Strike of the Sweepers

by Tyler Whitesides

  He saw a dim glow from the gate. That would be his dad’s Glopified flashlight. As Alan brought it around, the little beam flared, darting to illuminate the Sweepers’ bodies and the force-field fence.

  Alan and Walter stepped through the gate, and Spencer watched the flashlight beam change directions. The two men moved at a rather slow pace. At least, it seemed that way to Spencer, whose arm quickly grew stiff from his leaning out to reach the fuse box and hold the little switch.

  From time to time, one of the floodlights would flare as someone’s grip slipped on the switch. Spencer did it twice, and Daisy more times than Spencer could count. Dez was the only one not to falter. When his arm grew tired, Spencer saw him unfurl his wings and flap in the air beside his light pole.

  The call finally came from Alan. Spencer could barely make out the Port-a-Potty in the dark center of the construction site. He couldn’t see his dad or Walter standing beside it, but the flashlight was turned off, and Alan’s words carried well enough.

  “All right!” he shouted. “Come on!”

  Grateful that the tedious task was over, Spencer released the switch, and his set of floodlights poured brightness into the construction area. One at a time, the big lights turned on as the Rebels abandoned their posts and met up at the gate.

  Penny nudged the Grime Sweeper with her foot. “Can’t have more than about five minutes left,” she muttered.

  “Can’t you give him another shot?” Daisy asked.

  Penny shook her head. “Once he’s out, he’s out. A second spray doesn’t make it last any longer.”

  Bernard was down on one knee, just inside the fence.

  “Looks like Hansel and Gretel left us a trail of bread crumbs,” said the garbologist.

  Daisy peered over his shoulder. “I don’t know. It looks like duct tape to me.” In the brightness of the floodlights, Spencer could clearly see little strips of tape stuck to the ground, each a footfall apart.

  Bernard rose and extended his right foot. He set it down right on top of the strip of tape and shifted his weight. “We’ll have to go single file,” he said. “Don’t step anywhere except on the tape.”

  Dez made a face. “This is a waste of my time. I can just fly over there.”

  Penny pointed up. “Be my guest. But don’t blame me when your wings hit that force field and you blow up.”

  “Fine.” Dez folded his arms. “But I’m going first.”

  “Too late, kid,” said Bernard, who was hopping to the third piece of tape. “I’m already on the trail. Get in line.”

  Dez cut in front of Spencer and Daisy, while Penny seemed satisfied to take the rear. They moved at a steady pace, trusting the markings on the trail with every step. The footfalls were mostly regular, although every so often a leap was required. Spencer didn’t see a single sign of any mines. He believed they were there. From what he’d seen up on the pole, his dad’s flashlight had been dancing between Glopified objects all the way across the site.

  The duct-tape markings didn’t follow a straight line, but wove gradually toward the Port-a-Potty. Dez’s wings kept flicking out, and Spencer was afraid that he might take flight at any moment.

  “This reminds me of a place we went camping last summer,” Daisy said. Spencer didn’t know why she wanted to make conversation at such a crucial time. “We had to hop from rock to rock to get across a little stream. And if you slipped off, you got wet.”

  “Good idea,” Spencer said. “Think of it like that.” Anything to put her at ease.

  “Except this is different,” Dez said. “Slip off now and you’re dead.”

  Daisy was silent for a moment, hopping from tape to tape. “Yeah,” she said. “This isn’t as fun.”

  Spencer tried to center each step over the strip of duct tape, but it became tricky as the trail led them over a mound of broken concrete. He leapt from chunk to chunk, sometimes sliding a bit on the sloped surface.

  “Keep your head down!” Bernard shouted as they neared the top of the pile. Spencer instinctively ducked, having not even realized that he was dangerously close to the top of the force field. It was an added challenge to follow the markings while hunched over, and Spencer could hear the soft, magical hum of the invisible net overhead.

  They were still some distance from the Port-a-Potty when Penny made the announcement that everyone was dreading.

  “They’re waking up!” Her voice was an urgent whisper, and Spencer didn’t need to check over his shoulder to know that she was right. They had taken too long.

  Spencer remembered the disorienting feeling of reviving from green spray. That might buy them another few seconds, but then the Sweepers would surely spot them and raise the alarm.

  “Run!” Penny hissed.

  Bernard took off, his clumsy rubber boots touching down only for a brief second on each piece of tape. Dez was moving fast too, and Spencer was determined to keep up.

  It was awkward to run when the marked footfalls had been set by a person walking. Spencer thought he must have looked ridiculous, like someone hopping over hot coals. He was barely looking where to put his feet down, following so closely behind Dez.

  Had Spencer been thinking more clearly, he wouldn’t have trusted his path to the Sweeper kid in front of him. He’d learned not to trust Dez with anything, and in the next second, Spencer remembered why.

  Dez was leaping along, only yards from the Port-a-Potty, and skipping every other marking. Dez jumped, his legs tucking up under him as his black wings stretched out. The boy had misjudged the trail’s direction and veered too far to the left. And Spencer, following too closely, went right after him.

  As Dez’s Rubbish wings glided him safely back to the pathway, Spencer’s foot came down hard on an unmarked spot of ground.

  He froze, fully expecting a burst of little Toxites to erupt from the ground at his feet. When nothing happened, he exhaled slowly and looked down.

  “Don’t move,” Penny said. Bernard and Dez had reached the Port-a-Potty, and Daisy was almost there.

  “What am I stepping on?” Spencer asked. He could see a line running under the sole of his right shoe.

  Penny, still safely on the marked trail, stooped to examine it. “Looks like a rubber band,” she said. “It’s long. Stretched tight. The ends are buried in the dirt.”

  Spencer felt a trickle of sweat drip down his side. His eyes flicked back to the gate where the Grime Sweeper was hunched over the Filth guy. The guards were still coming around. At least the Rebels hadn’t been spotted . . . yet.

  “What’s the holdup?” Alan called.

  “I think I’m standing on a trigger,” Spencer answered.

  Daisy’s eyes went wide. “You’re standing on Tigger?”

  Penny reached out a hand and touched Spencer’s shoulder. “You’re just going to have to make a run for it.” Then she turned back to the group of Rebels at the Port-a-Potty. “Let’s open that door and get inside.”

  Walter grabbed the handle, and the door of the Port-a-Potty swung open without a fuss. The floodlights shone inside, and Spencer could see that it looked no different from every portable toilet he’d spent his life avoiding.

  Seven people. It was going to be a very tight fit.

  The Rebels were still squeezing in when Penny turned to Spencer. She released a preemptive spray of vanilla air freshener around the boy. “You ready?”

  He nodded. Spencer tensed his body, mentally preparing for whatever might happen when he took his foot off that Glopified rubber band.

  “Go!” Penny said, and Spencer darted forward at full speed.

  Spencer heard the twang of the stretched rubber band as the two buried ends ripped from the ground. Attached to each end was an Agitation Bucket brimming with little angry Toxites.

  The contracting rubber band pulled the two buckets out of the dirt and into the air with tremendous force. Spencer barely ducked as the buckets collided above his head. Plastic cracked and the Toxites came spewing out like water from a broke
n pipe.

  There was no time to fight. In a hailstorm of monsters, Penny had Spencer’s arm, pulling him along, heedless of the duct-tape trail markers. Spencer knew his foot triggered at least one more Toxite mine, and he felt the sting of sharp quills on the back of his legs.

  His hand dropped to his janitorial belt, unclipping a dustpan and twisting the handle. The metal pieces fanned into an impressive shield, and he held it over his head as he sprinted. Dive-bombing Rubbishes pelted off his defenses, and Penny used a razorblade sword to swipe blindly at the Toxites over her shoulder.

  When Spencer reached the Port-a-Potty, the other Rebels were packed inside. He threw himself through the small doorway, slamming up against his dad. Penny was right behind him. She seized the flimsy plastic door, hurled a chalkboard eraser back at the oncoming Toxites, and pulled the door closed.

  Chapter 22

  “It’s a bit cramped.”

  It was much darker inside the Port-a-Potty. Only the tiniest bit of light from the floodlights crept in around the doorway. The Port-a-Potty seemed to be under attack from every angle. Angry little Toxites slammed repeatedly into the plastic walls, some scratching and pecking to find a way in.

  Then, gradually, the activity slowed as Penny’s chalk bomb paralyzed the monsters. It grew still and eerily quiet.

  “So,” Bernard said, “this is the secret BEM laboratory?” He shouldered up against Spencer and Alan. “It’s a bit cramped.”

  “This is only the entrance to the lab,” Walter said. “Though I don’t quite see where to go.”

  “We better figure it out quick,” said Penny. “Those Sweeper guards have probably radioed in for backup by now. The chalk cloud outside won’t hold them off for long.”

  “Agnes said we’d need a Sweeper once we got inside the Port-a-Potty,” said Alan.

  “Need me to do something awesome?” Dez said. He was taking up a lot of real estate, with his wings curling around the walls of the small booth.

  A flashlight clicked on. It was dim at first, illuminating under Alan’s chin, as if he were about to tell a ghost story. Then the bright beam shot out and honed in on Dez.

  “Hey!” he said. “Don’t shine that thing in my eyes!”

  Alan struggled to point the flashlight away from Dez. When he managed, the bulb dimmed once more. “We’re looking for something Glopified in here,” he explained. Since there was no way to maneuver in the close quarters, Alan passed the flashlight so the Rebels could take turns shining it at things.

  “I swear,” Dez said, “if somebody shines me in the face again . . .”

  “It’s not our fault you’re so big and Glopified,” Spencer said.

  “I think I found it!” Daisy’s voice squeaked from the corner of the Port-a-Potty. Spencer craned his neck around, trying to glimpse what the girl had illuminated with the magical flashlight. “I was sitting on it!”

  It was the toilet seat.

  Glancing under Walter’s arm, with his face pressed to his dad’s chest, Spencer could see that the flashlight was beaming brightly on the plastic seat of the Port-a-Potty toilet.

  Walter reached out and lifted the seat. He examined it briefly, then let it fall back into the downward position. “The light is only catching the seat ring,” said the warlock.

  Spencer was relieved. As long as there was nothing magical about the hole, he could deal with the seat.

  “What should we do with it?” Daisy asked.

  “Don’t you mean, what should I do with it?” Dez said. “That Agnes lady said it would take a Sweeper to get into the lab. Maybe I’m supposed to bust off the lid,” said Dez. “Throw it against the wall like a Frisbee.”

  “Let him open and close it,” Bernard said. “Maybe that’ll be the ticket.”

  It was the general consensus of the group that Dez needed to be in contact with the Glopified toilet seat. There was a considerable amount of shuffling and grumbling in the Port-a-Potty as Dez made his way over to the seat.

  “Watch it!”

  “That was my foot!”

  “Ouch!”

  “What’s that smell?”

  Then Dez was finally in position. He reached out a taloned hand and lifted the seat. In true Dez fashion, he slammed it down a little harder than necessary.

  “Well, that didn’t work,” Dez grumbled. “Maybe I should crack it in half.”

  “What is it with you and breaking things?” Spencer said.

  “Just be glad it’s not your nose, Doofus,” Dez retorted.

  “You’re just jealous because I actually have a nose instead of a beak,” said Spencer.

  “Beaks are cooler than noses,” said Dez. “I can peck stuff.”

  “Excuse me,” Bernard cut in, “but I don’t give a Sweeper’s behind what your beak can do. We’ve got to find the way into the lab.”

  “Sweeper’s behind,” Penny repeated, much too serious to take it for the joke it was meant to be. “Sweeper’s behind . . . Glopified toilet seat . . .” She snapped her fingers. “That has to be it! Sit down, Dez.”

  “Wait,” Daisy said. “I was sitting on the seat earlier, and nothing happened.”

  Bernard scratched his head. “You think Dez’s bum is the key to get into the BEM’s secret lab?”

  “He is a Sweeper,” Alan pointed out.

  “No way,” said the kid. “Sitting down is boring. I’ve got better skills than that.”

  “Just sit down on the seat,” Walter demanded.

  “Fine.” Dez shoved his legs into the group, tucked his wings in tightly, and sat down on the plastic toilet seat.

  The Port-a-Potty responded instantly. It lurched and shot straight into the air like a rocket. Spencer could feel the pressure of gravity almost strong enough to buckle his knees.

  “What’s happening?” Daisy cried.

  “Whatever you do, Dez,” said Penny, “don’t stand up!”

  The Port-a-Potty jerked hard, and everyone inside thumped against the back wall. The flimsy plastic door flapped open on its hinges, and Spencer caught sight of the earth far below. His head reeled with the motion and he thought he might be sick.

  Dez was clinging to the toilet seat with both hands, holding his backside tight against the plastic ring while shouting gleefully as though he were on a roller coaster.

  The flying Port-a-Potty was making a gentle turn through the sky. Out the dangerously open door, Spencer saw that they were now over a vast expanse of utter darkness. He couldn’t tell what it was until he saw moonlight reflected on the waves.

  They were flying over the Atlantic Ocean!

  The Port-a-Potty lurched again and began a quick descent toward the water.

  “I think we better get that door shut!” Alan yelled above the rushing wind.

  Penny, holding tight to the door frame with one hand, leaned out and grasped the loose door. She grunted hard, jerking it against the wind and slamming it shut. She found a locking latch and switched it from vacant to occupied, barring the door closed just as the Port-a-Potty plunged into the Atlantic.

  Spencer could sense the change in outside pressure. It was quieter but seemed heavier. A tiny rivulet of water ran along the seam of the door, but other than that, Spencer was surprised to find the portable booth completely dry.

  “Incredible,” whispered Walter. “The BEM laboratory is under the ocean. No wonder we’ve never come close to finding it.”

  “They must have more funding than the Rebels,” said Bernard.

  Daisy shuddered. “Yeah, but at least we don’t have to worry about sharks. I don’t think sharks eat Port-a-Pottys.” She giggled nervously. “Do they?”

  They continued downward for some time. The deep sounds of the ocean seemed to press in on them. In the utter darkness, the walls were not visible, and Spencer couldn’t figure out how the Port-a-Potty wasn’t collapsing under the pressure of the sea.

  “Umm.” Dez broke the silence. “I kind of have to use the toilet. But for real. Sitting here isn’t helping. Can I ge
t up now?”

  “No,” Walter said. “You must stay seated. There’s no telling what will happen if you stand up.”

  “If it makes you feel any better,” Spencer said, his face pressed into his dad’s armpit, “it’s not like the rest of us are really that comfy either.”

  The Port-a-Potty lurched and came to an obvious halt. The Rebels stood cramped and silent for a whole minute, unsure how to proceed. Then Penny unlatched the door and tested it slowly.

  There was no resistance—the plastic door swung on its hinges. A bit of water dripped from the top of the doorway, as though they’d just weathered a minor thunderstorm instead of diving deep into the Atlantic Ocean.

  They had docked at the very entrance to the BEM’s secret laboratory.

  Chapter 23

  “Who’s it going to be?”

  An empty hallway opened before them, with a row of lights built into panels along the wall. Penny was the first to spring into the hallway, drawing her twin mops from her janitorial belt. Then, one by one, the inhabitants of the Port-a-Potty spilled out, like clowns from a circus car. Dez was the last one to leave. He stood up and stretched his legs, moaning as though he’d been forced to sit for hours.

  Leaving the door to the Port-a-Potty open, the team moved slowly down the hallway. Spencer drew his dustpan shield and kept a razorblade closed in his other hand.

  They stepped out of the hallway and into a large, sterile room. Stainless-steel tables were set at perfect right angles, with beakers and test tubes carefully arranged across their surfaces. There was an acrid smell in the air, with a familiar sulphuric undertone of Glop. A Bunsen burner flamed in the corner, as though an experiment had been abandoned halfway through.

  And the awful silence seemed to weigh as much as all the ocean water above them.

  “Where is everybody?” Daisy finally whispered.

  “Not very hospitable,” said Bernard. “I expected a welcome party.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Walter said. Spencer could tell that the old warlock was equally disturbed by the empty lab but didn’t want to show it. “We’re looking for the bronze nail,” said Walter. “We’ll be waiting for Mr. Clean. Once he arrives, we take Belzora, extract the nail, and squeegee back to Earl.”