult to understand. Then, Stine’s voice came on the phone.
“We all want robots,” she said. “I want a pink one. But dark pink. Are you the one making the water go away?”
It was getting harder to hear what my friends were saying, because that strange clicking noise was getting much louder.
“Huh?” I said. “What did you say about the water going away?”
“It’s like, evaporating. Disappearing. We were having to wade at first, but now the water’s gone.”
“Really?” I said, looking back over my shoulder to where I’d crawled out of the water. And Stine was right; the water was simply disappearing. Vanishing. Like it had never been there in the first place.
Also, I’d been wrong about something. The weird clicking noise was not, as I’d believed, caused by any interference on my phone, but was instead the noise of a robotic octopus charging down the hall.
Toward me.
The robot octopus had a central body the size of a small car, and then eight tentacles with razor-sharp points clicking against the walls and the floor as it scurried closer. The central body had a display screen showing Maculte’s face, with his maniacal eyes all but bursting into flame, focused on me with intense hatred.
“Piffle,” I whispered.
“Delphine,” the octopus hissed, with steam billowing from numerous vents. The robot crawled over an office chair that’d been washed into the hallway by the force of the vanished flood. Then, with an evil grin on Maculte’s face, the robot reached back with two of its tentacles and sliced the chair apart, chopping with its razor-sharp tentacles until it was nothing but a heap of confetti.
“Delphine,” the octopus said again. A panel slid open and a tube came out, hissing as it sprayed a vapor that dissolved the nearest wall.
“This is seriously piffle,” I said, summing up the entire situation. It’d only been two or three seconds since I’d seen the robot and I’d spent my time doing nothing but hovering in place with my jetbelt, wondering what to do.
“Delphine?” I heard, but it wasn’t the robot this time; it was Liz, from my phone.
“Have to go,” I told her. “I’m being attacked by a giant robot octopus.”
“Oh,” she said. “You really should concentrate on that.” She disconnected.
The roboctopus was coming closer, charging forward, and I was realizing that I didn’t have very much experience with fighting a robot octopus. I was honestly pretty okay with that, feeling no great desire to add to my total.
So I decided to fly away.
Which is when the octopus grabbed me.
One of the tentacles whipped out, wrapping around me in a crushing grip and then smacking me against the side of the hallway. I fell, stunned, as the tentacle released me and then poised for a brief moment above me, before thrusting its razor-sharp point downward.
“Eek,” I said, or possibly it was some other scream, because I wasn’t keeping track of my screams at the moment, deeming it far more important to keep track of razor-sharp octopus tentacles.
I tried to dodge.
This worked out better than I’d hoped, but also much worse. Better, because I did in fact dodge the incoming tentacle, so yay for that and let’s have a round of applause for my jetbelt, which had, in my panic, whooshed into life, sending me sledding along the hallway floor, away from the roboctopus. But also, boo, because I slid right into a washing machine that the floodwaters had washed into the hall, a washing machine that thunked wide open with my impact and covered me with the Red Death Tea Society’s laundry.
Boxer shorts.
It was mostly boxer shorts.
“Really?” I chastised the washing machine and the boxer shorts, which did not look contrite, because of course they were inanimate objects and had no brains at all, but if they did have brains they’d have been saying, “Delphine, you should pay more attention to the roboctopus.”
Skrikktt!
That was the sound of the knife-point of a robot tentacle slicing into the floor only a few inches away from my toes, which is about a mile too close.
Thump thump sssfff WHOMPP!
That was the sound of a seventh grade girl trying to run away, but getting her feet tangled in a pair of boxer shorts and falling face-first onto a hallway floor.
Skrk skrk skrk, etc., etc.
Those were the sounds of robotic tentacles moving quickly down the hallw
ay, scratching against the walls and floor and ceiling as the roboctopus scrambled forward, and there were many other noises as well, like the bursts of electricity exploding away from three crackling rods that had extended from the robot, and there was a continuous hissing as the acidic cloud dissolved everything it touched, and there was a horrendous scraping noise as the robot pulled itself through the hall, like a titan’s fingernails scraping against a chalkboard, and there were some of the world’s choicest curses as I summed up my feelings on the situation. Also, there was a horrendous wrenching sound as the robot reached the washing machine and simply ripped it in half, pulling it apart like the world’s noisiest taffy, and lastly there was the soft thupp thupp thupp of a terrier bounding to my rescue.
“Here’s a good time for dogs!” Bosper said, charging past me, his head held low as he dashed straight for the incredibly dangerous robot octopus, which was at least a hundred times his size.
“Bosper, no!” I yelled, thinking of what I’d seen the robot do to the washing machine and the chair, neither of which were as lovable as Bosper . . . but were certainly much more durable.
“Big fight!” Bosper said, dodging one tentacle by leaping over it, landing on another tentacle that was slashing for him, running along it for a couple of steps before ducking under a burst of electricity, jumping back to the floor to avoid a cloud of acid, leaping quickly to one side as a spear-pointed tentacle came hurtling down from above to slam inches deep in the hallway floor. With that, Bosper hopped from one flailing tentacle to another until he was standing on top of the robot.
“Find chewy!” he said. He bent down and starting biting, plunging his teeth into the control box.
The tentacles all went crazy, slashing for the terrier, cutting at him, firing bursts of electricity, but each and every time he was attacked, Bosper would coolly step to one side at the last millisecond, then yell, “Find chewy!” and resume biting.
The robot shivered . . .
. . . and shook . . .
. . . and then the tentacles went limp. Maculte’s face on the display screen shorted out. A huge burst of steam, long and slow, billowed out from behind the robot as it crumpled to the hallway floor.
“Robot has farted?” Bosper asked, poised atop the inert robot, looking back to the steam vent.
And then I scooped up the terrier into a truly monstrous hug, because I’d been terrified he was lost for all time, which is an entirely understandable fear when you’ve seen a friend helplessly surfing down a hallway in the flooding headquarters of a gang of super-assassins, only to reappear in a fight with a deadly roboctopus.
“The dog is squished,” Bosper said.
“Don’t care,” I said, continuing to squish him, because of all the relief I was feeling, and also because I was still wet and Bosper was reasonably absorbent, so I was basically toweling off.
It was at that point that my phone activated and I heard Liz’s voice say, “Delphine? How’s things going with that octopus? I’m asking because we’re in an exceptionally large amount of trouble.”
It was at that moment that I heard footsteps.
And turned around.
To see Maculte.
I pride myself on how calm I can remain in scary situations. Dad has always taught me that you can work yourself out of any difficult situation . . . as long as you keep your composure.
“Ahhh!” I yelled, completely panicking and tossing the nearest weapons I could find at Maculte. In this case, “the nearest weapons” happened to be several pairs of soggy boxer shorts, most of which wrapped around his face so that he looked like a mummy with boxer shorts instead of bandages.
“Yuck,” Maculte said.
And then he said “Ooof!” because I ran at him and delivered one of my all-time very best double-twisting flying kicks, and in fact the only double-twisting flying kick I’ve ever accomplished, because although I do practice these kicks on a store mannequin I have on my adventure training course, I invariably miss (the spinning part makes me too dizzy to be accurate) and end up falling into what I’ve named the Volcano’s Caldera, which is more accurately a mud pit.
“The girl . . . attacks the best friend?” Bosper said. His voice was utterly confused, totally heartbroken, and had many other nuances best summed up by being the exact tone of voice I would use if someone stole my birthday cake. This was notably odd coming from Bosper, but I couldn’t let it bother me during a fight with the deadliest man in all existence.
“Shin kick!” I yelled, kicking Maculte in the shin.
“Gahh,” he said.
“Cannonball!” I shouted, driving my head into Maculte’s stomach. He made a noise like that of a giraffe trying to cough up a soccer ball, although in this case the noise was somewhat muffled, since his head was still covered by a thick layer of soggy boxer shorts.
“Do not be attackings!” Bosper pleaded. He was talking to me, not to Maculte, even though Maculte was the head of the Red Death Tea Society and therefore very much in need of attackings.
“Shrieking Vulture Foot Stomp!” I yelled, stomping on Maculte’s foot, having decided that just calling it a foot stomp sounded far too commonplace. Maculte moaned in agony. Strangely, Bosper moaned in sympathy and then . . . as Maculte fell to the floor holding his foot in pain . . . Bosper very reluctantly turned to me.
And growled.
What was going on? Why was Bosper mad at me? And why had he called Maculte his best friend? Had something happened to Bosper after he’d disappeared? Had he turned . . . traitor? Had Maculte brainwashed the terrier’s mind?
“Give back Bosper’s mind!” I yelled at Maculte, nudging him. And by “nudging him” I mean kicking him five times in the rump when he was trying to stand up.
“Delphine,” he said. “Hold on for a—”
“Tornado Punch!” I yelled, punching him in the jaw. And then Maculte made a noise I’ve come to recognize. It was a familiar noise, one I’ve heard time and time again, and in fact there are some who would argue that I’ve heard it too often, but that would be overly judgmental and also make me feel bad, so enough of all that.
Anyway, the noise was that of Nathan Bannister being knocked unconscious.
In specific, it was the noise he makes when I, Delphine Cooper, knock him out.
“Huh?” I said, as Maculte crumpled to the hallway floor, falling right on top of Bosper, who was trying to catch him. This was unfortunate for Bosper, because while terriers can catch sticks and Frisbees and a few other objects, their talents are restricted to catching small things.
“Bosper is catching!” the terrier said.
This was followed by an impact.
“Bosper has not been catching and is now trapped,” the terrier said, from somewhere beneath Maculte. There was a moment of struggle, and then a sharp little noise.
“The dog has farted,” Bosper said from beneath Maculte. “But this is okay.”
There was more struggle, and then the sounds of Bosper sniffing.
“The dog has done wrong with the farting,” he said, after his sensitive nose had come into play. But I was no longer paying attention to him, because while Bosper had been struggling to crawl out from under Maculte, he’d caused a folded note to fall out of Maculte’s pocket.
It had my name on it.
I picked it up.
It said . . .
"Delphine, in case you've knocked me out again (78.6 percent chance) I'm leaving this note so that you'll know I've disguised myself as Maculte."
“Oops,” I said, speaking this in an apologetic manner to Nate, who was apparently disguised as Maculte. I leaned over and peeled several pairs of boxer shorts (ick) off his face and chest, hoping he would look like Nate again, but he still looked exactly like Maculte, so much so that I wanted to kick him again. I looked back to the note instead.
It said . . .
"Please do not kick me (I calculate a 65.4 percent chance of you wanting to kick me) no matter how much I look like Maculte. Hopefully Bosper
will be there with you (82.7 percent chance) and he'll be able to confirm that I'm Nate, because my disguise can't fool his sense of smell, and he'll know it's me."
“Is this Nate?” I asked Bosper, pulling the terrier out from beneath the unconscious person who was almost assuredly Nate, based on the scientific premise of how I’d knocked him out, which is something I do.
“Yes,” Bosper said.
“Oh,” I said. This was putting a damper on my first official defeat of Maculte, and even on my first ever successful double-twisting flying kick. Still, I could hardly be blamed for this unfortunate incident because Nate looked so much like Maculte that I still wanted to kick him.
The note said . . .
"There is a small can of Knock Out Knockout Gas in my shirt. Could you spray it in my face, please?"
I reached inside his shirt and grabbed the first thing I could find, which turned out to be a mechanical beetle.
“Gahh!” I said, tossing it aside. It made a thakk thakk thakk sound as it bounced to a stop, then Bosper sniffed at it, accidentally flicking a switch, and the beetle came to life and scurried away, disappearing down the hall.
Still resisting the overwhelming urge to kick my disguised friend, I tried again to find the can of Knock Out Knockout Gas, reaching inside Nate’s shirt and pulling out a small metal cube that hummed when I touched it. I put it aside and reached into Nate’s shirt again, pulling out a glass vial full of tiny swirling robots, and then a remote control device labeled “French Toast and/or Kraken,” and then a pencil-length mass of entwined wires that were making a clicking noise, and some sort of display device with four different screens showing blinking dots, and then a spray can labeled “Toe Stub” and a ray gun with “The Bat’s Bell” written on the handle in glowing green ink.
“What is all this stuff?” I asked, tossing aside a few more items, accidentally bonking a glass globe (full of swirling numbers) off Bosper’s head, but not quite knocking him out, for which I was mildly proud.