Warehouse 13: A Touch of Fever

by Greg Cox

  “And what about all these innocent people?” She nodded at the comatose civilians while keeping the Tesla aimed at Worrall. The meadow looked like the site of a nerve gas attack. “They look like they’re feeling better now?”

  “Not my problem,” he said coldly. “I’ve paid my dues. It’s their turn to suffer.”

  Okay, that cinched it. Unlike Nadia, Calvin Worrall was not a nice person. Myka just wished she had a better idea of how to wipe the smirk from his face. To think that those same gloves had once tended gently to the sick, wounded, and dying. Clara Barton must be rolling over in her grave.

  “You do not want to mess with the Secret Service,” she warned, switching from good cop to bad cop all on her own. She used the same steely gaze and manner she had once employed to disarm presidential assassins. “Hand over the gloves. That’s an order.”

  “Your badge doesn’t impress me, Agent.” He snickered. “As your partner found out back in Fairfield.” A cruel grin taunted Myka. He shaded his eyes with one hand and made a show of looking for someone. “So where is he anyway?”

  “Right behind you, buster!”

  Pete could barely stand, let alone walk. Sneaking up on Worrall from behind had taken pretty much the last of his willpower. His head was spinning and he could hardly breathe. Every time he coughed, his mouth tasted of blood. Darkness encroached on his field of vision. His gut felt like a ferret was trying to dig its way out of his stomach. His legs wobbled like those licorice sticks Myka was always nibbling on. Sweat bathed his face and soaked through his clothes. Alternating hot and cold flashes washed over him, so that he was burning up one moment and chilled to the marrow the next. A metal pole was thrust into the ground nearby, next to a flapping canvas backdrop. He held on to the pole to support himself. His right fist gripped the hickory cane.

  “Yeah, you heard me, bub. Ready for a rematch?”

  Startled, Worrall spun around to face Pete. The creep was looking distinctly less cadaverous than he had the last time around, but there was no mistaking his ugly mug. Pete had been seeing it in his fever dreams ever since Worrall had blindsided him outside the gym. More than once, he had fantasized about blasting the scumbag’s head off his shoulders, then using P. T. Barnum’s top to grow Calvin a new head so he could do it all over again.

  Hey, it beat counting sheep. . . .

  “You!” Worrall snarled, recognizing Pete as well. He looked shocked to see Pete up and about, not to mention alive. His eyes bulged. “You shouldn’t be here. I already disposed of you.”

  “Sorry to disappoint you, Infectious Lad.” Pete doubted that the other guy would get the comic-book reference, but what the hey. He needed to use up all his good material before he kicked the bucket—which felt like it could be any minute now. “I don’t dispose easily.”

  “And yet you came back for a second dose?” Worrall got over his surprise. His snotty attitude reasserted itself. “Perhaps you should have your head examined, Secret Service Man? Sounds to me like there’s something seriously wrong with you.”

  Pete shrugged. “Says the guy wearing ladies’ gloves.”

  Worrall scowled; he didn’t like being the butt of a joke. “You think that’s funny?” He started to raise his left hand. Clara’s Barton’s glove glowed ominously. An icky gray miasma seeped from his fingers. “Let me remind you what this ‘ladies’s glove’ can do.”

  Uh-uh, Pete thought. Two can play at that game.

  Digging deep, he stomped the cane upon the ground. An incandescent pulse of energy radiated from the cane’s steel-shod tip before vanishing beneath the surface of the lawn, which rippled unexpectedly like a carpet being shaken. A seismic tremor shook the earth. Clouds of sediment puffed upward where the cane had struck. Nearby booths and stands toppled over, crashing onto the grass. Trembling trees shook loose their last leaves, leaving their branches completely denuded. The strewn bodies of Worrall’s victims bounced atop the shaking earth.

  “Take that, Creepy Cal,” Pete crowed. “Bet you didn’t see that coming.”

  The elephant-head walking stick had once belonged to an eccentric British military man named Brigadier General Laverlong. An inveterate world traveler, he had constructed the cane using rare elements from the four corners of the earth. It had resided in a museum in Lakefield, Illinois, before Pete and Myka had retrieved it for the Warehouse a while back, and with good reason. Funny thing about the cane: it caused earthquakes. . . .

  The tremor knocked Worrall off his feet, breaking his concentration. The toxic miasma around his glove faded and he landed upon the grass not far from Nadia. Myka lost her balance as well. She toppled backward into a tangle of groaning bodies. The quake jolted many of Worrall’s victims from their stupor and they scrambled to their feet. Confused and disoriented, they stampeded from the park. Dazed by the dueling gloves and shaken by the earthquake, they’d probably have only foggy memories of what had happened to them.

  “Wha—? What’s going on?” a tattooed teen called out to his buddy. A skateboard was tucked beneath his arm. “Is this, like, a terrorist thing?”

  “I don’t know, man! Just run!”

  Pete lost sight of Myka in the chaos. Had she managed to get to her feet in time, or had she been trampled by the maddened crowd? Standing at the epicenter of the quake, Pete was unaffected, but the stunt exhausted the last of his reserves. He crumpled onto the lawn, gasping for breath. The elephant-head cane slipped from his fingers, which were too weak to hold on to it anymore. It felt like an elephant was stepping on his chest, actually, and jabbing his skull with its tusks. His heart was racing out of control. He couldn’t stop coughing.

  Damn, he thought. I could really use a drink right now. . . .

  Trembling fingers groped feebly for the cane but couldn’t reach it. The seismological stick was only inches away, but it might as well have been back in South Dakota. A handgun was holstered beneath his jacket, but he’d be afraid to use it even if he still had oomph enough to draw it. The way his hands were shaking, he’d hit Myka or one of the bystanders instead. He didn’t want to die with an accidental shooting on his conscience. Not stopping Worrall was hard enough.

  I did my part, he thought. It’s up to Myka now.

  He hoped he’d live long enough to see her kick Worrall’s ass.

  The ground stopped shaking. Through blurry eyes, Pete watched helplessly as Worrall scrambled to his feet, looking distinctly worse for wear. Blood dripped from a split lip. His trench coat was rumpled and dirty. He spit red onto the lawn.

  But his injuries were nothing the gloves couldn’t fix. He ran his right index finger over his lip, which healed beneath its touch. A self-satisfied smirk tested the repaired mouth. He brushed the leaves and grass from his soiled attire before turning back toward Pete, whom he regarded warily. You could practically see the wheels turning behind his wrinkled brow.

  “How did you . . . ?” Worrall’s gray eyes zeroed in on the cane. “Ah, I see. Another interesting toy, much like my gloves.” He chuckled. “You are full of surprises, I’ll give you that.” He cast a covetous look at the artifact and started toward it, his greedy fingers curling in anticipation. The cane lay unguarded upon the lawn. “You don’t mind if I help myself to that quite remarkable walking stick, do you? From the looks of things, you won’t be needing it much longer.”

  The thought of Worrall getting his germy gloves on the cane terrified Pete, but there was nothing he could do to stop him. He tried to drag himself across the grass, hoping to shield the cane with his own body, but his useless limbs refused to cooperate. The pain in his gut was almost unbearable. Pete wasn’t quite sure what peritonitis was, but he guessed this was it.

  “Hands off, Calvin,” Pete rasped. “You’ve caused enough damage.”

  Worrall found the dying agent’s defiance amusing. “I don’t think you’re in any position to issue orders, my moribund friend.” He strolled past Pete’s prone body, whistling a classical melody. Myka would have known what it was. “Perhaps I shou
ld test my new cane on your thick, impenetrable skull. Put you out of your misery once and for all.”

  The horrible thing was, that almost sounded like a good idea, except for the part about Worrall gaining the power to create earthquakes at will. Like being the king of sickness and health wasn’t enough for the slimy bastard. . . .

  Where was Myka? Pete lifted his head enough to see his partner sprawled unconscious on the grass along with the remainder of Worrall’s victims, who were still slowly coming to. The quake, or maybe getting trampled by the fleeing populace, had taken her out of the game at the worst possible moment. He silently urged her to snap out of it and stop Worrall before it was too late.

  Get up, Myka! Don’t let this jerk get the cane too!

  He suddenly wished he had left the cane in the Warehouse where it belonged.

  “So wherever did you find this singular item?” Worrall asked out loud. “I can’t imagine it’s standard government issue.”

  Pete was not about to satisfy the bad guy’s curiosity. “You’d be surprised. . . .”

  “Fine,” Worrall answered, sounding slightly peeved. “Take your classified secrets to the grave. I’ll soon have influence enough to find out whatever I want.”

  He bent to pick up the cane.

  Pete got ready to be turned into a fault zone. He wondered if they’d be able to feel the tremor all the way in South Dakota.

  Bye, Artie. Bye, Claudia, he thought. Sorry I let you down.

  At least he was dying sober. That had to count for something.

  But before Worrall could grasp the cane, a pounding vibration startled both men. For a moment Pete thought it was some sort of aftershock, but then he recognized the sound, which was probably the last thing he had ever expected to hear in the middle of Manhattan.

  The thunder of racing hooves.

  CHAPTER

  23

  CENTRAL PARK

  “Giddy-yap!” Claudia yelped.

  A horse-drawn carriage, commandeered by her and Artie, came galloping across the meadow like the cavalry. Perched in the driver’s seat behind a wild-eyed brown horse, Artie worked the reins while Claudia rode shotgun—literally: a Super Soaker squirt gun, roughly the size of a bazooka, was clutched to her chest. Purple neutralizer goo sloshed inside the squirt gun’s ample reservoir. A spare tank of goo rested in the open passenger compartment behind her, alongside the carriage’s actual driver, who was snoring off the effect of Artie’s Tesla next to a trio of unconscious Japanese tourists. After some debate, she and Artie had decided to cart the whole party along, rather than leave them defenseless on a New York City sidewalk, where they would have likely been trampled by the panicked mob fleeing the park. The frantic crowd had been their first indication that Pete and Myka were in trouble. Claudia glanced back at the sleeping driver. She hoped they weren’t taking the poor driver and tourists straight from the frying pan into the fire.

  And the horse too.

  The situation sure looked craptastic enough. Myka and Pete were both down for the count, surrounded by oodles of wiped-out civilians. The Psychic Fair was a shambles, with overturned tents and booths catering to absolutely no one. Discarded pamphlets, crystals, and candles had been ground into the lawn by thousands of racing shoes, boots, and sandals. A homemade Red Cross had fallen over. Loose tarot cards blew about in the wind.

  Yikes, Claudia thought. Talk about bad karma. . . .

  She spotted Worrall at once. His driver’s license portrait hardly did him justice. The contagious culprit looked even more malevolent in real life. Claudia shuddered at the sight of him—and cried out when she spotted Worrall going for the earthshaking elephant-head cane, only a few paces away from Pete. A mental image, of a freak tremor flipping the speeding carriage over with bone-shattering results, played before her mind’s eye with Blu-ray clarity.

  “Artie! There he is! He’s after the cane!”

  “I know, I know! I’m not blind!” Artie cracked a whip above the horse’s head, spurring it on. The driver’s seat bounced uncomfortably beneath Claudia, adding to the bruises she had sustained while evading the angry totem pole. Her teeth rattled and she struggled to hold on to the goo-filled squirt gun, which, let it be noted, had been her brilliant idea, just in case anyone was wondering. The horse’s hooves tore up the lawn, sending clumps of sod flying up behind it. Steam shot from its nostrils. Artie tugged on the reins, steering the runaway carriage right toward Worrall. “Not so fast, Calvin!” he shouted. “Those gloves and that cane are property of the U.S. government!”

  Worrall’s jaw dropped. He froze, momentarily transfixed by the unexpected sight of an old-fashioned hansom cab charging toward him. “What the devil?”

  Abandoning the cane, he dived out of the way just in time to avoid being run over. “Whoa!” Artie hollered, pulling up on the reins. Overexcited, the horse kept on going, galloping between Worrall and Pete, effectively cutting the felon off from both Pete and the cane. “Whoa, whoa!” Artie repeated, and not in the Keanu sense. “Slow down, you deranged nag, before I have you stuffed alongside Trigger!” He fought to bring the crazed equine under control while also circling Worrall, who had clambered to his feet and was now looking like he wanted to make a break for it.

  “This is insane,” he protested. “Who are you people?”

  “Who are you calling crazy, Looney Tunes?” Claudia shot back. “There’s a blackened pot back at home base that would like to have a word with you.”

  Artie nudged her with his elbow. “What are you waiting for?” he groused impatiently. “Take the shot!”

  “Slow down first!” The way the carriage was careening across the lawn, she could barely hold on to the squirt rifle. Artie expected her to take aim and fire too? “Who do you think I am, Annie Oakley?”

  “Actually, the real Annie Oakley, a.k.a. Phoebe Ann Mosley, visited the Warehouse back in 1915,” Artie said pedantically. “She and Buffalo Bill were close friends of Thomas Edison, who featured them in some of his early kinetoscopes. . . .”

  “That was a rhetorical question!” she exclaimed, cutting off a typically Artie-ish digression. The seat rocked beneath her and she had to grab onto a rail to keep from tumbling off the carriage. That hair-raising dogfight in the Fokker was starting to seem like a leisurely sightseeing tour by comparison. She wished she’d thought to hang on to her crash helmet. “Not really a good time for a history lesson!”

  “I suppose not,”Artie conceded. He glanced at the squirt gun. “So are you going to fire that thing or not?”

  “Okay, okay!” She rolled her eyes. “Don’t be such a noodge.”

  Down on the ground, Worrall darted from side to side, searching for some way to evade the carriage and its drivers. Finding himself trapped without a horse of his own, he threw out his left hand. A hazy gray mist began to manifest from his fingers.

  “You asked for this!” he snarled. “You have no idea who—or what—you’re dealing with!”

  “Au contraire, fever freak,” Claudia replied. “This is what we do.”

  Exhausted, the horse began to slow to a trot. That’s more like it, Claudia thought. Taking aim, she let loose with the Super Soaker. A thick purple spray shot from its muzzle, reminding her of the emergency hose back at the Warehouse. The spray arced through the air before dousing Worrall in a grape-colored cascade. Both gloves briefly lit up like all ten fingers were wearing Benjamin Franklin’s electric ring (which Claudia sometimes used to explore murky conduits back at the Warehouse). A blinding flash brought tears to Claudia’s eyes. Worrall’s own eyes were protected by a heavy layer of goo.

  “Bull’s-eye!” She pumped the squirt gun and gave him a second blast for luck. This time she hit him square in the chest. “You’ve been slimed, dude!”

  Artie nodded approvingly. The carriage slowed to a stop in front of her target. “Nice shot.”