Belzora nodded. “A sensible follower. What is your name?”
“They call me Mr. Clean,” he answered, which brought a cackle from Holga. Spencer had never seen anyone laugh at the Sweeper warlock and live to tell about it. But Mr. Clean was no longer in charge. “Reginald McClean,” he amended, head slightly bowed.
Walter was shaking his head, face ashen white. “This was planned?” he mumbled.
“Don’t you see?” Mr. Clean said to Walter and Spencer. “You’ve been set up.”
“It was a trap.” Walter’s voice was barely audible, the shock and disappointment ripe in his expression.
“Much more than a trap,” answered Mr. Clean. “This was a way to get you to do the hard work. Professor DeFleur’s translation told you just what you wanted to hear. We let you steal Holga and Belzora. You already had the School Board,” he said. “And we didn’t know how else to get the spit of an Auran.” He grinned. “We used you to reopen the source and bring back the Witches.”
Belzora turned to Walter. “You did not welcome our arrival, warlock?”
Walter shook his head. “Not like this. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”
“Your majesties,” Mr. Clean said to the Witches. “This man is a traitor to your cause. He has raised an organization of Rebels who ignore my orders and continue to fight Toxites.”
“Rebel!” Ninfa shouted, pointing a finger at Walter.
“Heretic!” Holga shrieked.
Belzora remained calm. “Is this true, warlock?”
“Yes,” Walter said. “The Rebel Underground works to uphold education. We thought it was the desire of the Founding Witches.”
“Now you see you are mistaken,” Belzora said. “We mean to cleanse the world. To start civilization anew with our chosen students at the Academy.” She reached out her thin hand. “Give me the bronze nails.”
Walter drew his clenched fist over his heart. “You will not have them.”
“Do you really think you can resist us?” asked Belzora. “Give me the nails!”
Walter stepped behind Spencer’s cage. With his free hand, he reached through the bars and twisted the rake handle. The metal prongs snapped away and the rake fell to the hallway floor.
Finally free, Spencer instantly reached for the weapons on his janitorial belt. But Walter, standing close behind, rested a reassuring hand on the boy’s shoulder. He lowered his head and spoke quietly in Spencer’s ear. “You’re a good boy, Spencer Zumbro. I’m proud of you.” He patted Spencer softly on the back.
“Give me the nails!” Belzora was screaming, ratty black hair shaking in her fury.
Walter Jamison stepped away from Spencer, hand clenched impossibly tight. “I will not give in to your demands.” Spencer saw the Rebel warlock swallow, his Adam’s apple sliding nervously along his throat. “There is so much good in this world,” he said. “And I will never stop fighting for that.”
“So be it,” Belzora said. “You have made new enemies today.”
Her hand shot out with alarming speed, catching Walter by the wrist. Spencer heard his elbow crack, and Walter cried out in pain. Belzora pulled him, twisting his arm until his clenched fist was just above the gurgling Glop source.
Through the pain and intensity, Walter’s eyes found Spencer. The old warlock opened his mouth and whispered one word.
“Run.”
Then Belzora forced Walter’s hand open. The Witch’s mouth twisted in a cry of dismay at what she found.
The bronze nails were not there! Walter’s hand was empty!
The Founding Witches screamed in unison, their shriek an awful harpy sound.
“Kill!” Belzora yelled. “Kill him!”
Mr. Clean stepped forward, his deadly rag already twisted into a tight rope. Spencer opened his mouth to scream, but his lungs seemed unable to draw air.
Clean’s rag snapped through the air, rippling with magic as it struck Walter in the chest with a terrible crack! Then he was gone without a trace. That goodly old man, Spencer’s friend and mentor, reduced instantly to a wisp of nothingness.
Walter Jamison was dead.
Chapter 56
“Retreat!”
Spencer’s mind was numb. It was as though all his senses had turned off. He stared blindly at the spot where Walter had stood.
This couldn’t be real. Not Walter.
Then Belzora turned her wrinkled face toward him, and Walter’s final word echoed in Spencer’s mind.
“Run.”
Spencer leapt forward, extending his razorblade and slashing through the nearest Sweeper. The Filth man fell, his Glopified half melting away and leaving him unconscious. Several others tried to lay their hands on him, but the latex glove worked its magic, helping him slide easily through their grasp.
Spencer’s feet thundered through the hallway. His senses seemed heightened now, and he was painfully aware of the pursuing Sweepers right behind. He’d never be able to outrun them. They would capture him, and Walter’s death would be for nothing.
Tears streamed down Spencer’s cheeks, and his heart raced as he fought the urge to throw up. He stumbled and went down, striking his knee on the hard floor.
He lay there, waiting for death. Waiting for the evil Witches to overtake him.
A Rubbish Sweeper dove from above. But before her talon hands could rend him, Marv leapt around the corner, delivering a powerful blow with a pushbroom.
The big janitor seized Spencer with one hand and pulled him around the corner. Penny, Dez, and Bookworm rushed past them, meeting the incoming Sweepers head-on. Dez opened his mouth, using a stored-up belch to fill the hallway with black dust.
“What happened?” Daisy asked.
Spencer was shaking. He couldn’t speak.
“Where’s the boss?” Marv asked. “Where’s Walter?”
“He’s . . .” Spencer squinted his eyes shut. “Dead.” The last word was barely audible. Daisy gasped, her big eyes instantly filling with tears. Spencer took a sobbing gasp of air and tried to explain the horror of their situation. “The Witches . . . they killed him.”
Spencer sensed the fear unravel in his companions. Spencer opened his eyes again. Closing them only made him relive Walter’s final moment. Belzora had opened the warlock’s hand, but the bronze nails weren’t there.
Then Spencer remembered something—a soft pat on the back as Walter had whispered in his ear.
Spencer reached around, putting his hand into the spillproof pouch on the back of his janitorial belt. Even with his latex glove on, Spencer could clearly feel the three sharp bronze nails that Walter had slipped into his pouch.
Spencer held the nails out for the others to see. “We can’t let the Witches get these,” he said. “Walter died for that.”
Marv was slumped against the wall, the strength seeming to have leaked out of him. His eyes were full of tears, but he blinked them away, jaw tightening in rage.
“Marv,” Alan tried to say, but the janitor leapt to his feet, a terrible force to be reckoned with. Drawing a razorblade and a dustpan shield, he let out a roar of grief and jumped around the corner, fighting with the strength of ten men.
“We have to go,” Spencer said, rising on shaky legs. “We have to get away from them.”
Alan nodded, pulling Daisy and Spencer into a tight hug. “Bernard is on his way,” said Alan. “He went to get the truck.”
Just then, Big Bertha’s headlights glinted through the glass doors at the end of the hallway.
“Retreat!” Alan yelled, pulling the kids toward the exit. Spencer went without hesitation, the bronze nails now clenched firmly in his own fist.
Still unaware of Walter’s death, Dez, Penny, and the Thingamajunk fell into a quick retreat. But Marv refused to fall back, determined to avenge his old boss.
“Bookworm,” Daisy said, when she saw what was happening. “Go get Marv!”
The Thingamajunk bounded back into the fray, seizing the hefty janitor with one trash arm and dragging hi
m down the hallway.
Bernard flung open the school doors, and the Rebels began piling into the cab of the garbage truck. The trashcannons were armed and ready, and as soon as the Rebels were clear, Bernard slammed his fist on the red button, firing a high-speed slug of garbage at the Sweepers in the hallway.
Big Bertha peeled away from Welcher Elementary School, leaving behind the source of all Glop and the Founding Witches who were supposed to be their allies.
Everything had gone wrong. Walter was dead. The Witches were bad.
Spencer took a deep breath and forced the tears to stop. He stared at the three little bronze nails in his gloved palm.
An old memory came back to Spencer. At the very beginning of all this, Walter Jamison had told Spencer that he feared a war was brewing. It seemed the warlock was right. The war was upon them now. And Spencer was determined to win.
He closed his fist around the nails. He would win it for Walter.
Acknowledgments
Acknowledgments
Thank you, reader, for sticking with this series. I wouldn’t be anywhere without you. It’s been a pleasure meeting you at schools and book signings. I hope you enjoyed Strike of the Sweepers.
I was a Sweeper once. No, seriously! Many of my ideas for this series came while I worked as a part-time custodian at a local middle school. Since I worked only a few hours each evening, I never earned the official title of janitor. The nightly crew was called something else: We were Sweepers.
The team at Shadow Mountain continue to amaze me with their support and attention. Thanks to Chris Schoebinger and Heidi Taylor for their direction and guidance, to Emily Watts for her editorial work, to Richard Erickson for his art direction, and to Karen Zelnick and Mary Beth Allen for organizing many of my events and tours.
Thanks to Brandon Dorman, whom I finally met face to face! There isn’t a nicer guy out there. Thanks for providing another eye-catching cover. Dez would be very pleased with his rippling muscles and black talons.
Thanks to Rubin Pfeffer for representing my work in the Janitors series. His advice and guidance have meant so much to me over the years.
I want to thank fellow author Chad Morris (Cragbridge Hall series) and the Jammin’ Janitors—Sam, Doug, and Mike—for spending lots of time and effort to help launch past books.
To my neighborhood friends growing up—Aubrey, Lance, Nate, Andrew, and Nick. Our countless hours of imaginative games helped shape me into the writer that I am today. Thanks for always coming along on another adventure.
Thanks to my parents and to my brother and sisters and their families. Thanks for always being interested in my many projects.
And the greatest thanks goes to Connie, for always being there. I could never do this without you!
Keep reading! Keep imagining! I can promise a lot of excitement in the final book!
Reading Guide
Reading Guide
1. Glopified squeegees open portals to let people travel great distances quickly. If you could use a squeegee to instantly travel anywhere, where would you go?
2. If you were holding a Sweeper potion, would you choose to take it and transform? Or would you choose to stay human? Why?
3. Which kind of Sweeper do you think is most powerful: Rubbish, Filth, or Grime? Why? If you had to become a Sweeper, what kind would you want to be? Why do you think Dez made the choice he did?
4. Spencer learns that Mr. Clean is known by several names. If you had a fake name, what would it be? Who would you tell it to?
5. The BEM’s secret laboratory is hidden deep in the Atlantic Ocean. If you built a secret laboratory, where would you hide it? What would it be like?
6. When Spencer needs someone to take care of the Manualis Custodem he chooses Min. Who would you trust to take care of something that is valuable to you?
7. The Dustbin allows you to use your imagination to create familiar objects out of dust. What would you create?
8. The Rebels show mercy and try to save Garth Hadley from the TPs. Have you ever helped someone who was unkind to you? How did it make you feel?
9. What’s your favorite magical janitorial weapon used by the Rebels? If you had access to magical glop, what janitorial tool or item would you make magical, and what could it do?
10. The arrival of the Founding Witches turned out not to have the effect the Rebels were hoping for. Have you ever been disappointed by something or someone? What did you do to deal with it?
Strike of the Sweepers Page 27